Page 136 of Jayson
My hit on Bishop was off the books. Sanctioned only by necessity. Quiet. Brutal. Precise. The kind of job that doesn’t get written down.
And it sure as hell isn’t something that ex-FBI agent Saxon North needs to hear about.
He thinks in courtrooms and clean lines. Evidence chains. Probable cause. But where we come from? Justice isn’t handed down in a courtroom. It’s carved into flesh. Paid in blood.
So I say nothing. Just lean back in my chair, jaw tight, heart thudding slow and cold. I let Saxon keep spinning his theories. Let him pace and rant about timelines and corruption and memory gaps.
I keep my silence. Let Kanyan’s gaze slide past me before his eyes settle on North. Because some truths don’t need to be spoken. Some justice doesn’t need witnesses. And some sins? They’re better off staying buried and never seeing the light of day.
Just like the man who tried to hurt her.
The air feels tighter. Heavier. Like there’s something pressing down on my lungs and refusing to let up.
“Keira was the match,” Saxon says. “She lit the fuse. She doesn’t even know it, but whatever’s locked inside her—whatever memory Maddox is afraid of—it’s enough to blow this whole goddamn thing wide open.”
Kanyan steps closer, folding his arms.
“And now she’s a liability,” he says.
I feel it like a punch to the ribs. Cold. Unforgiving.
“This has to end tonight,” I grit out.
Saxon studies me. Then nods once, slowly.
“But make no mistake, Jayson—Maddox won’t hesitate. If she remembers too much? He’ll put a bullet in her skull before anyone can blink.”
And just like that, I know. There’s no prison Maddox deserves. No courtroom that could hold the weight of what he’s done. Only a grave. And I’m going to dig it with my bare hands.
The sky’salready an inky black by the time we assemble in the estate’s private garage. There are no words spoken. No niceties. Just the scent of chaos and mayhem and vengeance in the air as we suit up.
Kanyan stands beside the table, sleeves rolled, jaw clenched. He’s already dressed—black fatigues, utility belt locked tight, twin knives sheathed at his hips. He’s not a man of many words, especially when he’s about to go hunting. He just watches each of us gear up, as if memorizing our outlines in case one of us doesn’t make it back.
Lucky’s cracking his knuckles by the SUV, guns already checked and loaded. He’s humming something tuneless, low and vicious—his version of a battle cry.
Mason’s strapping on a Kevlar vest like it’s his second skin. He moves with surgical focus—no emotion, just the rhythm of a man who’s done this too many times to count. His eyes meet mine once, and we nod. Nothing else is needed.
Saxon, for once, isn’t wearing a suit. He’s dressed down in black tactical gear, sidearm strapped tight to his thigh. He tosses a duffel bag full of ammunition into the trunk of the lead car, jaw ticking.
“I don’t want any mistakes tonight,” Kanyan says, his voice gravelly. “We go in fast, we come out faster. No survivors but the target. I want Maddox breathing—because we still have questions.”
The cars line up like predators in a row—four of them, blacked-out and hungry. I slide behind the wheel of Kanyan’s Mustang, engine purring low. The others pile into the remaining vehicles: Mason driving the armored Denali with Saxon riding shotgun. Lucky leads the third car, a reinforced Gatti-issued Charger, with Scar and two more men in the backseat. The fourth vehicle is Kanyan’s personal SUV—loaded with medicalsupplies, extra rounds, and all the ammunition we need for an op of this scale.
We peel out in formation, a convoy stitched into the darkened shadows.
I guide the Mustang through the winding roads, trees tightening around us like fists. Three miles from the lodge where Maddox is staying, I kill the headlights. Everything goes dark. There’s just the pulse of the engine and the sound of rubber kissing gravel. The others follow suit—darkened silhouettes gliding through the forest like wraiths.
The pines crowd in tighter. Their limbs scrape across the Mustang’s paint with nails like bone. I lower the window slightly, let the cold air slap me awake—the smell of sap and pine needles pervade the air.
At the trailhead, I kill the engine and pop the door soundlessly. I swap my boots for soft-soled tactical shoes and melt into the trees. We move silently—following only our instincts.
Kanyan appears beside me without a sound, twin blades already in hand. Behind us, Lucky checks his rifle one last time, eyes narrowed to slits. Saxon slides a suppressor into place. Mason shoulders a shotgun, his breath fogging like a warning.
We’re ghosts in the dark, out in the middle of nowhere.
I crouch, scanning the treeline. The lodge is somewhere beyond the next ridge—Maddox’s playground, his safehouse. But it won’t be safe for long.
I glance back once, taking in my brothers in blood. Then I move forward, into the dark. Tonight, I plan to break a man’s entire empire. And I intend to start with his fucking spine.
