Page 80 of Jayson
Then he vanishes.
I stop. Listen. The night answers with wind and a few brave crickets. Nothing else. He melted into the dark like water into soil.
I lift the gun, think about firing a warning shot. The blast would wake Nina. It would wake Keira. I’m not ready for either of them to see me like this—shirt damp, hands shaking, eyes hunting.
I lower the weapon.
Back on the lawn, I breathe in the cold until my lungs sting. Failure tastes like rust. I head inside, shower off the sweat and dirt, wipe the gun clean, dress again. No shoes this time—quieter that way.
Someone was on my land tonight.
Not an animal. Not a shadow playing tricks. Someone with hands. With breath. With intent.
If I hadn’t been standing on that balcony—just watching the trees sway like they always do—what would I have found comemorning? A cut fence? A shattered window? A body cooling on my floor? Or worse?
I don’t plan on learning the answer. Someone tested my line tonight. Someone crept close enough to taste what I protect. Close enough to make a decision. And they walked away.
But next time? Next time they won’t make it that far. Next time they’ll find out what happens when you cross the wrong man’s threshold. When you touch what he’s claimed. When you forget that monsters don’t knock.
Next time—I won’t be on the balcony. I’ll be waiting in the dark. And I won’t be alone.
I pullout my phone and hit the one number that can turn this place into a fortress instead of a tomb.
Saxon picks up on the second ring. Guess I really am on his speed-dial.
Once upon a time he was Special Agent Saxon North—FBI golden boy, top of the Violent Crimes Unit—until he crossed the wrong people while chasing a human-trafficking ring namedThe Aviary.Saxon cut through all the governmental red tape and went off-script before he was pushed out of the unit.
Most men would’ve unraveled. Saxon built an empire.
North Security Services started in a rented storage unit with a folding table and a single Glock. Five years later he operates out of a glass fortress downtown, pulling seven-figure contracts to guard CEOs, cartel defectors, and half the politicians who once blackballed him. Lady Luck must like rebels, because every gamble he’s taken has paid off. He’s richer now than the Bureau’s director will ever dream of being—and twice as untouchable.
His hiring rule is simple: no amateurs.
Everyone on his payroll is ex-special ops, former federal, orthe kind of ghost who can wipe a hard drive—and a face—before breakfast. Together they’ve become the city’s quietest nightmare: a private army in tailored suits, answering only to Saxon’s gravel-voiced orders and his iron-clad code.
Tonight, that army belongs to me.
“You must really be in trouble to be calling me,” Saxon says, his voice like rich syrup as it carries down the line.
“I need you at the estate. Now.”
“What’s the damage?”
“None yet. But someone slipped through a mile of traps like they had a map.”
A pause—quiet breathing, gears turning. “All right. I’m rolling with a six-man strike team and a truck full of toys. Two hours.”
“Make it one,” I growl.
“Try not to get shot before we get there,” he says, before he hangs up without a goodbye.
An hour later, a matte-black Suburban growls up the drive, followed by a cargo van with no plates. Saxon steps out first—broad, scar over one eyebrow, eyes that miss nothing. He shakes my hand once, hard.
“I want every blind spot gone,” I say.
“You got it.” He nods to his crew—six shadows in tactical gear. “First sweep in five minutes. Then we build you a wall no ghost can walk through.”
We hit the perimeter. Saxon’s tech guy, Finch, plants new motion beacons the size of bottle caps every ten yards. They talk in short bursts:
