Page 70 of The Vagabond

“I bled for this op,” I growl. “I burned every relationship I had. I went dark for months. And now you want to crucify me because I refused to hand over the one person who’ssurvivedthe hell you all ignored for years?”

Carson’s quiet. Studying me. And then?—

“Then prove it,” he says. “Prove she’s not in your head. Prove she’s just another name.”

I lean in. And smile like a wolf.

“I saidno.” The growl is low, animal, a warning in every syllable. “I said she’s off-limits. You do not want to mess with the Gattis and Mason Ironside.”

The room doesn’t push back. But I see it in their eyes—thequiet calculations, the silent cost-benefit analyses. Like they’re trying to decide whether she’s worth the fallout. I don’t tell them that nothing is worth falling out with the likes of the Gatti Empire.

And with that, I turn and walk out before I rip someone’s throat out. Because they’re right. She’s in my head. She’s in everything. But that doesn’t make me weak. It makes me willing to kill for the right reasons. And if they push me again? They’ll see exactly what that looks like.

In the hallway, the world feels wrong. Tilted. Dizzy. My fists go into my pockets so I don’t punch the wall.

Maxine. She’s the ache under my ribs. The ghost in my bed. The only thing that’s ever felt like home. And now the Bureau wants to feed her to the wolves again, because they think she’s their only in to the Aviary.

No. Hell no. If they send her in, she’ll get hurt. And there’s no way I’m letting that happen. So they can talk all they want. Plot, plan, push. But if they think they’re using Maxine Andrade? They’ll have to go through me. And my very short leash just snapped.

I don’t rememberthe drive.

One second I'm in that suffocating meeting room, a photo of Maxine burning a hole in my hand, and the next—I’m outside her apartment building, headlights off, fists clenched tight on the wheel.

The file’s still on the passenger seat. Open. Her photo catching the last of the streetlight. She’s smiling in it. One of those rare, accidental moments when she thought no one was looking. Except someone always was.

I stare at her front door like it might vanish if I blink. Mywhole body’s wired, tight, burning under my skin. My fury is fearless.

They crossed a line today. And now I'm here because she deserves to know the rules of the game they’ve shoved her into.

I push the car door open and move. Rage has a rhythm and mine is pounding in my ears.

Up the steps. Two at a time. I don’t knock like a man. I knock like a warning. Bang. Bang. Bang.

“Maxine.”

Nothing. I knock again, louder.

“Max. Open the door.”

There’s a shuffle inside. A pause. Light spills through the crack under the door like she’s trying to decide whether to answer or disappear. It opens a sliver. Her face peeks through—tired, wary. Beautiful in a way that wrecks me.

“Saxon?” Her voice is small, confused. Soft. Then her eyes land on mine. “What’s happened?”

I push the door the rest of the way open, stepping inside without waiting. I’m already past apologies. Past patience.

She doesn’t stop me. Just closes the door slowly behind me, eyes tracking me like she’s trying to figure out which version of me she just let in.

Her place is quiet. Neat. Like she’s been busy trying to scrub the world off her skin.

I drop the file on her kitchen counter. Photos spill out. Surveillance shots. Her building. Her coming and going. The details of her life reduced to timestamps and grainy images—taken without her knowing.

She stares at them. Her hand trembles when she picks one up.

“What... what is this?”

I stay silent. Let the weight of it settle over her.

“I don’t understand—why do you have these?”

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