She leaned on the table, breathing hard, her hands shaking slightly.
“I have to end this,” she whispered. “I have to finish it for my daughter. For my husband. For everyone, he’s hurt. I want to be free again. Free to walk where I want to walk. Free to go where I want to go. Without worrying about someone showing up and killing me and whoever is near me.”
I crossed the room silently and rested my hand over hers, steady, grounding.
“We’ll finish it,” I said.
Jude bit her lip, forcing herself not to lean into me, not to crumble.
“I need you to stay clear when it happens,” she said, hating herself for it. “If something goes wrong... I don’t want you getting hurt because of me.”
I smiled, slow and grim.
“You keep forgetting, sunshine.”
I squeezed her hand gently.
“You don’t get to shut me out.”
I stepped back, giving her a nod of respect that twisted something sharp and tender inside her chest.
“You plan your sting,” he said. “Do it your way.”
What Jude didn’t see—what she didn’t know—was that as soon as she turned back to the map, I slipped my phone from my pocket.
I stepped outside onto the porch, keeping my voice low as I made the call.
“Yeah,” he said into the phone.
“It’s Cyclone. I’m cashing in a favor.”
A beat of silence.
“You remember that senator we talked about back in Afghanistan?”
Another pause. A low curse from the man on the other end.
“Yeah,” I said, staring out at the horizon where the sky burned gold. “It’s him.”
Another question crackled through the line.
My mouth twisted into a hard, humorless smile.
“No. I’m not asking you to take him down for me.”
I glanced over my shoulder, toward the woman still bent over the map inside.
“I’m asking you to make damn sure she survives when she does it herself. Talk to the Golden Team, it’s about time you joined us anyway. I’ll talk to you soon, Lieutenant.”
21
Cyclone
The desert held its breath.
Days passed in a strange, suspended haze—too quiet, too still.
Jude felt it like a pressure behind her ribs, a constant, vibrating warning that the noose was tightening.