Page 57 of Oliver (The Golden Team #7)

Faron

S leep was a luxury I didn’t have. I drifted in and out — half dream, half dirt, my ear pressed to the earth like I could hear Chuck’s heartbeat through the stone.

Tonight I’d see them. No more ghosting the fence line, listening to pain behind concrete walls. I’d crawl into the belly of this beast, find their cell, and whisper truth in the dark.

I pressed my back to the outer wall, waiting for the search team to pass. Four men, one dog. The dog sniffed where I’d pissed behind a crate. I’d covered it with goat dung and sand. He whined, circled, and moved on. Good boy.

Up the corner wall, slowly. Fingers in broken stone, ribs screaming every time my chest brushed the grit. Over the top, down the far side, boots in shadow before the light caught me.

I found the cell block easy enough. Same smell as every piss-hole prison I’d seen — sweat and despair. A bulb hung over the door, buzzing with moths. Inside, two guards argued about a radio.

I lay belly to dirt, crawling closer. A door creaked open — a guard stepped out, lit a cigarette, and muttered to himself. He never saw me move. One hand on his mouth, knife under the chin — dead before his knees hit dirt.

Inside was worse. A guard snored on a filthy mattress. I stepped over him, found the cell bars, and pressed my face against the cold iron.

Chuck lifted his head first — one eye swollen shut but grinning like the devil.

“Well, look who crawled out of the grave.”

Joel laughed, his cracked lips splitting wide. “About damn time, Lightfoot.”

I pressed my hand to the bars. “Tomorrow night. Be ready. I’m not leaving you in this shithole one second longer than I have to.”

Chuck’s grin faded to steel. “You better not. Or I’m haunting your stubborn Cherokee ass.”

I didn’t smile. Couldn’t. Not yet. I slipped out the way I came, the desert wind wrapping around me like a promise:

One more night. Just one.