Page 139 of Jayson
Lucky and Saxon move like ghosts through the treetops.
The panicked guard bolts for cover, sprinting across the open clearing. He never sees Saxon drop from the branch like a panther. Mid-run, Saxon lands on him, wraps an arm around his throat, and twists hard. The sickening snap echoes once before the man crumples like meat, mouth open, eyes glassy.
There’s no time to breathe. Scar kicks in the cabin’s back door with a crash loud enough to rattle bones.
We pour in behind him.
Two guards stand there, frozen for a second too long. Guns half-raised. Minds lagging behind their bodies. Which is their biggest mistake.
I lunge first—hit the one on the left like a battering ram. We slam into the wall hard enough to crack drywall. His rifle skitters out of reach.
My blade drives into his thigh, deep and fast, slicing the femoral artery. Blood erupts in hot pulses, soaking his pants, spraying the floor.
He screams—raw, primal—but I shut it down fast. Fist to his throat, crushing the windpipe, then I drive my knife up under his chin. The steel splits flesh, crashes through cartilage, lodges deep in the brain with a brutal crunch.
His eyes go wide. Then dark.
The other guard pulls the trigger in a panic—rounds snapping off like firecrackers. One bullet clips Lucky’s bicep, carvingan angry red groove into his arm. Lucky doesn’t even flinch. He just raises his pistol and shoots the bastard in both kneecaps. The man drops with a howl, legs folding the wrong way beneath him.
He tries to crawl.
Scar steps in with all the grace of a storm. One boot to the face—full force. The guard’s head jerks sideways, jaw crumpling on impact. Teeth scatter across the hardwood like loose change.
Then it’s silence.
We’re in.
The cabin’s interior is dimly lit, flickering with firelight. The smell hits hard—cigars and stale sweat, and the faintest smells of fear and desperation underneath. It’s the scent of men who know they’re running out of time.
Chains are bolted to the wall beside the basement stairwell—thick, iron, stained. A monitor hums on the table, split into four grainy feeds from outside. A red button glows on the wall near the entry—EMERGENCY LOCKDOWN, printed in black.
I slam my fist into it.
The whole place reacts. Metal shutters slam over the windows with mechanical clunks. Doors lock in place with a hiss of hydraulics. No one’s getting out now.
“Maddox is still here,” I growl, scanning the room.
Scar’s already moving toward the hallway, eyes sharp. “Find him.”
Seconds later, Kanyan strides through the rear door. Blood’s smeared up his arm, drying across the crowbar still clutched in his fist. His face is stone. Cold. Absolute.
“Basement,” he says, voice flat. “He’ll be down there.”
And if he’s smart, he’s praying. Because what’s coming for him will show him no mercy.
I take the lead.
The basement door groans open, and the first thing to hit me is the air—thick, damp, and wrong. It’s the kind of feeling that seeps into your lungs and stays there, clinging to your skin long after you leave.
Each step down creaks under our feet, a slow descent into hell. The concrete walls sweat with condensation. The dim light overhead flickers like it’s afraid of what we’ll find.
We reach the bottom.
Steel-reinforced doors loom ahead—four inches thick, bolted from the inside, slick with the kind of paranoia that only guilty men build around themselves. It’s the final barrier. The last wall between us and Richard Maddox.
Mason steps forward, calm as ever, planting the explosives along the frame. The charges are precise—enough to blow the hinges off, not the whole goddamn basement. He works fast, his gloved fingers steady.
We back away, falling into formation.
