Page 87 of The Vagabond

“I need help.”

That earns me a flicker of interest. He leans back, fingers steepled beneath his chin. “My help? It’s interesting that you’d come to me.”

“This is personal.”

“A personal problem,” he hums, nodding slowly. Like this is his specialty. “You came to me instead of Lucky. Why?”

“Because if I’m reading the situation right, you’re the only one who can help me with this, and you won’t let sentimentality stand in the way,” I say.

Scar lets the silence hang like a blade. He doesn’t tell me to stop talking, so that’s something.

Then: “And what do you need help with?”

“The Bureau’s closing in on the Aviary. I know you have a vested interest in closing down that operation. And we both know that you’ll do a better job of cleaning up that mess than they ever will.”

He leans forward, clasps his hands, all interest. “Go on.”

“They’re circling Maxine Andrade. They want to use her to crack open whatever’s left of the Aviary pipeline.”

“Why would they do that? As far as I know, Maxine isn’t any part of the investigation. She’s given her statement, the man who ‘kept’her is dead. What more do they want?”

“Someone has taken an interest in her. Someone close to the investigation. They think she’s the key.”

He studies me. Long enough to make my jaw twitch. “And this matters to you because…?”

I don’t blink. “Because I’ve seen what this job does to people on the wrong side of a case file. And I’m not letting her end up there.”

Scar tilts his head, slowly. “That’s a hell of a confession from a Federal agent.”

“I’m not here as a Fed.”

“No?” His voice is cool steel. “Then what are you?”

“I'm the man who’s going to bury every son of a bitch who comes for her.”

Scar taps the desk once. Sharp. Final. “That sounds a lot like obsession, Agent North.” He leans forward, eyes narrowing. “You sure you’re not the danger she needs protection from?”

I don’t flinch. “I’d die before I let anyone hurt her.”

Scar’s mouth twitches—more threat than smile—before he slowly shakes his head and lets out a low whistle. “Can’t decide who’s going to rip you apart first… Brando or Mason.”

35

SCAR GATTI

Everyone ends up here.

Doesn’t matter who they are—cop, killer, priest, politician. Eventually, they all find their way to me. When their lives are bleeding out at the seams, when the lies they’ve built their kingdoms on start to crumble, they come crawling to my door. Because they know I’ll fix it.

I always do.

That’s what I am—the solution. Not the Band-Aid. Not the peacekeeper. The fucking scalpel.

I don’t care if you’re my brother or some Fed who wears his credentials like a badge of honor; if you land on my doorstep, it means one thing - you’re out of options.

Just like I was once.

See, people think blood is sacred. That it binds us. That it means something. And maybe it does—for the soft-hearted. For the sheep. But for men like me? Blood is just another liability. And sometimes, it needs to be spilled.

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