Page 60 of Zorro

At the finish, Zorro clapped Migs on the back. Sweat pouring. Lungs burning. The yard quieted. Joker, arms crossed, said, “Well done.” Zorro knew he wasn’t talking about the O-Course.

Buck didn’t look up. “Fucking Martinez.” Laughter broke. Migs smiled, slow, and full. They finished, and that was the point.

9

Zorro wandered in, fresh from a cool shower, his towel still around his waist, hair still damp, then grinned his signature mess-with-you grin.

Buck stood in the corner of the locker room, towel around his waist, hair dripping, arching his back like it was aching. Steam clung to the cracked tile like it didn’t know where else to go.

Buck clocked it immediately. “No,” he said.

Zorro leaned against the doorframe. “I didn’t say anything.”

“You’re thinkin’ it. Loud.”

“That you look like a drowned bison in that towel? Never crossed my mind.”

Buck’s jaw tightened. “Try me.”

Zorro held up both hands. “Fine. I’ll keep it professional. You’re the most graceful man I’ve ever seen if we’re talking about refrigerator delivery.”

Blitz choked from across the room, stifling laughter beneath the T-shirt he was pulling over his damp head.

Buck pointed a dripping finger at Zorro. “That’s it.”

Zorro’s brows lifted, eyes dancing. “Oh no, Buckaroo. What’re you gonna do? Slow-walk me into submission?”

But Buck wasn’t answering.

He’d turned. Stalking, half-naked but determined, toward the supply rack.

“Oh, hell no,” D-Day muttered. “He’s going full Yellowstone.”

Zorro straightened. “What is he—?” He stopped cold. Buck was holding a coil of rope. Actual rope. Thick. Coarse. Military-grade. God only knew why BOPE had it hanging from a rack like it was waiting for this exact moment.

Zorro backed up a step. “Buck….”

“You had your fun,” Buck said, testing the weight of the rope in his hands. “Now it’s my turn.”

Zorro turned, holding up his hands like he was fending off an out-of-control steer. “Don’t be rash.”

“I was born rash,” Buck drawled. “And raised by a rodeo queen.”

Blitz was laughing so hard he collapsed against a bench.

D-Day warned, “Don’t run, Zorro. It’ll only spark his cowboy instinct. I’ve seen what my brother-in-law can do from horseback. Flat-footed. You don’t stand a chance.”

“What is he, a T-Rex? Only sees movement?” Zorro asked. “I think I’m fucked anyway.”

Professor, to no one in particular, muttered, “Whatever you do…don’t moo.”

Zorro bolted.

The door slammed open behind him.

Barefoot and still damp, he sprinted into the yard, shouting, “I take it back! I take it all back!”

BOPE operators turned toward the commotion, more than a few grinning as the gringo ran buck wild.

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