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Because that voice—the one who just signed Zack’s death warrant without a second thought—isn’t just some handler in the shadows. He’s a major player at the top of this sick fucking twisted empire. He must be, if has the authority to dispose of one of his own. And Zack? Zack’s not a pawn. He’s blood. He’sthe son of the monster. And his father just told us he’s not worth saving.
For a moment, no one moves. Then Brando laughs. Cold. Sharp. Unhinged.
“I knew you bastards were sick,” he says. “But this?” He looks down at Zack like he’s already dead. “I’m gonna make you scream for daddy, little prince.”
Zack blanches. Tries to scramble back. Brando steps forward, grabbing him by the collar again, and this time—this time—there’s no one stopping him.
But I don’t stick around to watch it unfold.
Because while they deal with the son, I’m going after the father.
I pull out my phone and make a call of my own. My contact answers on the second ring.
“I need a trace,” I say. I rattle off the number that Zack called from the burner phone. “Find the signal. Pin it. I want a name and the exact location.”
My contact doesn’t ask questions as she gets to work. Because I’m done guessing. I’m done chasing ghosts. I’m going to find Maxine. And I’m going to bury the man who thought it was a good idea to take her.
46
SAXON
We regroup in Scar Gatti’s war room—what normal people would call a den or study. But here? It’s blueprints and weapons, burner phones and every resource we could possibly need to wage all out war on the city that’s turned its back on Maxine Andrade.
Scar stands at the head of the long oak table, sleeves rolled up, arms braced wide like he’s ready to flip it. I’m pacing, chewing the inside of my cheek, my mind calculating a thousand angles and still landing in the same damn place.
Kanyan leans against the back wall, arms crossed, radiating enough tension to bend steel. Lucky’s there too, quiet but lethal, tracing something invisible along the edge of the table with the tip of a knife. Mason hasn’t said a word since we walked in. He’s sitting in the corner, phone in hand, checking for updates—probably from one of the teams sweeping the shipping yard.
Scar is the first to break the silence, his voice low but sharp, like a blade unsheathed.
“Federal Agent Saxon North has been tracking the Aviary for years. If anyone knows how the organization operates—whopulls the strings, who runs the show—it’s him. And right now, we need every damn detail he’s got.”
His words land heavy, a quiet acknowledgment of trust in a room where trust is rare. The men in this room don’t trust me. They will never trust a Federal agent, least of all me after I botched their revenge plan against Altin Kadri last year. Of course, they ultimately got their revenge, but they didn’t appreciate the delay.
What they don’t know is that I’ve been officially suspended from the Bureau. My clearance has been revoked without ceremony. They’ve frozen my accounts, locked me out of Bureau systems, and slapped a Federal watch tag on my name like I’m a walking threat to national security. Hell, maybe I am.
They’ve rebranded me as a rogue agent. Enemy of the State, version 2.0. And I couldn’t give a single, flying fuck. Because what the Bureau will never understand is that I’ve got something bigger than protocol. I’ve got a vendetta. One older than my entire career. One that started the day my sister’s name was scrubbed from the system like she never existed. One that burned hotter every time the Bureau told me to stand down, to wait, to be patient while monsters built empires behind pulpits and stages and in boardrooms.
They gave me a desk. I took a gun. They gave me a leash. I chewed right through it. And now? They can keep their badges and their clearances and their carefully worded lies. Because I’m not working for them anymore. Not when they seem to be protecting the very monsters I’ve fought against for years.
“Formeragent,” I say, cutting in before anyone can finish the thought.
Scar glances at me, a brow raised. This is news to him, too.
Mason shifts on his feet, eyes narrowing. “Former?” he echoes, like the word is foreign on his tongue. “What does that mean?”
I let out a dry breath, somewhere between a laugh and a death rattle.
“It means I’ve been benched. Today, I’m persona non grata behind Federal walls.” I look around the room, at the men who don’t flinch at blood but still know what it means to have the government label you a threat. “And let’s just say, after tonight? My chances of going back to the Bureau are somewhere south of hell.”
Scar doesn’t blink. Mason frowns.
“They suspended you? The guy who’s been chasing the Aviary longer than anyone?”
“Yeah,” I say. “Turns out when you stop asking permission and start making real progress, they don’t like that very much.”
Kanyan grunts from the corner. “Feds never want justice. They want order. Clean headlines.”
Brando folds his arms across his chest. “So what you’re telling me is, we’ve got the one man who knows how to take down the Aviary, and the government tossed him out like trash.”