Page 52 of The Vagabond

SAXON

I watch him carefully as Pastor Vernon Gibbons crosses the floor. He moves slow, deliberate—every step measured. His pistol doesn’t waver as he nods toward me, then jerks his chin at the cell door, inviting me in.

“Saxon North,” he drawls, like he’s greeting an old friend instead of a man who’s come to kill him. “I should’ve known you’d be behind this.”

He’s been expecting me.

“Go on. Door’s open. Come in, come in.” His grin is feral now. “Only you,” he adds, sharp as a knife, when Lucky tries to push past. “Or by God, I will put a bullet in her skull.”

I lift my hand, palm out, silently telling Lucky to stay back. Not because I trust this piece of shit—but because I need him to believe he’s in control. Just long enough for me to gut him.

Inside, Maxine’s wearing chains like some medieval sacrifice. One eye swollen shut. Lip split. Her skin’s painted with bruises in varying shades of violence. She looks like she’s been through hell. And he looks like he enjoyed every second of dragging her there.

The rage starts low—deep in my gut—and spreads like wildfire. It fills every vein, every breath, until all I can see is red and him standing over her.

I step inside the cell. The door clicks shut behind me. The world outside fades—gunfire, shouting, the chaos of the war still raging around us—it all dims. All that exists now is him, me, and the reckoning that’s coming.

Maxine’s eyes flick up. They find mine. There’s pain there. But there’s also hope. She’s still fighting. Even though she’s chained and broken, she won’t welcome defeat.

“Well, well,” the Pastor says again, circling Maxine like a vulture. “The Fed returns. I was wondering when you’d crawl out of whatever hole she dragged you into.”

“There’s only one way this ends,” I say, voice like steel.

He smirks, gun still leveled at Maxine’s temple.

“Endings are subjective,” he says. “Like beginnings.”

“Let her go, and maybe you walk out of here with your limbs still attached.”

“You won’t kill me,” he says, tone smug, like he’s still in control.

“That’s right. You think you’re untouchable.”

His eyes narrow, calculating. “You really think you can get away with killing a man like me? I’m protected. You have no idea the power I answer to.”

“I don’t care about your politics.” My fists clench. “I’m here to reclaim what wasn’t yours to take.”

He tilts his head, studying me like a puzzle piece that suddenly makes sense. Then he smiles—that smile—the one predators wear when they’re about to brag.

“She must mean more to you than I thought,” he muses. “Maybe I should’ve had a taste. To see what all the fuss is about.”

Snap. That’s it. The last thread of restraint I have left is gone. I move. Fast. My fist collides with his face with a crack so loud it drowns out the world. Bone gives. Blood sprays. He hits the floor hard but laughs through the red coating his teeth.

“You going to kill me, North?” he coughs. “That’s not very holy of you.”

“There’s nothing holy about me,” I snarl. “Nor you.”

I draw my blade, slow and deliberate, letting him see it— feel what’s coming before it happens. There’s no ceremony to it. My actions come with no trigger warnings; I’m going to make this very personal.

Not just because of what he did to Maxine—though God knows that would be enough.

Not just for every bruise he left on her skin or the chains he wrapped around her body.

But for the way I know he took great pleasure in torturing her into submission.

He doesn’t get to lay a finger on Maxine and think he’s untouchable.

No matter who he is. He’s going to pay. For Maxine, and for the trail of forgotten girls he’s left behind, each one more damaged than the last. This man is a virus.

A predator hiding behind pulpits and polished shoes.

And I’m the cure. The only cure. Every second of pain he inflicted, I’m going to return—with interest. Every scream he silenced, I’ll echo back with the sound of his own.

Someone should’ve stopped him a long time ago. But I’m here now. And I’m not going to stop until Pastor Vernon Gibbons is nothing but a pile of bones and bad memories.

He lunges like a cornered animal, but I’m ready. I catch his wrist mid-swing, twist it until it snaps like dry wood. His scream is jagged and ugly. I slam him against the wall. The impact cracks bone.

Then I sink the blade into his gut. Slow. Deliberate. Cruel. He gasps, mouth opening in a wet O of shock. I’m sure he never expected that. I lean in close, breath brushing his ear.

“You want holy?” I growl. “Then pray.”

I drag the blade sideways—deep, jagged, gutting him like a pig.

His insides tear. Warm blood gushes down both our bodies, pooling on the floor like an offering.

He collapses with a guttural groan, clutching at the gaping wound, choking on the flood that’s pouring out of him.

His screams fill the cell, loud and pathetic.

But I’m not done. I straddle him as he writhes. Every scream is a confession. Every twitch, a sermon.

I stab again—in his thigh, his side, his ribs.

Again. Again. Again. Blood sprays. It paints my face, my chest, the walls.

He starts to gurgle. Drown in it. There’s nothing slow about it.

I want to prolong his pain as much as possible, until I feel the gratification of exorcising him from this world.

“You think you get to die quick after what you’ve done to her?” I whisper, voice too calm. I lean down, breath warm on his ear. He’s trembling now. Not so holy anymore.

“Penance looks good on you, Pastor—drowning face down in your own filth. I want you to bleed for every scream you ignored. For every girl you broke. But most of all, I want you to bleed until hell drags you home. Where you belong.”

He tries to speak—blood bubbling in his throat. I slit it open before he gets the chance. There’s nothing he can possibly say that would be of importance after what he’s done.

The silence that follows is heavy, final. Blood coats the floor like a baptism gone wrong. He dies the way he lived—a fraud choking on the truth.

I turn to Maxine.

She’s watching me. Shaking. Alive.

“Saxon…”

Her voice is barely a whisper—but it undoes me.

I stumble to her chains, hands slick, shaking from adrenaline and rage and the need to touch her. Lucky’s there a second later, breaching tool in hand. The lock snaps and she falls forward—right into my arms .

I hold her like she’s the last real thing in the world.

“I’ve got you,” I breathe, voice cracking.

“I knew you’d come,” she says, even as her head rests against my shoulder, too weak to hold herself up.

I press my forehead to hers. She’s cold. Too light in my arms. But she’s still here.

“You’re safe now,” I whisper. “You’re safe.”

Relief hits like a blade to the ribs—sharp, staggering, addictive. She’s safe. And I swear on every ruined part of me, she’ll never be out of my reach again.