Page 84 of The Vagabond

She hesitates for half a breath—like she might stay, say something endearing—but she only nods, presses one last kiss to my lips, and walks out the door.

I don’t breathe until the door clicks shut behind her. I wait. I count every second like a prayer. Like penance. Because keeping her safe isn’t a mission anymore. It’s all I have left to offer her. And maybe—just maybe—it’ll be enough.

34

SAXON

Iknow something’s off the second I step into the office.

The silence is too practiced, too polite. Everyone suddenly forgets how to look me in the eye.

I find Dorsey in his usual spot—corner office, blinds half-closed, a coffee that’s probably on its third reheat. He doesn’t look up when I walk in.

As Special Agent in Charge, he runs the field office with an iron fist and a steel spine, the kind of man who doesn’t blink at death threats or department scandals. But he keeps his agents on a short leash—and mine’s always been the tightest. Probably because I’m the one most likely to chew through it.

“You wanted to see me.”

“Close the door, North.”

Fuck.

I sit, and it feels like a funeral. He doesn’t acknowledge me right away. Instead, he sits behind his desk, pretending to focus on whatever’s glowing on his monitor. Fingers tapping the keys in a slow, deliberate rhythm—like he wants me to feel every second tick by. Letting the silence stretch. An obvious power play.

I don’t move or speak. Nor do I give him the satisfaction of looking uncomfortable. But inside? There’s a familiar pull low in my gut. That heavy, circling dread you get right before the knife lands. And when he finally looks up, slow and measured, his eyes meet mine—and that’s when I know.

I don’t need him to say it. Because his face tells me everything I already feared. This isn’t a conversation. It’s an execution.

My pulse doesn’t spike. My breath doesn’t catch. I’ve been trained too well for that. Still, something punches low in my gut.

“Saxon,” Dorsey says carefully, like he’s choosing every word with tweezers. “We’re running out of time. Kadri’s empire is cracking, and if we don’t move fast, we lose the whole window.”

He pauses—lets it hang like that somehow makes it sound like a strategy instead of a betrayal.

“This isn’t personal,” he adds, which is exactly what people say right before they make thingsverypersonal.

“What are you saying?”

“I’ve been told,” Dorsey says, tone flat, “that you’re resisting the advice to use the Andrade girl as our access point into the Aviary.”

He doesn’t even flinch when he says it—the Andrade girl—like she’s just another asset. Not a survivor. Not a human being. Just a means to an end. Like she’s not the reason I still show up to this hellhole every day instead of burning it down. I’m not okay with feeding her back to the wolves.

“She isnotan option,” I snarl. “She is not a fucking bargaining chip.”

“She was part of his inner circle?—”

“She was a hostage!” I thunder. “She was raped. Drugged. Passed around like property. And now you want her to relive it for your damn task force?!”

“She survived. She knows things. She’s seen faces. She can give us vital intel.”

“That’s not the song you were singing when you pulled me out of Albania more than a year ago!” I remind him.

“You know why I did that.”

“She survived and she got out -without our help,” I remind him.“And now you’re pissing on that!”

There’s another silence.

“You’re too close to this, Saxon.”

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