Page 22 of Lyon

Cyclone huffed. “I hope it’s that simple.”

I shot him a sideways glance. “Why are you always so damn grumpy?”

“Because I am.”

We all laughed, but I knew the truth behind his mood. Cyclone used to be the easygoing one. That changed when he was overseas too long, and his fiancée married someone else—his cousin, of all people.

When Cyclone finally came home and found out, he beat the hell out of the guy. His family turned against him after that,blaming him for the fallout. He never talked about it, but Kat once said it still hurt him more than he let on.

The kicker? His cousin ended up divorcing her because she cheated on him, too. Poetic justice.

We spotted two guards walking toward the prison and pulled over. Cyclone got out first, engaging them in casual conversation. I knew he was talking about us—probably spinning some ridiculous story at our expense—because he kept glancing back with that damn smirk.

Then, without warning, he struck. One punch each. Both men crumpled.

“What the—” I started.

Cyclone was already stripping them of their weapons, tying them up, and swapping clothes with one of them. The guy was tall enough, but Cyclone’s broad shoulders stretched the jacket tight.

He dusted himself off. “Let’s move.”

We parked our vehicle near the prison entrance, positioning it for a quick getaway.

“Whatever you do, don’t make eye contact,” I reminded the team. “They’ll spot us as Americans in a heartbeat.”

They knew that already, but old habits died hard. I was used to telling them things.

“We go in two at a time,” I said. “Once inside, look for any Americans. If we can talk to one of them, we explain the plan fast and move on. I want to be in and out in minutes.”

Cyclone adjusted his collar. “Then let’s get this done.”

We straightened our stolen uniforms and walked toward the prison doors.

"Everyone, take a deep breath. Let's move," Cyclone ordered, his voice low but firm. "The SEALs we're rescuing know the drill. They'll be ready as soon as they see us unless something’s preventing them. Let’s hope that’s not the case."

Getting inside was almost too easy. We walked in like we belonged, moving with purpose. The key was confidence—act like you're supposed to be there, and most people won’t question it.

As I passed the fourth cell, something made me stop. Lieutenant Zack Taylor sat slumped in the corner, his face black and blue. This was the man Jason Jones and Sean Reed had come for.

Taylor’s swollen eyes met mine, and he slowly stood. I gave him a quick nod and kept walking. No sudden reactions. No tipping off the guards.

A few steps ahead, Cyclone suddenly veered into a cell and lifted Sean Reed, who looked barely conscious, into his arms. His expression was tight, full of rage.

“What the fuck are you doing?” I whispered, stepping in front of him.

“I’m getting Sean some help,” he snapped.

“We help him when we’re the hell out of here. Follow my lead." I turned and motioned toward Taylor’s cell. “Leave Sean here with Taylor for now.”

Cyclone exhaled hard but followed my direction. I caught movement as he stood back up—a guard heading our way. I peeled off, letting Cyclone handle it.

Across the room, Raven was talking to someone—had to be the other SEAL. Then I spotted Farron moving toward me fast, his face tense.

Shit. We were screwed.

Guards trailed behind him.

I spun toward Cyclone. “We need to exit. Now.”

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