Page 50 of Faron (The Golden Team #8)

Faron

W e’d only been back in the city for a week when River called.

“We need you,” he said. “Afghanistan. Americans still in hiding. Four years is too long.”

I didn’t like the sound of it. Too vague. Too quiet.

I liked it even less when I looked at Blue. She was sitting cross-legged on the couch in one of my shirts, flipping through patient charts with a mug of tea she hadn’t touched. She glanced up the second she saw my face.

“Where are you going?” she asked, voice soft but steady.

“Afghanistan,” I said. “There are still people we need to bring home.”

She was quiet for a beat, then nodded. “I’ve read reports. Some of them were married when they got stuck. Do they want to bring their families with them?”

“Maybe. We don’t even know who we’re meeting. The whole thing’s… loose.”

“I’m going with you.”

My heart twisted. I crossed the room and sat beside her, brushing a thumb along her cheekbone. “Sweetheart, no. It’s too dangerous. Cyclone and I are going in light and fast—just recon and extraction. I need you safe while I’m gone.”

“I’m not fragile.”

“No. But I need to know you’re breathing while I’m gone. That Bear’s snoring. That Tag’s pretending to drink tea while he watches your every move.”

“Hey!” Tag called from the kitchen. “This is real tea. Very manly. And delicious.”

Blue didn’t smile. Not this time.

“I don’t need a babysitter,” she said.

Tag walked in, unbothered. “Too bad. You’ve got one.” He pulled her into a hug and kissed her square on the mouth like they were siblings. “Besides, I like hanging out with Blue Davis. She’s way cooler than Faron Lightfoot.”

“I heard that,” I muttered.

“You were meant to.”

Blue pulled away, locking eyes with me. “This doesn’t feel right, Faron. Something’s off.”

“You’re not wrong,” I said. “Cyclone’s outside. Said he didn’t want to come in and have to say no to your face.”

“Coward.”

“Yep.”

Tag sat on the armrest. “By the way, Olly told Oliver he’s not cutting his hair anymore. Says he wants it long. Like Faron’s.”

I smiled. “That kid’s got good taste.”

“I thought it was a mourning thing. You haven’t cut it since your dad passed, right?”

I nodded. “And I won’t. Not until I go, too.”

Blue’s eyes softened, and I saw the war behind them—her desire to fight for me, and her promise not to pull me away from who I was.

“I still don’t see why I can’t go,” she whispered. “You know I’m good in the field.”

“I know. That’s why I’m not letting you near this one. We’ll be in and out. Minimal contact. I promise, the second I’m back, I’m yours.”

She leaned in, forehead to mine. “You better come back, Lightfoot.”

I kissed her like I’d been drowning and only she had air.

“I will,” I said. “But until then, stay close. Stay sharp. And stay safe.”

She nodded, jaw tight, eyes glassy but not spilling over. Not yet.

I turned and walked out the door.

Cyclone was leaning against the truck. “You good?”

“No. But let’s go.”

“Do we know who made the call?” he asked.

“No name. Just coordinates and a promise.”

He looked at me, then at the horizon. “Blue says it feels suspicious?”

“Yeah. And you?”

“Same. Let’s stay sharp. No hero moves.”

I loaded my gear and climbed into the cab. “Let’s go find some ghosts.”