Page 49 of The Vagabond

SAXON

W e 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—who pulls 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 My clearance has been revoked without ceremony.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.

“ Former agent,” 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.”

I give him a humorless smile. “You’re starting to see why I’m in the right room.”

Scar leans forward, arms braced on the table. “Then start talking, North. You’ve hunted them long enough. Tell us what we’re dealing with here.”

I nod once, slowly, and open the laptop in front of me. The screen glows with pulled surveillance stills, grainy footage, blurred faces. Victims. Handlers. Bidders. Monsters in suits and smiles.

“The Aviary isn’t a place. It’s an idea.

You can’t just raid it. You can’t storm in and slap cuffs on it.

It doesn’t bleed the way you want it to.

It reinvents. Regenerates. Cut off one branch?

Two grow back. Which is why I don’t want to kill it.

I want to salt the fucking soil beneath it. So nothing ever grows there again. ”

Mason folds his arms. “We talking about a few sick bastards in a basement somewhere?”

“No,” I reply. “We’re talking international. Private airstrips. Offshore bank accounts. Tech companies laundering data. Faith-based charities rerouting funds. Politicians funding campaigns with blood money they don’t even know they’re sitting on.”

Lucky whistles low through his teeth. Scar stays silent, his jaw tight.

“They operate in cells ,” I continue. “Compartmentalized. Each handler only knows their tier and their assignments. That’s why it’s so hard to break. You take out one head? Two more pop up. Different names. Same methods.”

“Auctions?” Kanyan asks.

“Digital and physical. The physical ones are rarer now—too much risk. But when they do happen, it’s elite-level. Invitation only. Passwords rotated hourly. Bidders are required to offer a ‘collateral girl’—someone disposable. A show of good faith.”

Mason’s expression curdles. “You’re telling me these people bring extra victims to prove they’re legit?”

I nod. “And the sickest part? They don’t all buy for pleasure. Some bid just to break the girls. Train them. Then resell them at inflated prices. They call them?—”

“—Canaries,” Scar finishes, his voice barely above a whisper. “I’ve heard the term.”

I meet his eyes. “It’s worse than you think. A Canary isn’t just a girl. It’s a product tier. One who’s been broken and ‘tuned’ to fit specific buyer demands. Compliant. Mute. Scarred. Clean.”

Kanyan’s fists clench at his sides.

Scar speaks next. “Where does Vernon Gibbons fit in all this?”

Pastor Vernon Gibbons. He’s not just a rumor. Not a myth whispered through Bureau channels and back-alley intel drops. He’s real. And he’s in this up to his sanctimonious throat .

“We think he’s at the top,” I say. “The Pastor is more than a cover. He’s the architect. He uses his church as the intake net. Girls walk in broken, looking for God—and walk out packaged for sale. His outreach programs are a fucking front.”

“Jesus,” Mason mutters.

“No,” I say. “Not Jesus. Just a man who wears a collar in the name of ‘religion’.”

Lucky leans forward, brows furrowed. “And the buyers?”

“They come from everywhere. Banking. Medicine. Politics. Law enforcement. Some just watch. Some buy. Some sell. The Aviary’s client list is deeper than anything you want to believe.”

Scar straightens. “And Maxine?”

“She’s not a random grab,” I tell them. “Someone requested her specifically. Someone high enough to override the system and order a retrieval.”

Mason’s voice is low. “Why her?”

“I don’t know,” I admit. “But Zack wasn’t just watching her for fun. He was waiting for a green light to take her. We don’t know what the trigger was.”

Silence falls over the room like a fog.

Then Scar speaks. “So the Pastor’s the boss. He’s the one pulling the strings.”

It’s not a question.

I stop pacing. “He’s deeper than that. This must be big for them to track the same girl twice.”

Scar’s jaw ticks.

Lucky flicks his knife into the table with a soft thunk. “She trusted Zack.”

Kanyan growls low in his throat. “They were playing a long game. Making her feel safe before the next grab.”

Mason finally speaks. “They didn’t count on the Gattis getting involved. ”

“Or her association with us is exactly why she was taken,” Kanyan says. “No doubt it would increase her value.”

Scar exhales hard through his nose, rubbing a hand down his face. “What else do we know about the Pastor?”

I turn back to the laptop and pull up the file I started building the moment I knew I’d gone rogue. Tonight, with the intel I got from my content, all the pieces finally fell into place.

“Publicly? He’s a saint. Founder of three megachurches. Runs community shelters, trauma centers, victim outreach programs.” I scoff. “Irony’s a bitch.”

“So he’s laundering under the guise of charity.”

I look at Lucky and nod. “And building a pipeline. Not just girls—buyers. The Aviary doesn’t survive without a demand. The Pastor’s not just feeding the machine—he’s the one oiling it.”

Scar steps closer, eyes locked on the grainy photo I pull up—a smiling Vernon Gibbons shaking hands with a governor, a senator, a bishop. “Jesus Christ,” he mutters. “He’s untouchable.”

“No one’s untouchable,” I snap. “They just bleed in better suits.”

“How sure are we that this is our man?” Lucky asks.

“As sure as I am that Vernon Gibbons is Zack Morgan’s biological father.”

“Tell me you’re joking,” Mason says, stepping forward. “How did you not know this? You said the boy’s been stalking Maxine for weeks.”

“There was no way of knowing. Gibbons is not even listed on the birth certificate. It’s only the deep dive my contact did an hour ago that gave us this information.”

My phone buzzes once. It’s her. FBI Special Agent Norah Vexley—my last link to the system that just tried to bury me. We went through Quantico together. She’s the only one who didn’t turn her back on me when the Bureau cut me out .

I pick up. She doesn’t waste time. “You were right.”

My pulse spikes. “Talk to me.”

“That burner call? The one Zack made?”

I hear the furious tapping of keys on her end, the rustle of a file being opened. Norah’s still going like a caffeine-fueled freight train. When she flips the switch to work mode, she treats time like it owes her rent—and God help anyone who tries to slow her down.

“We traced the signal. Cell tower triangulation pegs it to a private estate about thirty minutes outside the city. It’s rural, gated, and buried deep off a state road with zero public access.”

“Go on.”

“Estate’s registered under a trust,” Norah continues. “Front company tied to a religious nonprofit— Heaven’s Reach Ministries .”

I turn to the others—and nod once. Finally, our first solid break. “It’s him.”

Scar swears under his breath.

“Guess who signs the tax forms,” she adds. “ Vernon Gibbons. ”

Bingo. The Pastor.

The man who just gave the order to kill his own son. The man who we believe is now running the Aviary.

“We’ve pulled heat mapping from satellite,” Norah says. “There’s a main house—9,000 square feet. Secondary structure in the northeast quadrant. Possible holding cells. Low-profile thermal signatures—probably underground. That’s where she’ll be.”

Lucky leans over the map spread out before us, tracking the layout with his finger. “What kind of security?”

Norah exhales. “Armed detail. Ex-military. Twenty confirmed. Likely more unregistered. Motion sensors along the perimeter. Surveillance towers at all four corners. This isn’t some cult compound. This is a fortress. ”

Kanyan grunts. “We’ve taken worse.”

Scar straightens. “We take it fast. No time for slow bleed.”

Norah cuts in. “One more thing. The number you called from that burner? It’s only pinged off one other location in the last 72 hours.”

I go still. “Where?”

“Inside the secondary structure,” she says. “Same estate. That phone was there.”

I meet Scar’s eyes. “Maxine. She’s not going to stay in one place for long,” I say. “Not now they know we’re involved and we’re coming for her.”

Mason’s jaw tightens. “That’s our only lead. We need to move quickly.”

I hang up and spread the intel printouts on the table.

“Here’s how we play it.”