Page 53 of Faron
“It’s clear,” Gage called, stepping into the blackened remains of the prison yard.
River crouched by a dark smear and tire tracks, dragging a fingertip through the sand.
“They were just here.”
I moved toward the cellblock. Every step felt like a lifetime.
My chest tightened. “He was here,” I whispered. “He’s alive. They escaped. Someone must have helped them.”
Gideon squatted beside the tracks. “Military-grade vehicle. Probably a Humvee. Headed east.”
“To the river,” River said. “Smart exit route. Low visibility, minimal ground patrol.”
“We’re less than an hour behind,” Gage said.
“Then we move,” I snapped. “Now.”
River looked at me. “Blue—this might turn into a fight.”
I met his eyes. “Faron’s out there. And I didn’t come all this way to miss him by an hour.”
Gage gave a crooked grin. “I like her.”
Gideon was already walking. “Let’s go.”
We piled into the blacked-out truck and peeled out, the tires throwing up clouds of dust behind us. My hand clutched the door frame. My eyes never left the horizon.
Hold on, Lightfoot,I’m coming.
49
Faron
The Humvee jolted hard as we hit a jagged ridge. The engine coughed, tires scrambling over broken rock. We weren’t driving anymore—we were surviving the terrain.
Kash kept his eyes locked on the faint shimmer of the river ahead. “We’re close.”
“You’ve said that three times,” Cyclone muttered from the back, binoculars pressed to his face. “Still no tail, but I don’t like this. It’s too damn quiet.”
He was right. My gut had been twisted since we hit the last rise.
Then I saw it.
Movement—three figures near a bend in the road. Civilian clothes, but the way they moved screamed trained. No weapons. No radios. No uniforms.
“Slow down,” I said, raising my rifle. “Let me take a look.”
Kash eased the Humvee forward, creeping just over a rise.
I scoped in.
“Shit.”
“What is it?” Cyclone asked, already unbuckling.
“They’re wearing U.S. tactical gear. The old kind. Somebody sold them our loadouts.”
“Mercs?” Kash said.
