Page 103 of The Vagabond

“Wrong again,” Mason growls. “This is the color of vengeance.”

He presses the sole of his boot to Zack’s face, grinding down slowly.

“Last chance,” he spits. “Where. Is. She?”

Zack’s chest hitches. And for the first time since we found him?Fear looks good on him.

“It’s too late. She’ll be gone before you get to her,” he rasps.

I move in fast, crouch beside him, and grab a fistful of his hair, yanking his head up.

Scar and Kanyan disembark from their car and close the distance between us.

“Saxon.” Scar’s voice cuts through the haze, low and even, sharp as a blade. A warning. I must look murderous. Hell, I feel murderous. Like my blood’s been replaced with fire and my bones are itching to crack. “Remember who you are,” he says.

But that’s the problem. I don’t know who the fuck I am anymore. I used to be the Fed. The one who followed the rules—well, bent them maybe, twisted them to hell and back—butnever broke them. I used to believe there was a line. A purpose. That justice, no matter how delayed, would eventually win. But that version of me? Dead. Buried somewhere beneath the wreckage of Sienna’s body and Maxine’s trauma echoing in my skull.

They—the Bureau—took everything from me. Stripped me of the one thing that made me useful: my autonomy. My ability to act. To follow through on the investigation that could’ve brought the Aviary to its knees.

We were close. So fucking close. And just like that, they pulled the plug. Yanked the rug. Benched me like a misbehaving rookie and left the monsters to roam free while I sat on my hands and watched it all go up in smoke. Because I’m ‘too close.’

They didn’t just rob me of justice. They stole my vengeance. For Sienna. For Maxine. For every girl they turned into collateral damage.

So no, I don’t know who I am anymore. Not really. Am I the Fed still trying to color inside the lines? Or the man who’s ready to burn down every institution that let these bastards breathe? Because right now? I feel a hell of a lot more like them—Scar, Mason, Lucky, Kanyan—than I do anyone I used to report to.

And maybe that’s the scariest part. That it doesn’t scare me anymore.

Zack trembles.His whole body shakes. But he’s quiet. We’ve transported him back to the SUV, and he sits trembling in his seat, the door open. He has blood on his lip and panic swimming in his eyes. He’s playing tough, but his mouth is twitching, hands shaking, soul literally giving out in front of us.

And then Kanyan moves. No rush. Just quiet purpose.

He steps forward and crouches beside him, a forearmdraped casually over the doorframe like he’s settling in for a fireside chat. But there’s no warmth in him. Just bone-deep silence.

Zack goes even quieter, like prey that just realized it’s not alone in the woods.

Kanyan doesn’t speak. He doesn’t have to. It’s the way he tilts his head, just slightly, like he’s listening to something no one else can hear. The way his eyes don’t blink, but instead bore straight into Zack’s skull like he’s reading every lie before it’s told.

Silence wraps around them like a noose. Zack shifts. Kanyan watches. And something in the air fractures. Zack breaks first.

“I—I don’t know where she is exactly,” he mutters, voice cracking. “I just got paid to watch her. Log her habits. I didn’t know they were gonna take her until they told me to…”

Kanyan doesn’t move. He just lifts one brow, barely.

“Who?” He asks. No further explanation needed.

“You know who. The same people that had her before.”

“And where is she now?”

Zack swallows hard. “Okay. Okay. Warehouse. Near the river. The south docks—block seventeen. That’s where they were taking her.”

I watch it unfold in stunned silence. Not a threat uttered. Not a weapon drawn. Just presence.

I’ve dealt with Kanyan before. Briefly. Enough to know he’s not a man who needs to flex to be dangerous. But this? This is something else. This is a man who terrifies without lifting a finger. The kind of man who could teach the Bureau a thing or two about real power.

Scar and Lucky exchange a glance but don’t speak. Even Mason stays still—watching, absorbing. No one interrupts the storm in still water that is Kanyan De Scarzi.

Zack’s trembling like a leaf in a hurricane now—his bravado shredded, his spine long gone. He’s unraveling in real time, toomany words pouring from his mouth too fast, like he’s desperate to outpace the silence. He gives up names. Routes. Timelines. Things we didn’t even ask for. All to keep that oppressive stillness from swallowing him whole.

---