Page 51 of The Vagabond

SAXON

W e gear up in silence. There’s no fear, but there’s clear focus knowing what’s at stake.

Every man here knows the cost. Every man has paid it in blood before. But tonight? Tonight it’s personal in a way few things ever are.

We don our tactical black and secure the Kevlar plates. Every man carries a silencer and smoke grenades with extra ammunition. We have to be prepared for anything.

Scar moves with the efficiency of someone who’s already waged the war in his mind and just needs his hands to catch up. He double-checks the ammo cases, eyes scanning each row to make sure he’s missed nothing.

Lucky moves in quiet loops across the room, checking gear, comms, emergency medicals. He doesn’t speak. His savagery hums just beneath the surface, electric and waiting.

Kanyan tightens the straps on his vest, jaw locked, his massive hands surprisingly gentle as he checks the modified breaching charge tucked against his hip.

Mason finishes loading rounds into a mag, each click echoing like a death toll .

I pull on my vest. My hands are steady. But my blood? My blood is a fucking inferno. It pumps like war drums behind my ribs, loud and fast and unforgiving. It’s not adrenaline; it’s wrath and it’s purpose and it’s loud.

The moment I realized she was gone, something inside me cracked wide open. The fact that someone—some arrogant, dead-man-walking bastard—thought it was okay to lay a hand on her makes the blood thunder in my ears like war drums.

She’s no one’s to touch. No one’s but mine.

And these men see her as a sister. A daughter. A broken girl who came back and needs protecting. But that’s not all she is to me.

She’s not fragile. She’s fire with a pulse.

And if they think they can dim that light again—bury her back in the shadows she clawed her way out of—they’ve got no idea what kind of storm they just unleashed.

Because she won’t be a victim again. Not while I’m breathing, and definitely not while I have the support of these men by my side.

She lit a fire under every man in this room.

Lit it in different ways—hatred, guilt, love, vengeance.

That fire is what turned killers into soldiers.

What turned monsters into men willing to burn an organization to the ground.

Scar crosses the room and stops in front of me. His gaze is sharp. Not searching—measuring. Then he claps a hand on my shoulder. Firm but gentle.

“You ready?” he asks.

The question isn’t casual. It’s permission, trust.

I nod once. “Yeah.”

Mason’s the one who cuts the silence next, low and grim. He’s still cleaning the chamber of his rifle when he asks, “You think she’s still alive?”

I don’t hesitate. Not for a second. Because hesitation isn’t an option .

“I know she is.”

And if I’m wrong? If she’s not? Then may God have mercy on this world. Because I fucking won’t.

The silence before violence isn’t peaceful. It’s surgical.

We stand in the trees just outside the estate—two dozen shadows strung tight across the dark, every breath measured, every movement loaded. Thirty minutes out from impact, and I can feel my pulse syncing to the inevitability of it.

The Pastor’s fortress looms ahead. Massive. Secluded. Untouched by justice. But not for long. Because this isn’t just a raid. This is an annihilation. And for me—for men like us—this isn’t a mission. This is the goddamn end of the world. A final reckoning, dressed in Kevlar and silence.

Maxine’s in there. Chained and alone. And I’ll carve my way through every last wall to bring her out breathing.

Brando stalks up behind me, his boots crunching softly over dead leaves. He doesn’t speak right away. Just stands there, watching the house with that look that says he’s already buried the men inside it in his mind.

When he speaks, his words are quiet, measured. But every word is sharp enough to cut through the night air.

“You know what she means to Mia, right?”

I nod once. He steps in closer, shoulder to shoulder now.

“You know what she means to me?”

I glance at him. His jaw is locked, a vein pulsing in his temple like a fuse.

“She’s not blood,” he continues. “But she is family. And family doesn’t get left behind. Not ever. Not as long as we still have fight in us.”

He turns to face me fully now, gaze heavy, words slow .

“And if I didn’t think you were all in—if I thought for one second you were chasing her out of guilt or redemption or whatever the hell you’ve got burning in that chest of yours—I wouldn’t have let you anywhere near this.”

I stay silent. Not because I don’t have anything to say. But because he’s earned the floor.

“I don’t know what your intentions are with Maxine,” he says. “I don’t care right now. Because the only thing that matters is getting her out of there alive.”

His jaw tightens.

“But you’re here. Putting your life on the line. Tossing your badge into the fire. Throwing your whole career into the fucking abyss. For her .”

He steps back, nodding once.

“So whether I understand you or not? I trust that. That tells me everything I need to know.”

He turns to walk away, but I stop him with a hand on his arm. He looks back.

“I’m not just here to bring her out,” I say, voice low and dangerous. “I’m here to make sure they never touch another girl again. And if I die doing it? So be it.”

Brando studies me for a long beat. Then, finally, he gives the smallest shake of his head.

“Somehow, I don’t think Maxine would be too pleased if you die. So try not to get yourself fucking killed.”

We approach the western perimeter of the compound, low and silent, shadows moving through thick brush and tangled undergrowth. Every leaf crushed beneath our boots feels like a countdown. Every breath is measured. Lethal.

The motion sensors blink out as the power grid dies—cut clean by Norah’s signal interference. The world plunges into darkness, but for us, it's clarity.

Scar’s voice crackles in my ear, low and controlled. A predator before the pounce.

“Team Bravo breaching. Diversion in three… two… one?—”

The night explodes. A wall of fire engulfs the north quadrant, blooming like hell itself cracked open. The blast is violent—sharp enough to rattle the bones in my chest, taste the metal on my tongue. Then comes the gunfire. Then the screams of panic as we descend upon the enemy.

By the time we reach the rear entrance, three guards are already down, their bodies twitching in the dirt. Scar kicks the door in with a grunt, steel screaming as it tears from the hinges. Smoke curls in from the chaos, thick and dark, coiling like a serpent eager to devour.

I move swiftly through the house. Room by room. I clear the space like a weapon finally off its leash. The Pastor’s men rush us, shouting orders, firing wildly. Their bodies drop in pieces, their blood painting the walls.

We descend to the lower level—underground. The air shifts. It’s colder here. Denser. Damp seeps up the walls, curling around my boots, dragging with it the stench of blood, sweat, and fear.

She’s here. I can feel it.

Lucky steps forward, planting the charge against a reinforced door, then mutters, calm and cold, “Three seconds.”

I grip my Glock tighter, knuckles white. My heart pounds—slams in my chest—like it’s trying to punch its way through my ribs, like it’s ahead of me, already in the room beyond that door.

Three seconds until hell opens again. And this time, I’m the one doing the burning.

Three. The hallway trembles . Two. I steady my breath . One. Boom .

The door doesn’t just open—it disintegrates. Shards of steel and fire peel back like ribs cracked open. Smoke pours out, thick and choking. The world tilts. And then they come.

Guards. Four. No—five. Armed. Screaming. They surge from the darkness like a second wave of hell.

I don’t think. I shoot aimlessly at the bastards who thought it was okay to touch what’s mine.

Another man rounds the corner, gun raised—too slow. I put a round through his eye before he finishes his breath. He drops mid-step, brain matter painting the wall behind him in a grotesque halo.

The second man lunges—bigger than the first, built like a battering ram and twice as stupid. Fast, sure. But desperation makes a man sloppy. I duck beneath the wild swing of his fist, the air hissing past my ear as I twist in, close, personal. Too close for comfort. Perfect range for pain.

My elbow crashes into his ribs with a sickening crack, the impact jarring through bone.

He stumbles—off-balance, wheezing—and that’s all the opening I need.

I grab a fistful of his shirt, slam him back against the wall hard enough to rattle the frame.

He grunts. His hand scrambles for his weapon, but mine’s already moving.

I draw the blade from my belt and carve it across his throat. Deep. Clean. No hesitation.

The skin splits open like overripe fruit. Hot blood explodes from the wound, drenching my hand in a rush so sudden and violent it feels like standing beneath a burst pipe.

His eyes go wide—shock, terror, the slow, dawning horror of realizing he’s already dead.

He tries to speak. A wet, gurgling sound bubbles in his throat, but nothing comes out except more blood. It drools from his lips, down his chin, painting his chest in streaks of red.

He clutches his neck like he can hold the life in, like he can rewind the moment. But it’s too late. He slides down the wall, legs folding beneath him, twitching like a dying insect.

Concrete soaks up the spill of his final breath, and I don’t look away. I watch him die. I make it count. Because every drop he loses is a message: You don’t touch what’s mine. You don’t fucking breathe near her.

There’s a sudden scream behind me—Lucky’s taking the third man.

Scar’s already firing on the fourth. Mason moves past us like a phantom, breaching the hallway ahead.

But I don’t move yet. Because the fifth man is still standing.

And I want him to watch me wipe the blood off my blade with the shirt of his friend before I drive it through his heart.

The hallway is chaos—bodies on the ground, blood pooling at my boots, the sharp scent of gunpowder and copper slicing through the smoke.

I push forward, deeper into the corridor, heart still thrashing like a war drum in my chest. My hand is slick with someone else’s blood. My throat tastes like dry ash.

And then—I see her. At the end of the hall, through the clearing smoke and the hell we just unleashed, I see her.

Maxine.

She’s crumpled in the far corner of a cell, chains still wrapped around her ankles, wrists red and raw. Her head is bowed, hair tangled and damp with sweat. Her body trembles - enough that I know she’s still breathing. And that’s all it takes to bring me to my knees.

I don’t remember moving. One second I’m standing. The next, I’m at the bars, grabbing them like I could rip them from the wall with my bare hands. My voice tears from my throat, raw and frantic.

“ Maxine! ”

Her head lifts—slow, like it weighs too much—and her eyes find mine. Before they turn to the corner of the cell, where the Pastor stands with a gun pointed at her.