Page 109 of Tag (The Golden Team #9)

Carter

T he first breath of Southern California air hit me like a challenge — warm, salted by the Pacific, humming with city noise.

Carlsbad was nothing like Idaho. No snowbanks, no pine trees heavy with frost. Just wide streets lined with palm trees, the ocean stretching endlessly and blue on the horizon.

Faron was waiting when I pulled into the lot beside the Golden Team’s main building. He looked the same as the last time I saw him — tall, solid, eyes sharp enough to see right through you.

“Long drive,” he said, clapping a hand to my shoulder.

“Worth it,” I answered.

Inside, the place was buzzing — voices over comms, maps spread across a table, Tag leaning over Aponi as she pointed out something on the screen. I caught the faintest nod from Tag when he saw me, but no small talk.

Faron led me to an empty desk. “You’ll get a locker and a gear check. We’ve got a situation brewing — girls going missing. Closer to home this time.”

That same itch I’d felt for years — the need to be in motion, to make a difference — flared hot.

“Then let’s get to work,” I said, shaking hands with everyone.

And just like that, Idaho felt like another lifetime.