Page 100 of Cyclone

I heard the sound as I turned the corner—just a whisper of fabric and a sharp intake of breath.

Too fast. Toodeliberate.

I froze.

Listened.

Then—footsteps.

Heavy. Muffled. Not trying to be silent.

They weren’t worried about me hearing them.

Because they didn’t think I was a threat.

Wrong.

I grabbed the first thing I could—one of the metal kickboards from the supply rack—and backed toward the hallway exit.

Then I saw the first man.

Black shirt. Military stance. Headset in one ear.

Not security.

Definitely not staff.

He smiled when he saw me.

Bad smile.

“Ms. Blake,” he said, voice smooth. “We’ll need you to come with us.”

My pulse spiked.

“What for?” I asked, eyes scanning, calculating. “Coach forget to tell me about my fan club?”

Another man appeared behind him.

And a third stepped in from the left.

Shit.

“Now, please,” he said again, stepping closer.

I threw the kickboard.

Not because I thought it would stop him.

Because it distracted him just long enough for me to run.

I bolted barefoot across the tile, heart slamming against my ribs, every step echoing like thunder in the empty corridor.

I made it ten feet before one of them caught up and grabbed my arm.

So Iturned—and slammed my elbow into his jaw.

He staggered.

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