VECTOR IN DC

Happy New Year to my wonderful readers!

As we step into this fresh chapter, I want to thank you for your support, inspiration, and love for the stories we've shared together. May this year bring you joy, success, and countless adventures—both in life and within the pages of every book you read. Here's to new beginnings and endless possibilities!

With gratitude and love,

Maverick.

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[Jason Todd's POV]

The leader's eyes flickered with fear for a moment, a crack in his façade, before he masked it with a snarl. His steps faltered as he backed away, the wreckage of his men littering the ground behind him. I could see it—he was out of options and knew it. 

Me and Slade stood tall, freshly freed and looking like wolves ready to tear into the last surviving sheep. The metallic tang of blood and gunpowder lingered in the air, and the silence that followed the brief, violent exchange was almost louder than the gunfire had been.

Slade wiped a smear of blood from his chin with the back of his hand, his movements slow, deliberate, and unnervingly calm. When he spoke, his voice was like gravel being ground under a boot, low and menacing. "We didn't come all this way to waste time with middlemen," he growled, stepping forward. "You said your boss wasn't available. So, here's what's going to happen: we're going to make him available."

The leader squared his shoulders, but it was all show. I could see the slight twitch in his fingers as they hovered near the sidearm holstered at his belt. His voice was gravelly, full of false bravado. "You don't know who you're messing with," he spat, trying to summon some semblance of authority. "This isn't America. This isn't some playground for wannabe tough men."

I couldn't help but chuckle, low and dry. "Wannabe? That's rich." I turned my head just enough to meet Slade's gaze, a silent exchange passing between us. We both knew how this was going to end. It was only a question of how much fun we'd have getting there.

The guy must've sensed it because the second I shifted my weight, he went for his weapon. Big mistake.

I moved faster than he could blink, crossing the distance between us in a flash. My gloved hand shot out, clamping down on his wrist before he could even draw. His eyes went wide as I twisted with precision, forcing a sharp yelp of pain from his throat. The pistol clattered to the ground, and without breaking stride, I kicked it away, sending it spinning across the dirt. I didn't even bother watching where it landed.

"You were saying?" I muttered, my voice dripping with sarcasm.

Slade was right behind me. He didn't waste any time, grabbing the guy by his collar and hauling him clean off his feet. The leader's boots scraped uselessly against the ground as Slade held him aloft like a misbehaving dog. The man flailed for a second before realizing it was pointless, his breath coming in short, panicked bursts.

"You're going to take us to him," Slade said, his tone impossibly calm, which made it that much scarier. He leaned in closer, their faces almost touching. "Or I'll let my collegue here finish what he started."

I cracked my knuckles loudly, the sound echoing in the still night air. "I don't mind waiting," I said, grinning just enough to show I wasn't bluffing. "But my patience isn't exactly legendary."

The leader's resolve broke like a dam. His shoulders sagged, and he swallowed hard, sweat beading on his forehead. His eyes darted between us, searching for some kind of out that didn't exist. "Alright, alright!" he croaked, his voice cracking. "I'll take you to him! Just—just don't kill me! You don't know what kind of hell you're bringing down on yourselves."

Slade let him drop, and the guy hit the ground in a graceless heap. He stumbled but managed to stay on his feet, rubbing his wrist and glaring at us with barely restrained hatred. The few men still conscious watched from the edges, shifting uncomfortably, clearly debating whether they should try to intervene. They didn't. Smart move.

"Good choice," Slade said, his voice still as cold as ever.

I bent down, scooping up one of the rifles from the ground and checking the chamber with practiced ease. "Now, point us in the right direction," I said, leveling the barrel loosely in his direction. "Unless you'd prefer the next bullet to find your kneecap."

The guy flinched, his bravado crumbling entirely. He pointed shakily toward a warehouse in the distance, its rusted exterior barely visible under the faint glow of the moon. "The boss is in there," he muttered, his voice trembling. "But you're making a mistake. You'll regret this."

I glanced at Slade, unable to suppress a smirk. "Regret?" I said, my voice light and mocking. "Yeah, that's not really my thing."

We started moving toward the warehouse, Slade slightly ahead of me. I cast a look over my shoulder, catching the leader rubbing his wrist and staring after us with a mixture of fear and something else—maybe pity? Whatever. I didn't care.

"Don't try anything," I called back without slowing. "We'll know."

He didn't answer, but I could feel his eyes on us, silently hoping we were walking into a trap. Maybe we were. But that's the thing about guys like me and Slade—we don't scare easy. And we sure as hell don't back down.

As the warehouse loomed closer, I could feel the adrenaline thrumming through my veins. The doors were massive, streaked with rust and grime, and they seemed to glare down at us like a pair of judging eyes.

"Ready for round two?" I asked, my tone casual, almost playful, even as my fingers tightened around the grip of the rifle.

Slade's gaze swept over the perimeter, his movements smooth and deliberate. "Always," he said simply.

Whatever waited for us inside, I was ready. And if they thought we'd walk away without leaving a mark, they were about to find out just how wrong they were.

….

The warehouse doors groaned as we pushed them open, revealing a scene that made my blood simmer. Two men sat comfortably in the middle of the cavernous space, lounging at a table like kings in their castle. They were surrounded by a few more guards—armed, of course—but none of them moved. The smell of tobacco, whiskey, and something faintly metallic lingered in the air, mixing with the distant hum of fluorescent lights overhead.

"Oh, you're here. Come join us," said the man seated on the left. His outfit was casual but expensive, the kind that screams, I don't care what you think, but I want you to notice anyway. 

Two buttons of his shirt were left undone, exposing a patch of chest hair. Rings adorned every finger, and an ostentatious gold watch glinted on his wrist as he gestured lazily toward us. His smile was warm, but his eyes were sharp, calculating. This was no casual host; he was a predator waiting for his prey to sit down.

My eyes flicked to the man next to him. Miguel. The same Miguel who'd brought us here, acting like a guide but setting us up for that ambush outside. Every instinct screamed to punch him square in the jaw, but I held back. Not because I wanted to. No, the only thing keeping my fists at bay was the real mission—our job wasn't over. Yet.

"Relax, Jason," Slade said, his tone calm and measured, as if he didn't feel the palpable tension in the room. "Let's hear what they have to say first. Then we'll decide whether or not to kick their asses."

I clenched my fists at my sides, the leather of my gloves creaking under the strain. "I really want to knock Miguel's teeth out for setting us up in that screwed-up trap."

Miguel grinned, unbothered by my hostility, and gestured toward the empty chairs across from them. "Have a seat, amigos."

Slade and I exchanged a glance, silently agreeing to play along—for now. We strode forward, boots clicking against the concrete floor, and took our seats opposite the pair. My blood was still boiling, but I forced myself to stay cool. Barely.

"Sorry for what happened back there," said the man with the chest hair. "My boys and I don't trust outsiders easily, especially given the... situation we're in." He spread his hands, as if that excuse would wash away the blood spilled outside.

Neither Slade nor I responded. We just stared at them, unblinking, like wolves sizing up a pair of lambs.

Miguel broke the silence. "This is Dante, the boss you came here to see." He gestured to his companion, who offered a disarming smile and a slight nod.

Again, we said nothing. I glanced at Slade, and he gave a subtle shrug, his stoic expression concealed whatever thoughts were running through his head. I turned back to Dante, my gaze hard.

Dante leaned back in his chair, completely at ease. "We had to put Ghost's reputation to the test," he said, his voice smooth and self-assured. "Rumors say his men are terrifyingly capable. We wanted to see if you lived up to the hype."

I let out a dry laugh, leaning forward slightly. "You call that a test? Another minute of your little game, and your boys would've been unrecognizable."

Dante chuckled, unbothered by my irritation. "Fair point," he said with a tilt of his head. "But you're here now, and that's what matters."

Slade finally spoke, his voice cutting through the tension like a knife. "You've wasted enough of our time already. Time we could've used productively to solve the issue you dragged us into."

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