Page 4 of Faron (The Golden Team #8)

Faron

B y nightfall, the plan wasn’t a plan anymore—it was a damn heartbeat. Pounding, steady, loud enough I could feel it in my bones.

I wore the dead guard’s uniform, and it smelled terrible.

It was tight enough that I couldn’t button the shirt, with my sleeves rolled down to hide the tattoos that screamed Lightfoot was here.

The shirt clung to my sweat-soaked back, already stiff with salt.

A useless AK was slung over my shoulder for show.

A grenade was tucked in my pack—for insurance in case everything went to shit.

It would. It always did.

I moved through the compound like a ghost wearing another man’s skin.

I laughed with two guards. Let them pass their flask.

My face was hidden in the dark, my beanie pulled down to my forehead to hide my long hair.

I drank enough of their piss-poor whiskey to grimace, then slit both their throats when their backs were turned.

I left them slumped against the generator, still smiling like they’d had a good night.

The cell door groaned but gave way. Chuck caught Joel under the arms and hauled him up as I tossed a stolen rifle through the bars. I handed Joel my spare knife—heavy, curved, the same blade my dad gave me when I passed my first selection.

I pressed my hands to their shoulders. “Fast. Quiet. No looking back. You hear me?”

Chuck winked, voice steady. “Yes, mama.”

We slipped into the dark, ghosts in borrowed skin.

Past the snoring guards. Past the trucks rumbling softly near the gate.

The air reeked of diesel, sweat, and fear.

Something was wrong. There were whispers—about last night’s fire, about the rumors of a shadow slipping past patrols. They were spooked.

Good.

A dog barked. A voice shouted. Light flared, bright and blinding.

“Run!” I roared.

Chuck raised the rifle, firing short bursts, tight and practiced. Joel stumbled, nearly fell, but kept his feet. I flicked the detonator in my hand and aimed it at the fuel drums stacked near the fence.

One breath. Two.

Boom.

The explosion ripped through the compound. Fire climbed into the sky, painting the world orange and red. Screams echoed. The fence bowed inward, then collapsed in the heat. Chuck shoved Joel through the opening.

I stayed until my rifle clicked dry. Then I ran. Fast. Laughing.

We were out.

We were alive.

And the dead howled behind us.