Page 93 of The Vagabond

Maxine’s name echoes in my head like thunder. Over and over. Until everything else goes black.

There’s a dull,bludgeoning weight at the back of my skull. Hot. Pulsing. Like someone’s taken a sledgehammer to the base of my brain and left it humming.

I blink several times as my eyes adjust to the darkness. The ceiling above me is unfamiliar. The air smells like jasmine, but something’s wrong—something’s missing.

I try to move, but my head spins, stomach lurching as my hand grazes something wet. I pull it back. Blood. Not gushing, but enough to coat my palm, tacky and dark.

The floor beneath me is cold. Hard. Wood. Unforgiving.

I force myself upright, bracing with one hand, the other still gripping the back of my skull. Everything aches. Muscles I forgot I had scream in protest. But I don’t care. Because the moment my vision clears, I realize where I am.

Maxine’s apartment. And she’s not here. The moment Irealize she’s gone, panic detonates in my chest. Something inside me seizes — tight, brutal, like my own ribs turning inward.

I stumble to my feet, eyes scanning every corner. Her throw blanket is draped over the couch. Her empty mug sits on the coffee table. The phone charger dangles like a noose beside the wall. But there’s no Maxine, and there’s no trace of her presence.

“Max,” I call out, hoarse. “Maxine!”

Nothing. Just the groan of a city that doesn’t care that I’m living out my own worst nightmare.

My heart’s in my throat now, hammering like a warning bell. My breathing goes shallow as I stagger to the kitchen sink and splash water on my face, gripping the edge of the counter to stay upright.

I grab my phone and call the only person who won’t turn me away. The only man who has the same vested interest in Maxine’s welfare as I do.

Scar Gatti.

He answers on the third ring, voice sharp. “North?”

“She’s gone.”

“What?”

“She’s gone,Scar. Maxine. Someone took her.” I close my eyes, bile rising. “She was gone when I got here. Someone hit me from behind and…”

“Jesus Christ. Who?”

“I don’t know.

“Lucky’s with me. We’re on our way.”

I hang up.

My hands are shaking. Fury makes its way up my throat until I feel nothing but a bone-deep, blood-boiling, soul-ripping ferocity.

I storm toward her desk and yank her laptop open. I punch in her code from memory. The camera feed is stored locally andright now, it’s my only hope of knowing who’s taken Maxine. I scrub through the feed, dragging the timeline back to just over an hour before I got here.

The grainy black-and-white footage flickers across the screen. The angle is fixed, giving me a bird’s eye view of the living room and stretching past the front door.

I rewind. Play. Pause. Rewind again. My eyes don’t blink. My jaw doesn’t move. I watch. I watch because it’s the only thing I can do.

The front door swings open and Maxine is there.

She’s fumbling with her keys as she takes a step through the front door, balancing a tote bag on her shoulder. She’s tired—I can tell from the slump in her shoulders—but she’s alert. Cautious. She always checks over her shoulder before opening the door. She does it now.

Smart girl.

But it doesn’t matter. Because I see the figure shadowing her.

The man slips into the frame like a goddamn ghost. Without warning. Just a shadow sliding across the edge of the camera like he belongs there. This was a carefully planned extraction.

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