Page 3 of Faron (The Golden Team #8)

Faron

S leep was a luxury I didn’t have. I drifted in and out—half dream, half dirt, my face pressed into the earth like maybe, just maybe, I could hear Chuck’s heartbeat through the stone. Perhaps if I listened hard enough, I’d feel the pulse of his stubborn will beneath me.

Tonight I’m going to see them. No more ghosting the fence line, no more counting footsteps and memorizing patrol routes like it’s the only thing keeping me human. No more listening to pain behind concrete walls and wondering if it’s one of my brothers crying out. I’m done waiting.

I pressed my back against the outer wall, every muscle tense, waiting for the search team to pass.

Four men, one dog. The dog sniffed near a crate where I’d gone to the bathroom yesterday.

I’d buried the scent under goat dung and sand, but my gut clenched anyway.

The mutt whined, circled the spot, then padded off with a huff.

Good boy. Keep moving.

Up the wall. Slow. Controlled. Fingers sank into broken stone, ribs screaming every time my chest scraped grit. I clenched my teeth and climbed higher, my whole body trembling with fatigue and the fire in my side.

Over the top. Down the far side. I dropped into the shadow just before a spotlight swept past. Boots sunk into the sand without a sound. I was inside the belly now.

The cell block wasn’t hard to find—same as every pisshole black site I’d ever snuck into. Concrete walls, the stench of mildew, and the taste of defeat in the air. The smell hit me like a slap—old blood, sweat, and the slow decay of men forgotten by their country.

A bulb buzzed above the door, flickering like it was too tired to keep pretending. Moths circled it in lazy spirals, blind to the dying light. Inside, two guards argued over a busted radio.

I dropped to the dirt again, crawling closer like a snake through scrub. Every inch forward scraped against bone. A door creaked open—one of the guards stepped out, muttering about reception as he lit a cigarette.

He never saw me move. One hand clamped over his mouth. My knife slipped beneath his chin. His body sagged before he could blink. I eased him to the ground, one finger pressed against his throat until the pulse stopped stuttering.

Inside was even worse. Dim light spilled over a filthy mattress where a second guard snored like a pig in a trough. I moved around him silently, as quiet as possible, until I reached the bars.

I pressed my face to the cold metal.

Chuck lifted his head first, one eye swollen shut, blood dried along his jaw—but still grinning like the bastard he was.

“Well, look who crawled out of the grave.”

Joel stirred, lips cracked and voice raspy, but he smiled widely. “About damn time, Lightfoot.”

I exhaled, fingers curling around the bars. “Tomorrow night. Be ready. I’m not leaving you two in this shithole one second longer than I have to.”

Chuck’s grin faded to steel. “You better not. Or I’m haunting your stubborn Cherokee ass for the rest of your life.”

I didn’t smile. Couldn’t. Not yet. Not until they were free. I slipped back into the dark, blood pounding in my ears. The desert wrapped around me like a shroud. A promise.

One more night. Just one.