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Cyclone grabbed her face, forcing her to look at him. His thumb brushed across her cheekbone in a flash of tenderness that burned hotter than the gunfire.

“Stay low. Stay smart. Stay alive,” he said roughly. “I’ll be right back.”

Then he was gone, vanishing into the shadows like a storm himself.

I was tucked in behind the broken table, heart hammering as the door burst inward.

Three men in tactical black stormed inside, rifles raised.

For one heartbeat, I froze.

Then instincts born from grief and fire kicked in.

I yanked the spare revolver from my waistband and squeezed off two quick shots.

One man dropped—the other two dove for cover.

Gunfire exploded through the room, splinters of wood and drywall raining down around me.

A shadow moved to my right—too fast—too close—

I twisted, firing blind.

The man grunted and fell hard at my feet.

I was moving before I could think, crawling low, weaving through the wreckage of the living room.

Another figure rose in the doorway, rifle trained on her.

I braced for the shot—

And then Cyclone was there.

He crashed into the man with the full brutal force of a battering ram, slamming him against the wall. The rifle clattered to the floor.

Cyclone didn’t hesitate.

One punch.

Two.

The man sagged to the ground, unconscious. Cyclone pushed on his neck, and he stopped breathing.

Cyclone whirled, grabbed Jude’s hand, and yanked her to her feet.

“You good?” he barked.

“Yeah,” I gasped, adrenaline burning through my bloodstream. “You?”

He flashed a quick, savage grin.

“Better now.”

Gunfire outside thickened—closer.

“They’re pushing up!” one of Cyclone’s team shouted over the radio. “Heavy weapons incoming!”

“Basement!” Cyclone snapped to Jude. “Go!”