Page 28 of Faron (The Golden Team #8)

Faron

T he street outside smelled like trouble dressed in cheap cologne.

Three men. Beat-up car. No plates. One smoking. One stretching like a bored pit bull. One with a bulge under his jacket that sure as hell wasn’t a candy bar.

Blue stepped up behind me.

Barefoot. Hair wild. Wearing my old shirt like it was body armor. She was shaking, but only slightly — enough for me to feel it down my spine.

I shifted to block her.

She shoved me aside.

“Doc—”

“No,” she snapped. “I got this.”

She stepped out first.

The cigarette guy sneered. “Senorita Davis. Still walking barefoot through hell, I see.”

She didn’t blink. Just raised her empty hands like a warrior priestess.

“Leave. Now.”

The big one muttered something in Spanish that made the others laugh.

My gun was low. Off safety. My breath a blade.

But Blue…

Blue reached back — just once.

My signal.

I pressed the switchblade into her palm.

She opened it with a flick. The click sliced through the heat.

“You boys want a taste of Iran?” she asked softly. “Be my guest.”

One lunged.

She moved like a ghost.

The blade kissed his forearm. Not fatal. Just enough to make a point with blood.

I took the second. Slapped his face into the hood hard enough to leave a dent and a memory.

The third tried to bolt.

Blue stepped in front of him.

Pressed the tip of the knife under his chin.

“I bury men like you,” she whispered. “I don’t ask names. I don’t cry.”

He ran.

Silence.

She stood there, barefoot, my blade in her shaking hand, chest heaving.

I wrapped her in my arms before her knees gave out.

“You okay?”

Her laugh cracked in my ear.

“No. But I will be.”

“Damn right you will,” I whispered. “Meanest doctor in LA.”

She turned in my arms. Pressed her forehead to mine.

“Don’t you forget it, Cherokee.”