Page 43 of Cyclone

She hesitated, just for a second.

“I’m not leaving you,” she said, voice shaking with everything she couldn’t say.

“I’m right behind you,” he promised. “Go!”

I ran down the hall, through the kitchen, and into the hidden trapdoor leading to the old storm shelter.

I barely made it down the steps when the house shuddered under an explosion—one of the SUVs blowing apart in a fireball of heat and smoke.

The walls trembled. Dust rained from the rafters.

Gunfire, shouts, and the low, heavy rumble of the weapons firing down on us.

I crouched at the base of the stairs, breathing hard, listening.

Another explosion.

Closer.

Then—Footsteps.

Light.

And Cyclone’s face—bloody, bruised, alive—appeared at the top of the stairs.

He stumbled down to me, grabbed my face again, and kissed me hard, which nearly knocked me backward.

“We’re clear,” he rasped against her skin. “We’ve got ‘em.”

She stared up at him, dizzy with relief, fear, and something too big to name.

“You’re sure?” she whispered.

He smiled. Soft. Fierce. Certain.

“They’re not getting near you again. Not while I’m breathing.”

And somewhere outside, as the gunfire faded and the backup team moved in to clean up, the senator’s empire—the lies, the blood, the power—began to crumble.

Because of her. Because of them. Because no matter how broken the world had made them, they were stronger. Together.

24

Jude

The cleanup took less than a day.

We have so much proof. Cyclone set up cameras to catch everything.

The government's men were efficient, erasing every trace of the gunfight like ghosts.

The senator’s hired killers—what was left of them—were handed over to federal agents who arrived in the dead of night, silent and grim. CIA agents and the FBI all knew me.

I stood outside the ranch house as the sun rose, the sky a soft, aching pink.

My hands were shoved into the pockets of my jeans, my heart hollow and full all at once.

It was over.

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