Page 108 of The Vagabond

Lucky hauls Zack out of the car by the collar, the motion so violent Zack’s feet barely touch the ground. He stumbles, spits blood, but Lucky’s already got him slammed against the SUV with a crack that makes the whole frame rattle.

“Don’t want you babbling,” Lucky says flatly.

He tears off a strip of duct tape and seals Zack’s mouth shut—slow, deliberate, smoothing it down like he’s finishing a piece of art. Then he drags him to the back of the SUV, pops the trunk, and shoves him in like refuse. Zack lands with a grunt and a crunch that sounds…final. Lucky leans in close. His stare doesn’t threaten, it promises. Then the trunk slams shut, sealing him in his metal coffin.

We move as one after that—quiet, sharp, surgical.

The yard stretches in all directions. Containers like tombs. Some sealed tight. Others cracked open, yawning like the jaws of predators waiting to snap shut.

Scar crouches low beside a fresh set of shoeprints—big ones. And a smaller set that make my chest seize.

“Maxine,” I breathe.

Mason kneels beside them, tracing the marks in the dirt like they’re sacred.

Then—a sound.

Faint. Hollow. Like metal dragging? A breath?

No one speaks. But weapons rise in tandem. Muscles tense. Our focus sharpens.

Lucky signals left. He and Kanyan peel off into the shadows. Mason nods to me and Scar—we flank right. Every step is silent, calculated. My throat’s dry. My gun’s warm in my hand.

I can almost feel her. And I swear to God, if I find her broken… I will not stop until this yard is soaked in my retribution.

We round the final corner and find two guards standingbeside a rusted container with a red stripe. They’re smoking, relaxed, unaware that all hell is about to break loose.

I don’t hesitate. One shot. Straight through the first man’s throat. He drops before his cigarette hits the ground.

Mason lunges for the second, blade flashing, slicing deep before the guard can even reach for his radio. He gurgles once, then slumps to the ground. Blood pools. The night watches.

We reach the door, secured with rusty chains and a padlock. We hear muffling. Closer. A scrape. A whimper.

Maxine.

Mason steps forward, raising his gun with that steady hand I know can end lives without so much as a twitch. The bullet tears through the deadlock and the chains come away, falling to the ground. And when the door flies open—when the first shot cracks the night in half—the quiet dies screaming.

The door ripsopen with a metal scream, and we’re greeted with only darkness and silence. For a breath, for two—we hear nothing. And then— a cough. A sob. A choked scream that dies too fast. My stomach drops.

We move in, guns raised, vision clouded by the dark. But the shapes start to form—and take life-when I take my phone out and turn my flashlight on. There are figures hunched in corners, slumped in piles like discarded meat. Women. So many of them. Dozens. All in various stages of hell.

Some are stripped down to rags. Others are naked, curled into themselves like they’re trying to disappear. Eyes swollen shut. Mouths gagged. One girl stares right through me, vacant and trembling, blood drying on her thighs.

I can’t breathe. Not because I’m not used to this. I am. But that’s the worst part. I’ve seen this before. And it never getseasier. I’m reminded that we came in search of one woman, and instead found dozens more.

Scar’s behind me, and when his eyes adjust enough for him to take in the full horror, he lets out a sound I’ve never heard from him before. Not rage or grief. It’s something broken, something feral.

“Fuck,” he growls, his voice ragged. “Fuck.”

He runs a hand down his face, pacing the edge of the container like the walls are too tight for his fury.

Kanyan steps in behind him, face carved from stone. He doesn’t speak, just scans the container with that deadly stillness of his—cataloguing what’s here. What’s been done. The lack of humanity.

One of the girls tries to crawl toward us, her arms shaking so hard she collapses mid-way. Kanyan’s there in two strides, kneeling beside her, taking off his jacket and wrapping it around her shoulders with a gentleness that looks foreign on a man like him.

Scar turns to us, jaw tight. “Call Tayana. Now.”

Lucky raises a brow. “You sure?”

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