Page 137 of Jayson
The foothills drink moonlight like old whiskey—slow, mean, and liable to set fire to everything on the way down.
Up there, buried in the trees like a bad secret, sits Maddox’s hunting lodge. A slab of wood and steel tucked between blackfirs and a lake so still it looks like nothing more than a black hole in the ground.
Saxon North’s intel said Maddox bought it under a shell corporation three years ago. Paid cash and had it wired for off-grid power and thermal shielding. The kind of place designed not just to hide—but to erase.
“Guarded. Isolated.”
That was Kanyan’s phrasing.
What he meant was:Perfect place to bury a man where no one will find him unless they know where to dig.
The cold bitesharder the farther in we go. Each breath razors through my lungs, burning sharp with frost and rage. My fingers are stiff around the butt of my gun, but I welcome the ache. It reminds me to stay grounded.
We’ve been moving quietly through the woods for almost an hour. No lights. No voices. Just the crunch of boots through frost-hardened earth, the occasional snap of a branch, and the soundless language of killers who’ve done this so many times before.
Gatti’s men fan out behind me—black shapes cutting through the trees like shadows given form. They move with discipline, silencers ready, eyes hunting.
To my left, Kanyan stalks forward like a man carved from the mountain itself. Focused. Cold. The kind of cold that kills slowly.
Scar’s behind me, keeping pace like a phantom. He doesn’t speak, but you can feel the tension rolling off him in waves. That calm-before-the-kill energy. He’s holding back—but just barely.
The moon is high and bruised behind thin clouds, casting the woods in a haze of silver and shadow. We move in intervals,ducking between the natural cover of rocks and trees. Knees bent. Heads low. Every step calculated.
By the time we reach the outer ridge, we’ve counted at least four sets of fresh boot prints—recent, deep, spread apart.
They’re guarding something.bThey know this place is worth protecting.
We crouch low behind a thicket, and there it is—through the branches: Maddox’s “hunting cabin.” Except it’s not a cabin. It’s a fucking compound. Concrete perimeter. Spotlights sweeping like prison yard eyes. Reinforced doors. Multiple guard towers. One of them has thermal scopes. Fifteen-foot fences ring the structure, topped with coiled wire and motion sensors.
All for one man. One supposed public servant.
Scar mutters under his breath, checking his scope. “What kind of fucking police commissioner needs this kind of muscle?”
Kanyan doesn’t look away from the cabin. His voice is gravel. Final. “The kind who holds a position of power but is too busy breaking every law under the sun.”
My stomach turns, but it’s not fear I feel. It’s purpose.
The grip around my gun tightens. My joints pop as I roll my wrist, loosening them for what’s coming.
He’s in there.
And every second he breathes is an insult.
We wait. Watch the movements of the guards as we count them. There are seven visible. Possibly more inside. One patrols the perimeter with a short-barreled rifle, slow and bored. Another smokes near a generator, relaxed. Complacent.
They think no one would dare come this far for Maddox.
They’re about to learn how wrong they are.
Kanyan leans in close, his voice low and sharp. “South group sweeps the tree line. North group takes the tower. Jayson, you and Scar with me. We punch through the middle.”
I nod once.
My blood’s already singing. That edge is back—the one I swore I buried.
But tonight, I’ll dig with it.
I lock eyes with Kanyan. “I want him alive.”
