The Moon Chose Me Twice
Rain lashes inside, soaking the concrete.
I burst out into the storm.
The wind hits me, roaring in my ears. The rain is coming down in sheets, reducing visibility to zero. But I don't need to see.
I can smell them. Wet dog. Fear. And the sweet, milky scent of a newborn.
"Chopper is waving off!" one of the mercenaries screams over the wind. He’s standing near the edge of the helipad, shielding his eyes against the spotlight of a helicopter hovering precariously in the turbulence.