“I don’t like being hunted,” I said, setting it on the table.
“I know.”
He walked toward the front of the house, giving me space—but not really leaving.
He wouldn’t.
I sat down at the table, the bag in front of me, and slowly unzipped it.
Inside was everything I told myself I didn’t need anymore.
Cash, a burner phone, photos, IDs—the last pieces of the person I used to be—the mommy to the most beautiful baby girl in the world. I felt a tear slip out, and I wiped it away.
I picked up the folded photo near the bottom.
A blurry black-and-white surveillance still. The one from Syria.
The man in the photo was mid-stride, half-shadowed, face mostly obscured.
But something about him had always bothered me.
Something I couldn’t name.
Until now.
Because now I had a real-time version of him burned into my brain.
Same build.
Same walk.
And now I was sure.
They weren’t just connected.
They were the same man.
My stomach flipped as I grabbed the burner phone and started dialing Cyclone’s number.
But before I could hit send—
A noise outside.
Soft. Fast.
Like a footstep on gravel.
I rose slowly, heart pounding, reaching for the Glock tucked in the back of the kitchen drawer.
Then I stepped toward the window, carefully keeping out of the sightline.
And there, just at the edge of the tree line, I saw it.
Not a person.
Aflash.
Metal. Glinting in the gray light.