Page 29 of Cyclone

My heart twisted painfully, but I forced a small, wry smile.

“Stubborn.”

“Always.”

The pilot’s voice came over the speakers. “Approaching drop zone. Ten minutes.”

Cyclone reached over and squeezed my hand, just once, quick and firm, before pulling back.

“We’ll make it,” he said.

I held onto those words like a lifeline as the desert stretched out ahead of us, vast and wild and waiting.

For the first time in a long, long time, I dared to believe it.

15

Jude

The helicopter banked low, the roar of the blades scattering dust and grit across the cracked desert floor. My heart lodged somewhere in my throat as the familiar outline of the ranch came into view—the small, weather-beaten house, the leaning barn, the broken fence lines stretching out into forever.

It hadn’t changed.

And yet, everything had.

I squeezed my eyes shut for a second, overwhelmed by a sudden flood of memory—tiny feet pounding across the porch, laughter floating through the air as my husband laughed at what our daughter was doing. A flash of my Tyler’s smile, my daughter’s gleeful squeal as she chased after the dog.

It was gone—all of it, burned away like a mirage. My husband knew what was going on with the Senator. He accidentally came across the information, but he needed more. He had some papers and files that he hid. We bought this place in case Marcus Vance sent his monsters on us; little did we know that he was already coming for us.

The helicopter touched down with a jolt that rattled my bones. I unbuckled mechanically, my hands numb.

Cyclone was already moving, helping Tag and River secure the area. But when I hesitated at the open hatch, he was there, offering his hand.

“Jude,” he said, his voice low but sure. “You’re not alone. Not anymore.”

I stared at him, that damn lump thickening in my throat again. Slowly, I placed my hand in his.

He helped me down, his grip strong and grounding. I just wanted to be normal again. I haven’t had a normal life since I started working for the CIA.

The dry and brutal desert heat hit me like a hammer, but I welcomed it. It felt real and honest. It brought back sweet memories that I would cherish forever.

We walked toward the house together, my boots kicking up little dust clouds. Cyclone stayed half a step behind me, letting me lead but never straying far.

I climbed the sagging porch steps, the wood groaning under my weight. The key—still hidden under the third step—was exactly where I’d left it.

When the front door swung open with a creak, the smell of old wood and dust wrapped around me, oddly comforting.

Home.

Broken. Scarred.

But still standing.

Like me.

Cyclone stepped inside behind me, silent, respectful. He set his gear down carefully, his eyes sweeping the interior with a soldier’s instinct.

“It’s not much,” I said, my voice barely more than a whisper.

---