Page 52 of Faron (The Golden Team #8)

Faron

I leaned my head back against the stone wall and listened.

Silence. Dripping water. Grunts of pain. That was it. Conner was either sleeping or unconscious—I couldn’t tell anymore. Gage paced like a caged lion. Cyclone sat across from me, still and coiled, every muscle taut.

Two days. No food. Barely enough water. No answers.

The guards dragged Grayson out hours ago. He hadn’t come back.

“How long were you two here before we showed up?” I asked Kash, keeping my voice low.

“Three weeks, give or take. They move us often. Break gear. Strip us. Keep us guessing. Classic psychological warfare.” He shifted, rubbing a raw spot on his wrist. “GPS and radios were the first to go.”

“Anyone know you’re alive?”

“Nope. Off-grid op. No backup. We were supposed to meet someone at the border. They never showed.”

Cyclone spoke without opening his eyes. “Explains the ghost drop. Someone’s leaking intel.”

“No shit,” Kash muttered, shooting a look my way. “But hey… I never thought I’d be happy to see your ugly face, Lightfoot.”

I gave him a half-smile. “Glad I could brighten your prison cell.”

Then we heard it.

The door scraped open with a sound like metal screaming. Everyone froze.

Two armed men stepped in, rifles slung tight. And behind them… her.

Small. Hooded. Wrapped in dusty robes. Face hidden behind a long scarf.

She walked with calm, unhurried steps. Measured. Dangerous.

The guards barked something in Pashto. She said nothing. Just waited.

Then slowly, she pulled down the scarf.

Sharp cheekbones. Olive skin. Eyes like black fire. And a thick scar cutting from the corner of her lip to her jawline.

She looked at each of us like she was cataloging our souls.

“You don’t belong here,” she said in flawless English. “But you won’t be leaving through the front gate.”

Kash stood first, swaying a little. “You American?”

“No.” Her answer was sharp. Immediate. “But I was once married to one.”

She looked at Cyclone, then me. “You—Special Forces. He’s Navy. You two were the ones meant to extract the ghosts, yes?”

“We were,” I said. “You sound like someone who knows too much,,” I said.

“I listen better than your intelligence teams.” She tilted her head slightly. “And I know what they plan. You’ll be moved tonight. Transported north. If that happens, you won’t survive.”

“What do you want?” I asked.

“I want them gone,” she said, nodding toward the guards.

“And what’s in it for you?” Cyclone asked, eye narrowing.

She smiled faintly. “Redemption. Revenge. Does it matter?”

“Actually, it does,” I said. “Because I’m not risking my team unless I know who I’m trusting.”

The woman stepped closer. “They killed my husband. Then they killed his interpreter. Then they came for me.”

I saw the flicker in her eyes—rage buried beneath a layer of hard-earned restraint.

“They didn’t find me,” she went on. “Instead, I became their ghost. I listen to everything they say. They think I’m helping them. That’s how stupid they are. And I’ve been waiting a long time for the right Americans to show up.”

She turned toward the door.

“Wait—who are you?” I asked.

She paused in the frame, silhouetted in the flickering corridor light.

“Call me Leila.”

She looked over her shoulder, voice low but clear.

“When the lights go out, be ready. You’ll have three minutes. If you’re still here after that… you’re dead.”

Then she was gone.

The guards followed, slamming the door behind them.

Silence.

Kash whistled under his breath. “Well, damn. We just met our ticket out of hell.”

“Or someone who’s about to get us killed,” Cyclone muttered.

I stood slowly. My ribs screamed, but my instincts were louder.

“Either way,” I said, “we better be ready when those lights go out.”