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Cyclone

We weren’t supposed to be here this long. What was supposed to be a grab-and-go op had turned into five days of ducking machete-wielding men in the jungle, dodging trackers with too many dogs and not enough conscience, and rationing protein bars until Faron threatened to eat his boot.

And now? We were in a damn pit.

A literal, dark-as-hell, smells-like-sweaty-death kind of pit.

“You okay?” I whispered.

“Define okay,” Faron grunted beside me. “If okay means I’m covered in what Ihopeis mud and thinking about faking my own death to avoid having to tell the guys what we landed in, then yeah. Peachy.”

“Shh,” I said, tilting my head toward the top. Voices. Close. Angry.

We held still. Waited. Let the bastards pass.

When it went quiet, I boosted Faron up. He scrambled, grunted, and disappeared over the edge. A second later, he reached down and yanked me up like we were pulling each other out of hell.

We hit the jungle floor running, branches slapping our faces, thorns catching our sleeves, every muscle in my body screaming from exhaustion.

And then—we saw them.

Four nuns. Dirty, exhausted, terrified.

Except one?

One wasn’t terrified at all.

She stood with one hand on her hip, the other holding what looked like a homemade spear. Her habit was half torn, her eyes sharp and full of fire.

“Well,” she drawled, “it’s about damn time you showed up. I was starting to think we’d have to rescueyou.”

I blinked. “Who the hell are you? We heard there were three nuns.”

She grinned, teeth white against her sun-kissed skin. “Sister Jude. Emphasis onsister.And if you try to tell me to be quiet, I’ll stab you with this stick.”

Faron muttered behind me, “Oh hell. Cyclone’s in trouble.”

And yeah. I was.

Because I’d just risked my life to rescue a nun with a mouth like a sailor… and a face that might actually make me consider going to church.

Jude

Six daysof hiding in this godforsaken jungle, living off rainwater and attitude. My knees ached, my feet were blistered, and I was fairly certain something had taken up residence in my habit.

So when the tall, muscle-sculpted man with camouflage war paint and a rifle showed up? Yeah, I was ready with the sarcasm.

What I wasn’t ready for… was him.

“You’re sister Jude?” he asked, blinking like I’d just told him I moonlighted as an assassin.

“That’s what the name tag says.” I jabbed the stick in his direction. “Now, unless you’ve got food or an airlift hidden in your cargo pants, move it. I’m not dying in a jungle because the special ops guy can’t keep up.”

He stared at me like I’d sprouted wings.

The one with the beard—Faron, apparently—snorted. “Cyclone, she talks more than you do.”