Page 2 of Faron (The Golden Team #8)

Faron

T his place reeked of diesel, sweat, and the rot of men too cheap to bury trash where it wouldn’t offend their prisoners.

The air felt thick with filth and resentment.

I crouched under the rusted belly of a fuel truck, my rifle digging into my spine, sweat dripping off my jaw into the dirt.

My shirt was soaked through, clinging to my back, salt crusting at the edges.

The heat didn’t care who you were—it just devoured you.

I just needed food. That’s all. Three weeks living off dried meat hidden in my boot, praying over water that tasted like rust scraped from hell’s pipes, and hoping the next sunrise wouldn’t bring a bullet with my name on it.

Chuck and Joel didn’t know I was here. They probably figured I was dead by now.

Hell, maybe part of me was. But if thinking I was gone helped them survive—kept them alert—then so be it.

A door slammed somewhere to the east. I froze, every muscle tense and alert. Voices rose—two guards arguing over ration splits in their native language, one of them clearly angry. I stayed low, breathing in through my nose, counting backward in Cherokee to calm the storm in my chest.

It helped. A little. Just enough to remind me I was still alive.

Just hold on.