Page 107 of The Vagabond

I’m still strapped down. Still helpless. But I’m good at making people bleed, especially when I’m angry. When I know what’s coming. And I’ll make every last one of them bleed. Even if it’s the last thing I do.

And somewhere deep in the fury, beneath the bile and terror, I whisper the same words in my head over and over:

Hold on. Hold on. They’re coming for you.

43

SAXON

We shove Zack back into the SUV—bloody, bruised, and zip-tied like a gift no one wants. His head lolls for a second, chin slick with spittle and blood, before he catches himself, jaw locking with false bravado. But his eyes—they give him away. They’re wide, wild, frantic behind his mask of defiance. He knows exactly who he’s riding with. And he should be scared.

I slide into the back beside him, careful not to let our bodies touch. I lean into the door, repulsed by his nearness, like his filth might crawl across the seat and stain me. He turns to look at me, and I meet his gaze for just a second—long enough for him to see it.

The promise. He’s not walking away from this. Not even if we find her alive.

The engine growls to life like it’s hungry for blood. Lucky slams us into gear, and the SUV lurches forward into the night.

No one speaks. But the air is thick—swollen with tension, wrapping around our ribs and squeezing. If there’s one thing we have in common, the Gatti outfit and I, it’s that when it comes to our women, we’ll raise hell to protect them. Our women.Mywoman.The thought catches me by surprise., but that’s exactly what Maxine is. She’s my woman, and I won’t stop until I get her back.

We’re barely back on the road when the argument ignites — low, sharp, coiled with danger. There’s too much testosterone packed into this vehicle, too many sharp edges and tempers ready to blow.

I make a quiet note to myself: If I survive this, I’m never cramming into a car with these bastards again.

“Call in backup,” Lucky says, his hands white-knuckled on the steering wheel, his voice a gravel rasp. “We’re flying blind.”

Mason doesn’t even look at him. “No.”

“That’s not a fucking answer.”

“It’s the only one,” Mason snaps. “Too many ears. Too many eyes. We make noise, and she disappears again.”

“She’s already gone,” Lucky reminds him.

Mason’s hand twitches near his gun. “Then we drag her back.”

Their voices drop lower, harder, every word between them a loaded gun. But we don’t interrupt. This is how they bleed off the pressure. Two kings circling the board. Still, we all know the truth: this is it. No backup. No reinforcements. No safety net. Just us. A fistful of devils armed with vengeance and firepower.

Mason, whose fury simmers just beneath the surface, quiet until it detonates. Lucky, colder than ice, deadlier than a loaded confession. Kanyan, brutal and calculated, with that stillness that means he’s already chosen violence. Scar, the calm in the storm—right until he becomes the storm. And me? I don’t know where I fit in this monster parade. But I know what I am tonight.

I’m one of them.

We ride in silence after that—a long, suffocating silence. It drowns out our thoughts and replaces them with pulse. I watch Zack from the corner of my eye. He shifts in his seat, testing hiszip ties, breathing shallow through his nose like he’s trying not to choke on fear. Smart. Because if this is a trap—and it might be—he's the first one who will die.

Maxine needs us. And there’s no cavalry. No plan B. Just violence and a rapidly closing window. The longer she’s gone, our chances of finding her become diminished. She survived The Aviary once. I don't know if she can survive it again. And if she doesn’t—God help them. Because when the sun rises over that shipping yard, it won’t be a new day. It’ll be a crime scene. And the blood won’t be hers. It’ll be theirs.

The yard isdead when we arrive. Dead calm. Complete and utter silence that feels like it’s watching us. Waiting. As if the shadows themselves are holding their breath for what’s about to come.

The SUV crawls forward with its lights off. Tires crunch over gravel, brittle and loud in the stillness. Mason leans forward in the passenger seat, eyes scanning the rows of stacked containers, searching for any sign of movement.

Lucky kills the engine. The silence thickens.

The ocean breathes somewhere nearby, but even that sound feels distant. What I do hear is a low hum—a generator, maybe. A crane creaks overhead, metal groaning under its own weight. Otherwise, nothing. No voices. No footsteps.

“She has to be here,” Mason mutters, barely above a breath.

He doesn’t have to explain. We all want the same thing—and we’re all praying we’re not too late. Then comes the ritual. Lucky taps the butt of his gun—once, twice, three times.Go.

Doors open in sync. We spill out, shadows moving through the night, and the air shifts with us. The weight of what we’re about to do settles heavily on our backs, but we don’t slow down.

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