Page 31 of Tag
Tag raised his weapon.
And then—
CRACK.
A shot rang out from the rooftop above.
The SUV swerved.
Tires squealed. Gunfire erupted again—but this time it wasn’t aimed at us.
It was backup.
Gideon’s voice came through on Tag’s comms. “You’re welcome.”
I collapsed against the wall, soaked and shaking.
Tag holstered his weapon and turned to me, panting. “You good?”
I nodded, eyes locked on my mother—who knelt in the mud, bleeding and breathless.
“This isn’t over,” I said.
Tag reached for my hand.
“No,” he said. “But you’re not facing it alone.”
24
Aponi
The hospital lights buzzed low, soft against the hum of machines and the steady beep of my mother’s heart monitor.
She looked small in the bed.
It didn’t fit.
This was the woman who used to braid my hair with fingers rough from work and hum lullabies in Cherokee. Who once stopped a drunk man from hitting a neighbor with nothing but her voice and a garden hoe.
Now she was hooked up to IVs, stitched and pale, and still somehow held herself like she was ready for war.
Faron stood at the window, arms crossed, face a mask.
Tag sat beside me in the room’s single armchair, silent, patient.
I hadn’t spoken since we got here.
None of us had.
Finally, my mother turned her head to me. “You want to say something. Say it.”
I blinked, and the tears started before I could stop them.
“You left me,” I whispered.
“I know.”
“You let me grow up thinking I wasn’t enough for you to stay. I used to pretend you were dead. Faron thought we were both dead, and you told me that he and my father were dead.”
