Page 38 of Cyclone

She spent the mornings finalizing the bait—anonymous emails sent to carefully selected media outlets and encrypted messages left in places she knew the senator’s men monitored.

I have proof.

I’m ready to talk.

Come and get me.

Simple. Blunt. Unmistakable.

By the third day, the signs started showing.

A black SUV was parked two miles down the dirt road.

Drones buzzing faintly overhead.

Cell service flickering on and off like a dying lightbulb.

I noticed all of it.

Every muscle in my body was coiled tight, my instincts screaming at me to grab Jude and get the hell out of there.

But I stayed patient.

Silent.

Invisible.

Because this washerfight.

And because backup was already in place.

They weren’t wearing uniforms.

They didn’t flash badges.

But the former Special Forces team he called in moved through the desert like ghosts, hidden eyes on every ridge, silent rifles trained on every approach. I brought in other Special Forces, not just the Golden Team.

I trusted them.

Trusted that when the hammer dropped, they’d be there. Still, it was killing him not to take over the planning.

Watching Jude walk around the ranch like she was already preparing to die.

Watching the determination in her eyes war with the fear she thought she was hiding.

Watching the woman I was falling in love with stand alone against a monster.

At night, when the house fell silent and the stars burned overhead, Jude would sit on the porch with her knees pulled to her chest, staring into the darkness.

And I would sit next to her, pretending I wasn’t memorizing every line of her face.

Pretending I wasn’t praying for just one more day.

One more hour.

Five nights later,Jude found him by the fence, inspecting one of the motion sensor alarms he’d rigged with fishing line and old cans.

“You’re not sleeping,” she said quietly.

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