Page 63 of Cyclone

But my instincts didn’t lie.

They never had.

Not when it mattered.

I caught the flash of him a second later — a man, tall, broad-shouldered, wearing sunglasses and a baseball cap pulled low.

Too casual.

Too careful.

His body language screamed military or intel training.

He was watching me.

No doubt about it.

The coffee slipped from my fingers, splattering onto the wooden boards, but I barely noticed it.

My heart hammered against my ribs, my brain already cataloging details.

Height: six-two, maybe six-three.

Build: athletic.

Age: mid-thirties.

Weapon? Oh yeah, he definitely had a weapon or two.

I turned sharply and started walking, blending into a group of tourists heading toward the parking lot.

I didn’t run.

Didn’t draw attention.

I just moved fast and clean — muscle memory from years of training kicking in.

I glanced back once.

The man hadn’t followed.

Not yet.

But I knew how this worked.

I knew the playbook.

Someone had found me.

Someone from the old life.

Someone who wasn’t supposed to know I still existed.

By the time I reached my truck, my hands were shaking.

I slid behind the wheel, locked the doors, and started the engine with a hand that wasn’t as steady as I wanted it to be.

I needed to tell Cyclone.

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