Page 39 of The Vagabond

SAXON

T he streetlight outside Maxine’s building flickers as I pull up to the curb, sputtering like it’s choking on its own breath.

Once. Twice. Then it stutters, crackling with dying voltage before dimming into a dull, trembling glow.

It feels like the world just blinked—and forgot to open its eyes again.

Goosebumps dot the length of my arms as I feel the first fracture in the night’s calm surface.

The first whisper that something’s wrong.

I feel it crawl under my skin—slow, cold, coiling in the pit of my stomach like smoke from a fire I can’t see yet.

That kind of dread doesn’t come with noise or warning.

It comes quiet. Like a held breath before a cry for help.

I kill the engine and let the silence take over.

The windows of the building stare back at me with dead eyes. But the stillness presses down, thick and unnatural. And my gut? It twists tight, screaming what my training already knows.

I’ve been a Federal agent long enough to recognize when the night shifts.

When the rhythm of the world stutters out of sync.

When a streetlight buzzes just a second too long.

When even the shadows seem to hold their breath.

That’s when you know that something’s happened and your mind is just trying to catch up with the reality.

My mind starts racing ahead of me, flipping through a slideshow of worst-case scenarios like flashcards from hell. She’s hurt. She’s bleeding. She’s gone. Every image more violent than the last, until my pulse is hammering behind my eyes.

I grip the steering wheel, hard—until my knuckles blanch white. It’s the only thing keeping me from flying out of the car like a man possessed. But even that doesn't help, because the panic’s there, crawling beneath my skin, seeping into my bones.

Because Maxine? She’s already been taken once. And the thought of it happening again—no. I can’t let myself think about that. That can’t happen again. Not on my watch.

I shove the door open and leave it hanging, engine still warm.

There’s no time to be cautious. I set aside my fear and let my instincts take over.

I charge toward the building, boots slamming against concrete.

I take the stairs two at a time, ignoring the scent of fear permeating in the air.

When I hit the landing, I see it. Her door—wide open. A gaping mouth in the dark.

Something inside me cracks.

“Maxine!” I bark, already closing the distance.

There’s no response. Just the cold, still air that feels wrong, so wrong.

My hand goes to my weapon. I draw it in one smooth, practiced motion, leveling it as I cross the threshold. My steps are silent now, careful, measured—because this can’t be just your run of the mill break-in. The timing’s just too off for it to be that.

The lights are off, making the apartment darker than it should be, as if the shadows are feeding off the fear in the walls. The only light is the thin strip funnelling into the room from the flickering streetlight outside .

Something smells off. Fear—fresh and sharp. The kind of scent that doesn’t need proof to exist. It just lingers.

“Maxine?” I call again, this time quieter. Controlled. But my voice doesn’t feel like mine. It’s distant. Hollow. Like I’ve stepped out of my body and I’m viewing the room as a third party.

There’s a sudden sound behind me. The floorboards creak and I whip around.

But I’m too slow. Pain erupts in the back of my head like a grenade went off in my skull.

A blinding, white-hot flash. My knees buckle before I can process what’s happening, and the gun slips from my grip.

I hit the ground hard. The air punches out of my lungs. My vision fractures into shards.

Boots. Black. Heavy. A figure—blurry—slipping past me like a shadow with a heartbeat.

Maxine’s name echoes in my head like thunder. Over and over. Until everything else goes black.

There’s a dull, bludgeoning weight at the back of my skull. Hot. Pulsing. Like someone’s taken a sledgehammer to the base of my brain and left it humming.

I blink several times as my eyes adjust to the darkness. The ceiling above me is unfamiliar. The air smells like jasmine, but something’s wrong—something’s missing.

I try to move, but my head spins, stomach lurching as my hand grazes something wet. I pull it back. Blood. Not gushing, but enough to coat my palm, tacky and dark.

The floor beneath me is cold. Hard. Wood. Unforgiving.

I force myself upright, bracing with one hand, the other still gripping the back of my skull. Everything aches. Muscles I forgot I had scream in protest. But I don’t care. Because the moment my vision clears, I realize where I am.

Maxine’s apartment. And she’s not here. The moment I realize she’s gone, panic detonates in my chest. Something inside me seizes — tight, brutal, like my own ribs turning inward.

I stumble to my feet, eyes scanning every corner. Her throw blanket is draped over the couch. Her empty mug sits on the coffee table. The phone charger dangles like a noose beside the wall. But there’s no Maxine, and there’s no trace of her presence.

“Max,” I call out, hoarse. “Maxine!”

Nothing. Just the groan of a city that doesn’t care that I’m living out my own worst nightmare.

My heart’s in my throat now, hammering like a warning bell. My breathing goes shallow as I stagger to the kitchen sink and splash water on my face, gripping the edge of the counter to stay upright.

I grab my phone and call the only person who won’t turn me away. The only man who has the same vested interest in Maxine’s welfare as I do.

Scar Gatti.

He answers on the third ring, voice sharp. “North?”

“She’s gone.”

“ What? ”

“She’s gone , Scar. Maxine. Someone took her.” I close my eyes, bile rising. “She was gone when I got here. Someone hit me from behind and…”

“Jesus Christ. Who?”

“I don’t know.

“Lucky’s with me. We’re on our way.”

I hang up.

My hands are shaking. Fury makes its way up my throat until I feel nothing but a bone-deep, blood-boiling, soul-ripping ferocity.

I storm toward her desk and yank her laptop open. I punch in her code from memory. The camera feed is stored locally and right now, it’s my only hope of knowing who’s taken Maxine. I scrub through the feed, dragging the timeline back to just over an hour before I got here.

The grainy black-and-white footage flickers across the screen. The angle is fixed, giving me a bird’s eye view of the living room and stretching past the front door.

I rewind. Play. Pause. Rewind again. My eyes don’t blink. My jaw doesn’t move. I watch. I watch because it’s the only thing I can do.

The front door swings open and Maxine is there.

She’s fumbling with her keys as she takes a step through the front door, balancing a tote bag on her shoulder. She’s tired—I can tell from the slump in her shoulders—but she’s alert. Cautious. She always checks over her shoulder before opening the door. She does it now.

Smart girl.

But it doesn’t matter. Because I see the figure shadowing her.

The man slips into the frame like a goddamn ghost. Without warning. Just a shadow sliding across the edge of the camera like he belongs there. This was a carefully planned extraction.

The intruder is dressed clean, sharp. Long coat. Hands in his pockets. His face is covered with a balaclava. He waits—just outside her door—watching her fumble with the lock. Then he moves. Fast. Maxine doesn’t hear him. She doesn’t see him as he reaches out and hits her from behind.

His arm swings up and crack —her body crumples to the floor just inside the apartment. The tote bag goes flying. Her keys scatter.

She’s down. But not out. She kicks out at him.

I lurch forward in my chair, my stomach turning. She’s trying. Even half-conscious, she’s still fighting. She scrambles through the living room, dragging herself on her elbows. I can see the panic in her eyes, even in low resolution .

The man steps inside, calm, and shuts the door with the heel of his shoes. My fists clench so hard that my knuckles crack.

He circles her like he has all the time in the world. Watches her struggle to crawl away. She reaches for something out of frame, but he’s already there. He grabs her by the ankle and yanks. Her scream doesn’t carry through the feed, but I feel it. I feel it like a knife under my ribs.

She kicks again, scratches at the floor. I’m sure her nails leave drag marks on the floorboards. The man drops a foot to her back, holding her down even as she continues to crawl away from him. He lowers himself to one knee beside her, presses something—a cloth?—over her mouth.

No.

Her arms thrash, her head jerks from side to side. She’s not giving up. But he holds it there. Firm. Patient. And slowly, too slowly—her jerky movements slow down. Then stop. She goes limp.

I stare, heart punching against my ribs as he scoops her up like she weighs nothing. One arm under her knees. One around her back. Her head lolls against his chest, her hair hiding her face.

He walks toward the door and pauses—just for a second.

Then he looks up. Right at the camera. Right.

At. Me. Like he knows I’m watching. I shoot to my feet, fury exploding in my chest. The camera glitches for half a second, static ripping through the image, and when it clears—he’s gone. Maxine is gone.

The door hangs open — gaping, waiting — exactly how I found it. He was halfway out when I arrived, slipping past me just as I crossed the threshold. And there I am, sprawled in the entryway, unmoving.

Rage coils tight in my chest. I drive my fist into the desk, hard enough to send the laptop skidding, crashing to the floor with a sharp, echoing crack.

My vision has narrowed to a single thought, pounding like a war drum inside my skull.

“Fuck!”

The sound echoes through the apartment like a death sentence.

Someone took her, and I have no idea where she is or with who.

I grip the back of the chair, my knuckles going white as the vengeance claws up my throat and threatens to tear itself out of me.

I’m going to find her. And when I do, I’m going to rip apart the motherfucker who took her.

I’ll drag him out of whatever hole he’s hiding in and make him watch while I take everything from him.

Because Maxine Andrade is mine to protect.

And I don’t give a single goddamn who I have to destroy to get her back.