Page 10

Jude

T he engines roared beneath us, a constant, familiar hum that should have been comforting. It wasn’t. Because I knew I was finished, I couldn’t leave.

I sat rigid in the cargo bay of the Golden Team’s plane, my fingers locked around the strap of my pack like it was a lifeline. Cyclone sat beside me, quiet, steady—his presence a wall against everything trying to crush me from the inside.

I should have been grateful.

Instead, I felt like I was unraveling.

I fixed my gaze on a spot on the far wall, willing my breathing to stay even. Fifteen minutes. Fifteen minutes until we landed somewhere safer. If there was such a thing.

My chest tightened painfully. I hadn’t felt safe in a decade.

Cyclone hadn’t asked any questions yet, but I could feel them piling up behind his silence, the weight of his gaze even when I wasn’t looking at him. He knew I was hiding something. Part of me wanted to tell him, to confess everything and let someone else carry it for a while.

But the words stayed locked inside, buried under six years of grief and guilt.

Six years since the bomb.

Six years since I’d lost everything that mattered.

I closed my eyes and saw it all again—the black smoke curling into the sky, the flashing lights, the screams that never really stopped echoing in my head. My husband, gone. My little girl, gone.

Collateral damage. And I knew that the Senator was behind it. That’s why he wants me dead he thinks I have proof. I do, but I need more. If I had more, I would have killed him. I’m going to kill him, the first chance I get.

Only later did I find out it wasn’t random. Only later had I learned the truth—the twisted rot that ran through the halls of power. And now the man who had destroyed my life was hunting me, determined to bury his sins along with me.

Senator Marcus Vance. The shining star of Washington.

And underneath the smile and the speeches? Blackdawn’s puppet. Their willing accomplice.

I dug my nails into the strap harder, grounding myself. Not here. Not now. I couldn’t fall apart. I wouldn’t.

“You ready?” Cyclone asked, his voice low, careful.

I opened my eyes. He was watching me, concern carved into every line of his face.

“Yeah,” I lied.

He studied me for a moment longer, then nodded. He didn’t push. Another thing I was grateful for and hated at the same time.

The plane dipped slightly, beginning its descent. I caught a glimpse out the window—a stretch of rugged land, thick forest bleeding into open fields. Nowhere. Good.

“Stay close to me,” Cyclone said.

Like I could do anything else.

The wheels hit dirt with a jarring thud. Before the engines even finished whining, the ramp dropped, and the team moved out, fast and professionally.

Cyclone reached for me, a steady hand on my back, guiding without forcing.

We ran into the wild, into the unknown.

And somewhere deep inside, for the first time in six long years, a fragile, reckless hope stirred.

Maybe, just maybe, I wasn’t alone anymore.

The sun beat down through the thick canopy as we moved quickly across uneven ground. My lungs burned, my legs screamed, but I didn’t slow. Neither did Cyclone.

“Half a mile north,” he said, checking the handheld GPS. “There’s a safe house. Small. Hidden. We regroup there.”

I nodded, wiping sweat from my brow. Every shadow felt like a threat. Every snap of a branch, every whisper of leaves.

Two Golden Team members fanned out around us, eyes sharp, weapons ready. Even in the middle of nowhere, I knew better than to believe we were safe.

A low rumble of thunder echoed overhead. I tilted my head back, feeling the first fat drops of rain. Good. Rain meant fewer drones, and poorer visibility for our pursuers.

We reached the safe house—an old weather-beaten cabin tucked against a rocky hillside—in less than fifteen minutes. Cyclone approached first, sweeping the perimeter before waving us in.

Inside, the air was musty, thick with the scent of old wood and damp earth. There was a radio, some emergency supplies, and not much else.

“Good enough,” I muttered, sliding down onto the floor against one wall.

Cyclone crouched beside me, pulling a canteen from his gear and handing it over.

“Drink,” he said simply.

I obeyed. Water had never tasted so good. It always seemed better when he handed me his canteen.

The others set about securing the cabin, posting lookouts, setting traps in case we had unwanted visitors.

Cyclone stayed near me.

“You did good back there,” he said after a while.

I shook my head. “I almost got us killed.”

“We made it. That’s what matters.”

I looked at him then, really looked—the set of his jaw, the steadiness in his eyes. I hadn’t asked for him to come after me. Hadn’t asked for anyone.

But he had.

And right now, it was the only thing keeping me from falling apart.

“Thank you,” I whispered, the words scraping out of me like broken glass.

He just nodded, like he understood how much it cost me to say it.

Thunder rolled again, closer this time. The rain picked up, hammering against the roof. Cyclone leaned back against the wall beside me, close enough that our shoulders almost touched.

Neither of us said anything for a long time.

Outside, the storm raged.

Inside, for just a little while, there was peace.