Page 60 of The Maverick

“You didn’t. He did that himself.”

He cut the first cuff, catching her wrist gently as it dropped. “You hurt?”

“Just bruises. Some rope burns. Nothing serious—nothing you can’t kiss and make all better.”

He didn’t answer. Just kept working fast but careful. Every second she was chained was a second too long. Every tremble in her voice punched through his ribcage like a blade.

He caught her under the arms as the last cuff dropped, lowering her slowly to the ground. She staggered, and he caught her.

“I’ve got you,” he said into her hair. “I’ve always got you.”

Vanessa gripped his shirt like it was the only thing tethering her to the world. “He said he’d make me understand. That once I saw, I’d stop fighting.”

“You don’t stop fighting for anything. Especially not for him.”

She gave a tiny laugh that almost wasn’t. “That’s what I told him.”

Hawke backed her toward the door. “We need to move. Now. I don’t want him doubling back.”

She hesitated, eyes scanning the room once more. “He said this was going to be our final scene. That I’d finally stop rewriting him.”

He looked down at her, voice like steel. “He doesn’t get to write the ending.”

He slipped one arm under her knees, the other around her back. She didn’t argue—didn’t pretend she wasn’t rattled. Just pressed her forehead into his chest and held on.

Outside, the wind picked up. Thunder cracked low in the distance.

And Hawke carried her through it like a man who wasn’t just leaving a battlefield—he was taking back what belonged to him.

They were halfway to the gate when Jesse’s voice crackled over comms. “Hawke, visual confirmation. We’ve got movement in the alley, west side. Could be him.”

Hawke didn’t break stride. “Secure Vanessa. I’ll take care of Miles.”

“No argument from us.”

He paused at the tactical van, eased her down into Reed’s arms, and stepped back just far enough to meet her eyes.

“I’m not done,” he said.

Vanessa didn’t ask him to be careful. She just whispered, “Finish it.”

And Hawke turned toward the alley with a purpose that didn’t waver. The little bastard thought this was his story—he was wrong. Hawke was about to write the final chapter.

The alley was pitch black—narrow walls pressing in, dumpsters slick with grime, the reek of old oil and rot thick in the air. Hawke moved like a wraith, every muscle primed, every breath measured.

Miles was here. He could feel it.

He passed a broken light fixture, saw the faint glint of movement ahead—just enough to confirm what his gut had already told him.

The bastard hadn’t run. He was waiting.

Hawke rounded the corner fast, crouched low, and caught a blur of motion as Miles lunged from behind a service panel, a metal pipe swinging for Hawke’s head. He missed. The pipe slammed into the wall with a deafening clang, sparks flying.

Hawke struck back immediately, a vicious jab to the gut, followed by a right hook that cracked against Miles’s jaw. The man stumbled but didn’t fall.

“You came alone,” Miles hissed, blood trickling from his mouth.

Hawke nodded. “No witnesses. I came to end this… and you,” Hawke said.

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