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Story: The Vagabond

I don’t want to drag her back to the city, back to the concrete graveyard where every corner holds bad memories, where every shadow whispers regret. I want to keep her here. Hidden. Safe.Far from the darkness, far from the weight of everything waiting to crush her. But then Scar’s voice cuts through, sharp and cold:
“You didn’t just kick the hornet’s nest this time, Saxon. You burned the whole fucking hive down.”
I say nothing. What the hell can I say? I butchered Vernon Gibbons and left a trail of bodies from the docks to the Pastor’s estate. I slit Zack’s throat without blinking. I dropped off the grid with a trafficked woman who should be under Federal protection. I did it all with full clarity. And I’d do it again.
Scar keeps talking.
“Mia found out. About Maxine. About everything. Brando’s losing his goddamn mind. I don’t know what he’ll do to you the next time he sees you.”
I grit my teeth. “Tell him to take a ticket and get in line.”
“Mason doesn’t trust that Maxine’s safe with you. He wants her home.”
I laugh under my breath—sharp, bitter. My list of enemies just keeps growing.
“He ever trust anyone who doesn’t bleed his name?”
Scar pauses. “He trusted me.”
Fair. But I’m not Scar Gatti. I’m the Fed who burned Mason Ironside before and he’ll probably never get past that. Scar keeps going.
“The Bureau’s crawling all over the city,” he says, voice low, like even the phone line could turn traitor. “Internal Affairs is digging hard. Word is, someone upstairs thinks you’ve gone off-script.”
I clench my jaw. “Define off-script.”
“They’re saying you’ve gone rogue. That you’re either working for the mob…” He pauses, lets his words hang like a noose between us. “Or that you are the mob now.”
I pace the length of the porch, blood drumming in my ears.
“And with what you did to Vernon?” Scar adds. “That wasn’tsome quiet Bureau-sanctioned black bag job. That was personal. That was vengeance, loud and messy. You didn’t just send a message—you lit the whole fucking building on fire.”
“He deserved worse,” I say, but my voice comes out quieter than I mean it to.
“Yeah, maybe. But that’s not what concerns them.” He pauses again, longer this time.
“What?” I press. His silence curdles something in my gut. “What aren’t you saying?”
Scar exhales. When he speaks again, it’s slower. Measured. Like he knows there’s no way to soften what’s coming.
“They’re calling it vigilante justice.” He hesitates. “Or…”
“Or what?”
He doesn’t answer immediately. Then, after a long pause, he breathes the words out.
“They’re trying to frame you as a serial killer.”
The words hit like a cold blade to the spine. I stop moving. Scar keeps going, voice low and even.
“They’ve pulled your old casework. Reopened every violent takedown you were part of in the last five years. Every body that didn’t make it to trial. Feds are calling in behavioral analysts, violent crime profilers. They’re running comparisons between what you did to the Pastor—and what’s been done in half a dozen unsolved cases they never could pin down.”
I don’t speak. I can’t breathe.
“They think you’ve been playing executioner longer than you’re admitting.”
I close my eyes. And I smile. Not because it’s funny. But because it’s true. I’ve always been this man. They just didn’t notice until now. And I’ll be damned if they try to separate us now that I’ve found Maxine again.
“You need to fix this,” Scar says. “For your sake. For hers. Youleave a trail, they’ll bury you. And if they don’t, there’s a long list of others waiting to do the honors.”