Page 11

Jude

I t didn’t last.

I must have dozed, lulled by the relentless drumming of the rain against the roof. When I snapped awake, the fire was dying low, casting the room in long, flickering shadows. My muscles tensed before I was even fully conscious.

Something was wrong.

I pushed myself up slowly, scanning the cabin. Cyclone was awake, crouched near the window, his entire body still but coiled tight, like a spring ready to snap.

He glanced at me and put a finger to his lips.

Movement outside.

I didn’t need to see it to feel it. The air had shifted—a pressure at the back of my skull, that old survival instinct roaring to life.

Cyclone tapped his earpiece, murmuring something too low for me to catch. Across the room, two members of the Golden Team—Tag and River—began silently packing up what little gear we’d unpacked.

“We can’t stay,” Cyclone mouthed to me.

I nodded once.

Another crack of thunder rattled the walls. In the brief flash of lightning, I caught a glimpse out the grimy window—shadows slipping between trees, far too methodical to be casual hikers.

Blackdawn, those bastards never stop.

I grabbed my pack and checked my weapon with quick, practiced motions. My heartbeat pounded in my ears, but my hands were steady.

Cyclone moved back to me, his voice low and sure. “Out the rear. There’s a ravine. If we make it across, we can lose them in the forest.”

“How many?” I asked.

“Enough.”

I didn’t ask for more. I trusted him. Funny how fast that had happened.

Tag cracked the door open just enough to peer out. “Clear for now,” he muttered.

River adjusted the strap of his rifle. “They’ll hit the front first. Standard sweep.”

Cyclone looked at me. “You ready?”

I met his eyes, felt the old steel slide back into place inside me.

“Let’s go.”

The door creaked open wider, and we slipped into the storm, swallowed whole by the night.

The rain hit like needles, soaking me to the bone in seconds. Mud sucked at my boots, and every step was a battle not to go sprawling.

Cyclone led, sure-footed even on the treacherous ground. I kept pace, adrenaline sharpening my senses.

Behind us, faint shouts cut through the roar of the storm. They’d found the cabin. It wouldn’t take long for them to track our trail.

“The Ravine is close,” Cyclone called over his shoulder.

Lightning split the sky, illuminating a gaping chasm ahead, the narrow footbridge barely more than a few rotting planks and fraying rope.

“That’s the plan?” I shouted.

“You got a better one?”

I gritted my teeth and followed.

The bridge swayed wildly in the wind. One wrong step and I’d be swallowed by darkness. But behind us came the sharp crack of gunfire—close.

No choice.

Cyclone went first, moving fast but carefully. I gripped the rope rails, forcing myself onto the bridge.

Halfway across, a shot rang out—too close—and splinters of wood exploded near my hand.

“Move!” Cyclone shouted.

I ran, the bridge swinging violently beneath me. Another shot. Another. The far side loomed closer.

Cyclone grabbed my arm the second I lunged off the bridge, hauling me onto solid ground. Tag and River weren’t far behind.

“Cut it!” Cyclone shouted.

River didn’t hesitate. He slashed the rope with a wicked-looking blade. The bridge ripped free with a groan and crashed into the ravine below, taking our pursuers’ easy path with it.

Breathing hard, soaked and freezing, I looked back one last time.

Shadows gathered at the ravine’s edge, weapons raised, but they wouldn’t cross.

For now, we’d bought ourselves a little more time.

I turned to Cyclone, and for a moment—just a moment—the world narrowed down to him and the fierce, unspoken promise in his eyes.

We weren’t done running.

But we were still alive.

And we were still together.

We didn’t stop to celebrate.

Cyclone took point again, leading us deeper into the trees, into the belly of the storm. The air smelled of wet earth and fear. Every step felt heavier now, but I pushed forward, driven by something beyond survival.

We moved fast and silent, cutting a jagged path along the rocky ridgeline. Somewhere behind us, Blackdawn would regroup. They wouldn’t stop. They never stopped. I can never go home until the Senator is dead. He would kill my entire family if he had a chance.

Cyclone dropped back beside me briefly, his voice barely audible above the wind. “You holding up?”

“Ask me later,” I said, too breathless for anything clever.

He gave a tight smile—grim but real—before pushing ahead.

Another mile. Maybe two.

Finally, Cyclone raised a fist, and we halted at the mouth of a shallow cave, half-hidden behind a curtain of vines. Tag and River peeled off, circling the perimeter, rifles raised.

I stumbled inside, sagging against the wall. My body screamed in protest. Every muscle, every bruise, every old scar that never fully healed.

Cyclone crouched beside me, pulling a small emergency kit from his pack.

“Let me check you over,” he said.

“I’m fine,” I muttered.

He shot me a look that made it clear he wasn’t asking. I relented, letting him wipe blood from a shallow cut on my arm.

The rain pounded just outside the cave mouth, and a wall of sound muffled the world.

Safe—for now.

As Cyclone worked, I watched his hands. Strong. Steady. The kind of hands you could trust.

And for the first time in years, I realized how badly I wanted to trust someone again.

“When this is over,” he said, his voice low and rough. I want to know everything.”

I froze.

He met my eyes, no judgment there—just a simple, quiet demand for the truth.

“When you’re ready,” he added.

I swallowed hard, feeling the words rise in my throat—the truth about Senator Vance, about the bombing, about the family I had buried in ashes and silence.

“Okay,” I whispered.

And for the first time, I meant it.