Page 56 of Faron (The Golden Team #8)

Blue

T he heat slapped me the second my boots hit the ground. I remembered how hot it got here.

Dust choked the air. Smoke stung my throat. The prison lay like a carcass—half the south wall gone, roof charred, the sky behind it bruised and heavy.

We fanned out fast. Gage took point, rifle up. Gideon moved left, scanning high. I followed River, my heart slamming against my ribs.

Bodies were scattered across the yard. Taliban. Maybe six or seven. Some still smoldering. Trucks burned out. Gear abandoned mid-fight.

But no sign of Faron. Or Cyclone. Or anyone else.

“It’s clear,” Gage called, stepping into the blackened remains of the prison yard.

River crouched by a dark smear and tire tracks, dragging a fingertip through the sand.

“They were just here.”

I moved toward the cellblock. Every step felt like a lifetime.

My chest tightened. “He was here,” I whispered. “He’s alive. They escaped. Someone must have helped them.”

Gideon squatted beside the tracks. “Military-grade vehicle. Probably a Humvee. Headed east.”

“To the river,” River said. “Smart exit route. Low visibility, minimal ground patrol.”

“We’re less than an hour behind,” Gage said.

“Then we move,” I snapped. “Now.”

River looked at me. “Blue—this might turn into a fight.”

I met his eyes. “Faron’s out there. And I didn’t come all this way to miss him by an hour.”

Gage gave a crooked grin. “I like her.”

Gideon was already walking. “Let’s go.”

We piled into the blacked-out truck and peeled out, the tires throwing up clouds of dust behind us. My hand clutched the door frame. My eyes never left the horizon.

Hold on, Lightfoot, I’m coming.