Page 58 of Oliver (The Golden Team #7)

Faron

B y nightfall, the plan wasn’t a plan anymore — it was a heartbeat pounding so loud I felt it in my bones.

I wore the dead guard’s uniform, sleeves rolled high to hide the tattoos that said Lightfoot was here . An empty AK over my shoulder for show. A grenade in my pack for the gate, just in case everything turned to shit. It would. It always did.

I moved through the compound like a ghost wearing a man’s skin. I laughed with two guards, stole their flask, and when they weren’t looking, I slit their throats and thanked them for their bad whiskey.

The cell door was easy. Chuck hauled Joel upright when I threw him a rifle. I gave Joel my spare knife. I pressed my hand to their shoulders.

“Fast. Quiet. No looking back. You hear me?”

Chuck winked, eyes bright. “Yeah, mama.”

We slipped into the dark. Past the snores. Past the trucks idling by the fence, guards too drunk on fear and rumors of the fire from last night.

A dog barked. A shout. Light flared.

“Run!” I roared.

Chuck fired back — short, sweet bursts. Joel stumbled but kept his feet. I flicked the detonator at the fuel drums stacked by the fence.

One breath. Two.

Boom.

Fire clawed up at the stars. Screams followed. The fence bowed in the heat. Chuck shoved Joel through the gap. I covered them until my rifle spit empty. Then I ran — grinning like a fool.

Out into the desert. Back to freedom. My brothers are alive beside me. And the dead at my back.