Page 48

Cyclone

J ude sat cross-legged on the floor in front of the fireplace, a stack of old files open on the rug, a pen tucked behind her ear. Her hair was tied in a messy knot, and she was wearing my hoodie, sleeves pushed up, jaw set.

It was the most dangerous version of her I’d ever seen.

And the most beautiful.

She looked up when I handed her the rest of the surveillance photos Oliver had pulled.

“He’s close,” I said. “Too close. I think he wants us to find him—just not on our terms.”

“He’s baiting us,” she murmured, scanning the photos. “Making us chase shadows while he stays in control.”

“Not anymore.”

I dropped down beside her, spreading a second set of intel across the floor—locations tied to old ghost sites, aliases used by dead operatives, CIA facilities long scrubbed from existence.

“He called himself The Auditor, ” I said. “At least, that’s what others called him. No real name. No digital footprint. But he worked observation detail at multiple sites before Syria. He’s been doing this a long time.”

“Then why now?” she asked. “Why break cover? Why me?”

I looked at her.

Dead-on.

“Because you’re the one that got away.”

Her breath hitched, but she didn’t argue.

Instead, she nodded toward the map spread out between us. “We need to make him think we’re coming unglued. We go quiet. Stop reacting. Pull back surveillance. He wants control? Let him have it—for now.”

“And then?” I asked.

She met my eyes.

And there was steel behind hers.

“Then we take it all back.”

Jude leaned forward and circled a point on the map— a hiking trail near a remote overlook, where the cameras were broken and cell signal dropped to zero for about half a mile.

“He’ll push me into isolation,” she said. “That’s how he worked before. Observed first, then cut off communications. No noise. No help. He needs silence to do what he does.”

I nodded. “So we give it to him.”

“But on our terms,” she added.

She looked up at me, her eyes sparking now—not with fear, but with focus.

“I can stage a pattern,” she said. “A subtle withdrawal. Miss a few calls. Skip our usual runs into town. We tone down house security—not really, but we make it look that way.”

“We leak something on a closed channel,” I added, catching on fast. “Make it seem like you’re slipping. That the pressure’s getting to you. That I’m pulling back too—like you’re getting left behind.”

Jude’s smile was sharp. “He’ll eat that up.”

We moved faster now—years of training snapping into place like muscle memory.

She pulled up a floorplan of the house on her tablet and marked weak spots we wanted him to think were vulnerable—a stuck fence gate, motion lights that sometimes failed, and a window latch we’d “forgotten” to fix.

“We plant audio,” I said. “Just enough chatter for him to pick up if he’s still running mics. Let him hear you crying. Let him hear me not coming home.”

Jude arched a brow. “That’ll take acting.”

I grinned. “You think I can’t fake a bad mood?”

“Not for long,” she said dryly. “You get too grumpy and I’ll throw you into the woods myself.”

I laughed—but the truth was, underneath the adrenaline, I was proud of her.

This wasn’t a woman being hunted anymore.

This was a woman laying a trap.

And I’d never wanted anyone more.

I leaned in, voice low. “We do this together. You don’t breathe without me knowing. You don’t move without backup within five seconds.”

She gave a little nod.

But her eyes never left the map.

“He’s waiting for me to break,” she whispered. “So that’s what I’ll give him.”

She circled a final point on the edge of the woods behind the house.

“He’ll come for me here. Right here.”

I stared at the spot.

A clearing. Shielded on three sides. Just out of camera range.

Perfect for a trap.

Deadly if we weren’t ready.

But she was righ

He’d go for control.

He’d go for silence.

And we’d be waiting.