Page 18 of Faron

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I answered. “Talk fast.”

“Lightfoot.” No emotion. Just mission tone. “We got a situation. Venezuela. Two maybe three American contractors held outside Caracas. Intel’s messy. River and I are wheels up in six. You in or out?”

My stomach clenched.

“Cyclone—”

“You know the rule,” he cut me off. “We take care of our own.”

Click.

Fuck.

I stared at the ceiling again. At Bear. At the hallway where I could hear her — barefoot, pouring burnt coffee, probably muttering to herself about the patients who’d already blown up her voicemail.

I found her in the kitchen. Mug in hand. Tired eyes, beautiful as hell.

“Morning, Cherokee,” she said softly.

I didn’t say anything.

She saw my face. The tired smile dropped.

“What is it?”

I stepped forward, framed her face in my hands. “Cyclone called. Mission. South America. They need me.”

She nodded, jaw tight. “Then go.”

“I don’t want to.”

She pressed her forehead to mine. “Don’t make me beg you to stay. You’ll resent me, and I’ll never forgive myself.”

My chest cracked open. “I don’t trust that lock on your door. I don’t trust Rico to stay gone.”

“I’ll survive,” she whispered. “I always do.”

“Promise me.”

“No promises,” she said, but she kissed me like she meant it anyway.

19

Faron

Two days later, I was back in the dirt where I belonged.

The sun rose over a Venezuelan jungle that smelled like piss and smoke and ghosts. I crouched beside Cyclone and River, eyes locked on a compound that looked like it’d fall over if we sneezed too hard.

Cyclone checked his rifle. River whispered something under his breath.

I didn’t pray.

I just thought about Blue.

Her laugh. Her mouth. Her fire.

And I decided I was done waiting.

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