Page 24 of Cyclone

13

Jude

The rain had eased to a soft drizzle when I finally stirred, blinking in the dim gray light filtering through the cave entrance. My body ached in ways both good and bad. Cyclone slept beside me, one arm thrown protectively across my waist even in sleep.

For a moment, I let myself watch him. Let myself pretend.

But reality always came back.

I slid out from under his arm carefully, reaching for my clothes. We needed to move. The Syndicate wouldn’t give up just because of a little storm. They were paid ten billion dollars for my death. They wouldn’t stop until I was dead.

I had just pulled on my pants when Cyclone woke. His eyes found me immediately, still heavy with sleep but sharpening fast.

“Time to go?” he asked, his voice rough.

“Yeah.”

He sat up, dragging a hand through his hair. “You good?”

I nodded—another lie.

We packed quickly, silently. The heat between us from the night before was still there, humming under the surface, but neither of us spoke about it.

We couldn’t afford to.

Cyclone slung his pack over his shoulder and held out a hand. I hesitated for a heartbeat, then took it, letting him pull me to him for a moment.

He pulled his radio out and called River. “Where are you?”

“We are at the checkpoint,” River said.

We moved back into the jungle, side by side.

No promises.

No strings.

Just survival.

But deep inside, where I couldn’t lie to myself, I knew something between us had shifted.

And no matter how fast we ran, there was no outrunning it now.

The checkpoint was hidden deepin the jungle—a crumbling old radio tower the Golden Team had secured and rigged as a fallback position. The last time they were here on a rescue. It was barely more than rusting metal, a few makeshift shelters, and a battered supply cache, but it might as well have been a fortress after everything we’d been through.

Cyclone led the way, guiding me through the final stretch. We stayed low, cautious, the instinct to hide still sharp in both of us.

A low whistle sounded through the trees—one of Golden Team’s signals.

Cyclone answered with a sharp, two-note reply. Seconds later, Tag and River, weapons ready, appeared.

I nodded, too tired for words.

We pushed through the dense brush and stumbled into the clearing around the tower. More Golden Team members waited there, rifles slung, faces wary but relieved.

“How is it?” Cyclone asked.

“Clear for now,” River said. “The plane will be here in two hours. Just hang on until then.”

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