Page 76 of Cyclone

“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.

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