Page 19 of Faron
20
Faron
Mud in my boots. Sweat on my back. Blood on my teeth.
Just another Tuesday.
River slid forward like death in camo. Cyclone tapped twice on his shoulder —go.
I flanked left. Took out the guard with a hand over his mouth and a knife to his ribs. He never made a sound.
River got the other. Quick, clean.
We moved like ghosts — nothing but breath and threat and purpose.
Cyclone whispered, “Pop the door.”
I planted a charge. Just enough boom to say hello.
Three. Two. One.
Whump.
We flooded in.
Duct-taped men. Terror in their eyes. And the boss — pacing with a pistol and a panic problem.
He pointed it at me.
I put a bullet through his shoulder.
“Check ‘em,” Cyclone barked.
River cut tape. I caught the biggest guy as he sagged.
“You’re buying me whiskey,” I muttered.
“I don’t drink—”
“You do now.”
Gunfire cracked behind us. We didn’t flinch.
Helicopter rotors in the distance — freedom flying in on steel wings.
Cyclone pushed the rescued local up the ramp. River threw the smallest guy like luggage. I carried my guy, ribs screaming, ears ringing, heart thudding with the rhythm of one name.
Blue.
A bullet shaved bark beside me.
River grabbed my vest and yanked me in.
We lifted off.
Alive.
Laughing like lunatics.
