Page 140 of Jayson
Saxon gives the nod, then flips the switch.
Boom.The explosion is sharp and surgical, not flashy. Just enough to split the silence like a throat opening under a blade. The doors buckle, then crash forward in a cloud of smoke and concrete dust.
We flood the room. Guns drawn. Formation tight. Eyes sweeping every corner.
Smoke coils around us as dust clings to our skin, mixing with sweat and the stench of evil. And then the air clears just enough to reveal Richard Maddox. Standing like a king in the middle of hell.
White dress shirt, sleeves rolled with calculated ease. Suspenders stretched over a belly fat with power and whiskey. Bare feet sunk into a Persian rug—like this is his living room, not a bunker full of sins and secrets.
He holds a crystal tumbler of bourbon, amber liquid swirling in his grip, the ice clinking gently like windchimes in a storm.
He seems surprised to see us, but he doesn’t make a move. But his eyes—they twitch. Just slightly. Enough for me to feel it: that flicker of fear trying to crawl back down his throat.
“You’re trespassing,” he says, smooth as Sunday morning scripture.
So I shoot him.
One clean shot to the shoulder. The round tears through flesh and bone with a muffled crack. The glass tumbles from his hand, shatters across the floor. He drops like a puppet with cut strings, crumpling into a sprawl of limbs and blood.
The bourbon spills. So does the silence.
He gasps, shock overtaking arrogance, blinking up at me like he can’t quite register what’s changed—like the world tipped without his permission.
I step through the broken glass, the crunch underfoot loud in the quiet.
“Just a little taste of what’s to come,” I say, voice low, steady.
“You can’t—” he starts, breathless.
I crouch beside him, shove the barrel of my pistol against his exposed kneecap.
“I can do whatever the fuck I want.”
Then I pull the trigger.
The gunshot echoes like thunder in a tomb.
He howls—raw, animalistic. The kind of scream that tears from deep inside the chest. Bone shatters. Blood splatters. His leg spasms violently, twitching as his nerves betray him.
“Jayson.”
Kanyan’s voice cuts across the room like a blade. I freeze. Not because I want to. But because I owe him.
He steps into view, slow and deliberate. His gaze settles onMaddox without an ounce of pity. No rage, either. Just that terrifying calm that makes men forget how to breathe.
He crouches beside Maddox, mirroring me.
“Alive doesn’t mean unmarked,” he says quietly. “But he has a story to tell.”
Then his eyes shift to mine.
“Get it out of your system. But be smart about this.”
I nod once.
Then I grab Maddox by the collar and drag him across the concrete. His scream bounces off the walls, ragged and wet. One leg flails behind him, useless. The other kicks at nothing. The rug bunches under him. His blood smears the floor like paint.
He’s heavy, but I want him to feel every inch.
