Page 48 of Faron
“Three weeks, give or take. They move us often. Break gear. Strip us. Keep us guessing. Classic psychological warfare.” He shifted, rubbing a raw spot on his wrist. “GPS and radios were the first to go.”
“Anyone know you’re alive?”
“Nope. Off-grid op. No backup. We were supposed to meet someone at the border. They never showed.”
Cyclone spoke without opening his eyes. “Explains the ghost drop. Someone’s leaking intel.”
“No shit,” Kash muttered, shooting a look my way. “But hey… I never thought I’d be happy to see your ugly face, Lightfoot.”
I gave him a half-smile. “Glad I could brighten your prison cell.”
Then we heard it.
The door scraped open with a sound like metal screaming. Everyone froze.
Two armed men stepped in, rifles slung tight. And behind them… her.
Small. Hooded. Wrapped in dusty robes. Face hidden behind a long scarf.
She walked with calm, unhurried steps. Measured. Dangerous.
The guards barked something in Pashto. She said nothing. Just waited.
Then slowly, she pulled down the scarf.
Sharp cheekbones. Olive skin. Eyes like black fire. And a thick scar cutting from the corner of her lip to her jawline.
She looked at each of us like she was cataloging our souls.
“You don’t belong here,” she said in flawless English. “But you won’t be leaving through the front gate.”
Kash stood first, swaying a little. “You American?”
“No.” Her answer was sharp. Immediate. “But I was once married to one.”
She looked at Cyclone, then me. “You—Special Forces. He’s Navy. You two were the ones meant to extract the ghosts, yes?”
“We were,” I said. “You sound like someone who knows too much,,” I said.
“I listen better than your intelligence teams.” She tilted her head slightly. “And I know what they plan. You’ll be moved tonight. Transported north. If that happens, you won’t survive.”
“What do you want?” I asked.
“I want them gone,” she said, nodding toward the guards.
“And what’s in it for you?” Cyclone asked, eye narrowing.
She smiled faintly. “Redemption. Revenge. Does it matter?”
“Actually, it does,” I said. “Because I’m not risking my team unless I know who I’m trusting.”
The woman stepped closer. “They killed my husband. Then they killed his interpreter. Then they came for me.”
I saw the flicker in her eyes—rage buried beneath a layer of hard-earned restraint.
“They didn’t find me,” she went on. “Instead, I became their ghost. I listen to everything they say. They think I’m helping them. That’s how stupid they are. And I’ve been waiting a long time for the right Americans to show up.”
She turned toward the door.
