Page 20 of Faron (The Golden Team #8)

Faron

M ud in my boots. Sweat on my back. Blood on my teeth.

Just another Tuesday.

River slid forward like death in camo. Cyclone tapped twice on his shoulder — go .

I flanked left. Took out the guard with a hand over his mouth and a knife to his ribs. He never made a sound.

River got the other. Quick, clean.

We moved like ghosts — nothing but breath and threat and purpose.

Cyclone whispered, “Pop the door.”

I planted a charge. Just enough boom to say hello.

Three. Two. One.

Whump.

We flooded in.

Duct-taped men. Terror in their eyes. And the boss — pacing with a pistol and a panic problem.

He pointed it at me.

I put a bullet through his shoulder.

“Check ‘em,” Cyclone barked.

River cut tape. I caught the biggest guy as he sagged.

“You’re buying me whiskey,” I muttered.

“I don’t drink—”

“You do now.”

Gunfire cracked behind us. We didn’t flinch.

Helicopter rotors in the distance — freedom flying in on steel wings.

Cyclone pushed the rescued local up the ramp. River threw the smallest guy like luggage. I carried my guy, ribs screaming, ears ringing, heart thudding with the rhythm of one name.

Blue.

A bullet shaved bark beside me.

River grabbed my vest and yanked me in.

We lifted off.

Alive.

Laughing like lunatics.

Cyclone wiped blood from his cheek. “Next round’s on you.”

I grinned. “Gladly. Soon as I get back to LA. Got a doctor to see about a new scar.”