Page 1 of Faron (The Golden Team #8)

Faron

I pressed 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, then some bored guard with a cheap-ass assault rifle probably could too. One wrong breath, one snapped twig, and I’d be a ghost in the desert.

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

I was sore, starving, sleep-deprived, and still counting every second with the precision of a man who knew what was at stake.

Somewhere behind those fences were my SEAL buddies—Chuck Mercer and Joel Alvarez. Good men. Brave. Loyal. Stubborn as hell. Men who’d gone where command said not to. Who’d trusted that when the world turned its back, I wouldn’t.

And they were right.

A sheep bleated too close to my ear and nearly got me killed.

I jerked, hand already reaching for my blade.

When my eyes locked on its dark shape, I laid a hand on its warm side, whispering softly in Cherokee.

My voice was low, gentle, the kind of sound I remembered my grandmother using to calm the chickens back home in Oklahoma.

The goat flicked its ears and wandered off, unconcerned.

Like I wasn’t about to crawl into hell for two men who would do the same for me without question.

I shifted my weight. Pain lanced through my ribs—one of them might be cracked.

A rock had kissed me two nights ago when I’d fallen out of a busted window faster than a patrol dog could get its teeth in my ass.

I could almost hear Chuck’s voice in my ear now—raspy with laughter, teasing me like he always did when I got myself banged up.

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

Damn right, I would.

Bear.

My chest ached in a different way now. Bear had been with me through more deployments than I cared to count.

Smart. Fierce. Loyal to the bone. And now he was gone.

Shot down by a sniper's bullet. I didn’t get to bury him.

Didn’t get to say goodbye. I just knew—somehow—that he was gone.

I’d felt it in my bones, in that strange, hollow quiet where his presence used to be.

I was going to miss the hell out of him.

Through a crack in the plaster, I counted the boots of a patrol shuffling past. Cigarettes lit lazy halos in the dark.

Bored laughter floated through the night like a dare.

I licked my lips, tasting the last bite of stale bread I’d stolen yesterday.

It had been dry, like chewing dust—but it had kept me moving.

Soon. I was so damn close. A hole in the fence, a weak spot in the patrol’s rotation—I’d found them both. Tonight, I’d get even closer. By tomorrow? Maybe I’d be 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—sleeping in wreckage, eating like a scavenger, running on instinct. And now, finally, I know they’re here.

I adjusted my rifle and exhaled slowly. The desert wrapped around me like a living thing, full of secrets and silence.

Twenty more yards tonight. Twenty more tomorrow.

By dawn, my brothers would know they weren’t alone anymore.

I just had to be patient, which was never my strong suit. But I didn’t tell anyone what I was doing—because they’d have stopped me, tried to help, or even gotten themselves killed.

This? This was on me.

And I wasn’t leaving without them.