Page 72 of Oliver

I wasn’t letting go.

The End

Keep reading for more of the Golden Team.

FARON BOOK 8 IN THE GOLDEN TEAM

52

Faron

Ipressed myself into the jagged shadow of a crumbling wall, trying to convince my lungs to slow the hell down. If I could hear my heart pounding, some bored guard with a cheap assault rifle probably could too.

Three days now — hiding like a snake in this desert compound’s rotting skin, crawling on my belly when the moon’s too bright and the desert wind feels like it’s carrying my sins for the whole damn country to smell.

Somewhere behind those fences were my brothers, Chuck Mercer and Joel Alvarez. Good men who’d gone where command said not to, who’d trusted that when the world turned its back, I wouldn’t.

They were right.

A goat bleated too close to my ear and nearly got me killed. I laid a hand on its warm side, whispering softly in Cherokee until it flicked its ears and wandered off like I wasn’t about to crawl into hell for two men who’d do the same for me.

I shifted my weight. My ribs screamed where a rock had kissed me two nights ago when I fell out of a window faster than a patrol dog could get its teeth in my ass. I could almost hear Chuck’s voice now — laughing at me for making this personal.

“Bet your stubborn ass Faron’ll come for us. No plan B, no backup — just him and that mean knife he loves more than people. And maybe he’d bring Bear, his dog.”

Damn right. Bear, damn I can’t believe my dog was dead. I loved that dog. I’m going to miss the hell out of him.

Through a crack in the plaster, I counted patrol boots shuffling past. The glow of cigarettes illuminated the scene. Bored laughter echoed around me. I tasted the stale bread I’d stolen last night — my last bite of anything worth chewing. I couldn’t wait until I could find that hole in the fence and slip in close enough to tap Chuck on the shoulder and say:

I told you I’d come.Just to see the expression on his face. I’ve been hunting for them for a month already, and finally, I know they are here.

I adjusted my rifle, exhaled slowly, and let the desert envelop me like a promise. Twenty more yards tonight. Twenty more tomorrow. By dawn, my brothers would know they weren’t alone anymore. I just had to be patient. I didn’t tell anyone what I was doing. I knew they would get angry.

53

Faron

This place smelled like diesel, sweat, and the rot of men too cheap to bury trash where it wouldn’t offend their prisoners. I crouched under the rusted belly of a fuel truck, my rifle digging into my spine, sweat dripping off my jaw onto the sand that would bury me if I screwed this up.

I needed food. Simple as that. Three weeks living on dried meat I’d stashed in my boot, water that tasted like rust, and prayers. Chuck and Joel didn’t know I was close — they probably thought I was dead by now. Good. Better they focus on surviving one more night.

A door slammed. Someone cursed. Two guards wandered past the truck tires, arguing about ration splits in their language. I closed my eyes, counting backward in Cherokee — it quieted the part of me that wanted to rip their throats out just for standing between me and my brothers.

When their voices faded, I moved. Low. Quiet. Like my father taught me before I ever held a gun. Shadow to wall, wall to broken door. Inside, the kitchen stank so bad my stomach tried to crawl up my throat. Rotten potatoes. Sour goat milk. I didn’t care. I found a sack of flatbread, old but not moldy. A tin ofdates. Half a jug of water thick with sand at the bottom — good enough.

I was stuffing bread into my pack when I heard boots scrape behind me. My heartbeat stuttered — then snapped into fight.

I slipped behind a shelf stacked with dented cans. The guard stumbled in, yawning loud enough to wake God. He reached for the dates — turned — saw me.

Instinct took me. One step, hand over his mouth, knife hilt deep under his ribs. His breath left him in a wet sigh. I lowered him slow, fingers on his throat until the pulse stuttered out.

I wiped my blade on his filthy uniform, grabbed another handful of bread, and slipped back out the door before the hounds caught my scent.

Outside, I crawled under a tangle of old pipes and lay in the dirt. Stars stared back — cold witnesses to a fool too stubborn to die hungry.

One more night, boys. Hold on.

54

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