Page 22

Jude

T he sky burned copper and crimson as the sun sank below the desert horizon.

I stood alone at the edge of the old corral, staring out over the cracked earth.

I held a small, worn photograph in my hand—the only one I had in my bag after the bombing. I used to think I had no right to laugh, because I was alive and they were dead. I took it with me everywhere.

My husband’s easy grin. My daughter’s wild, carefree laugh frozen forever in the frame.

Two lives stolen.

A future erased.

She traced their faces with her thumb, her chest tightening so hard it hurt to breathe.

“I’m going to end this,” she whispered to the photo.

“I swear to you, I’m going to make him pay.”

The wind stirred my hair, carrying the scent of dry sage and dust.

It almost felt like they were answering her—like they were still here somehow, watching.

Tears blurred my vision, but I didn’t wipe them away.

Not this time.

I let them fall.

Let myself feel it.

All the grief.

All the rage.

All the love that never died.

When I finally tucked the photograph safely back into my pocket, I felt lighter somehow—not whole, but stronger.

I turned back toward the house, my heart pounding harder with every step.

The time for mourning was over.

The time for fighting had come.

I watched her through the cracked screen door, my hands fisted tight at my sides.

I saw the way she moved now, not like a woman broken, but like a woman forged in fire.

I had never loved anything more in my life.

And I knew—no matter what happened tonight—I would never let her walk away again.

My team checked in silently over the encrypted line. Faron, Lieutenant Carter Robinson, Lyon, Tag, and Oliver were with them.

Positions ready.

Guns loaded.

Eyes on every approach.

I acknowledged them with a single nod.

Then I turned and opened the door for her.

Jude stepped inside, the sunset painting her hair gold, her face set with fierce determination. She was beautiful, and she’s mine. I would kill anyone who tried to take her from me.

Our eyes locked.

No words needed.

They were ready.

Together.

It was midnight.

The first sign was the shimmer of headlights far off across the desert, masked by the low ridges and dust.

I watched from the darkened living room, crouched behind the window, heart hammering.

Cyclone crouched beside me, his body a wall of heat and silent strength.

In the distance, I saw dark figures slipping from vehicles—too many for a simple “message.”

No negotiation tonight.

They were coming to kill me.

My hand clenched around the small recorder in my pocket. Would I get close enough for him to spill his guts? I doubted it, but I had the recorder anyway.

This was it.

Everything I’d lived for the last six years.

Everything I was willing to die for. I glanced at Cyclone; I was no longer ready to die for anything except him. I would die for him.

And out there in the darkness... the storm I had been waiting for finally broke.