Page 15

Jude

T he helicopter banked low, the roar of the blades scattering dust and grit across the cracked desert floor.

My heart lodged somewhere in my throat as the familiar outline of the ranch came into view—the small, weather-beaten house, the leaning barn, the broken fence lines stretching out into forever.

It hadn’t changed.

And yet, everything had.

I squeezed my eyes shut for a second, overwhelmed by a sudden flood of memory—tiny feet pounding across the porch, laughter floating through the air as my husband laughed at what our daughter was doing. A flash of my Tyler’s smile, my daughter’s gleeful squeal as she chased after the dog.

It was gone—all of it, burned away like a mirage.

My husband knew what was going on with the Senator.

He accidentally came across the information, but he needed more.

He had some papers and files that he hid.

We bought this place in case Marcus Vance sent his monsters on us; little did we know that he was already coming for us.

The helicopter touched down with a jolt that rattled my bones. I unbuckled mechanically, my hands numb.

Cyclone was already moving, helping Tag and River secure the area. But when I hesitated at the open hatch, he was there, offering his hand.

“Jude,” he said, his voice low but sure. “You’re not alone. Not anymore.”

I stared at him, that damn lump thickening in my throat again. Slowly, I placed my hand in his.

He helped me down, his grip strong and grounding. I just wanted to be normal again. I haven’t had a normal life since I started working for the CIA.

The dry and brutal desert heat hit me like a hammer, but I welcomed it. It felt real and honest. It brought back sweet memories that I would cherish forever.

We walked toward the house together, my boots kicking up little dust clouds. Cyclone stayed half a step behind me, letting me lead but never straying far.

I climbed the sagging porch steps, the wood groaning under my weight. The key—still hidden under the third step—was exactly where I’d left it.

When the front door swung open with a creak, the smell of old wood and dust wrapped around me, oddly comforting.

Home.

Broken. Scarred.

But still standing.

Like me.

Cyclone stepped inside behind me, silent, respectful. He set his gear down carefully, his eyes sweeping the interior with a soldier’s instinct.

“It’s not much,” I said, my voice barely more than a whisper.

He met my gaze, and for a long, weighted moment, said nothing.

Then he smiled—small, fierce, and real.

“It’s perfect.”

The dam inside me cracked, but didn’t break. Not yet.

I turned away, busying myself with unstrapping my pack, hiding the sudden sting of tears.

Cyclone didn’t push. He just moved through the house, checking windows, securing doors, anchoring me in the present with every steady, careful action.

And for the first time in what felt like forever, I let myself hope.

Not just for survival.

But for something more.

We spotted the rental where the man said it would be. Before we did anything, we needed to go to the grocery store and get food and cleaning supplies.