Page 51 of Faron (The Golden Team #8)

Faron

W e landed just outside a crumbling village on the edge of Helmand Province.

The chopper kicked up a cyclone of dust, rotor blades slicing the air as it lifted off and vanished into the orange haze. Cyclone and I moved fast—low, silent, weapons ready. The earth here was scorched and brittle, like it had forgotten what peace felt like.

Two figures stepped out from behind a collapsed well. Grayson and Luca. Both in dusty tactical gear, sunburned and strung tight.

I didn’t lower my rifle, but I didn’t aim either. “Talk to me.”

Luca kept his voice low. “We got the same call—extraction mission for Americans left behind. But there’s been no sign of anyone. No contact. Nothing.”

“No one’s shown?” Cyclone asked, scanning the rooftops.

Grayson shook his head. “Not a soul. And something’s wrong. No movement. No kids, no goats, no birds. Too quiet.”

Then Cyclone froze. “Incoming.”

Shadows burst out of alleyways. Armed men. Dozens. Coming fast.

“Shit!” Grayson hissed, diving for cover.

Gunfire cracked open the air. Bullets chewed into brick and dirt. Cyclone dropped two with sharp, efficient shots. I took down a third. Luca clipped one in the leg before ducking behind a broken wall.

There were too many.

This wasn’t a failed meetup.

This was an ambush.

A bullet ripped across my side, searing heat along my ribs. Cyclone took a hit near the temple—blood streaming down his cheek, but he stayed on his feet. Grayson was yelling something from behind cover, trying to regroup. Luca was down to his last mag.

“Fall back!” I shouted.

But the words barely left my mouth before pain exploded in the back of my skull. My knees hit the dirt. My rifle slipped from my fingers.

Then came the boot—slamming into my wrist as I reached for it.

Rough hands flipped me. My vision blurred.

Taliban.

Not scattered. Not desperate.

Organized. Waiting for us.

I saw Cyclone forced to the ground, zip ties biting into his wrists. Grayson groaned, curled on his side. Luca was already gagged and bound.

Blindfolds followed.

The last thing I heard was laughter—cruel and close—as the world went dark.

Later…

The prison smelled like rot, piss, pig sweat, and despair.

They yanked my blindfold off. Light hit me like a punch, and I squinted through the blur.

Barred windows. Stone walls. A rusted bucket in the corner.

“Another American,” someone rasped from the shadows. “Make yourself at home.”

I turned.

Conner, he was one of the Army Rangers I ran into a few times.

Gaunt, bruised, barely recognizable—but alive. His voice was dry and cracked, but steady.

Next to him, Kash leaned against the wall like he belonged there. His lip was split, one eye swelling shut, but his grin was stubborn as hell.

“Well, shit,” Kash said. “They sent the cavalry—and the cavalry got caught.”

“Not cavalry,” I muttered, sliding down beside him. My ribs screamed, my head throbbed. “Just two dumbasses walking straight into a trap.”

He laughed softly. “Welcome to hell, boys.”