Page 32 of Carver’s Crusade

“Well, what are we waiting for?” Dante asks. “Maestro, you can either stay here or follow along behind. We need you to keep an eye on them in case they hear us coming and bolt.”

“Got it,” Maestro says.

“Do you want Axel and me to stay and help, or head over to the site?” Scar asks.

“Go ahead and head over,” I tell him. “We’re pretty sure these are the thieves, but if we’re wrong, I don’t want to leave the site unprotected.”

Scar nods, before clasping Axel on the shoulder and propelling him to the SUV. We don’t wait for them to leave before we move down the track. We have Maestro in our ears. After walking for a few minutes, he directs us to enter the woods and circle the encampment. We pick our way through the trees, moving as silently as we can so they don’t hear us coming. Maestro has us in his view, so he gives us the go-ahead to enter.

I step into the clearing with the rest of the Demon Dawgs fanning out behind me, boots crunching over dry leaves and scattered pine needles. The place looks exactly like I expected—rough, makeshift, and exposed. Their battered pickup sits off to one side, half-hidden under a tarp. A ring of blackened stones marks their fire pit. Blankets, crates, and a couple of salvaged toolboxes are spread out beneath the trees like they’re trying to pretend this is a home.

It isn’t.

The four kids huddle together near the fire pit when they realize they’re surrounded. Two boys, two girls. The oldest boy steps slightly in front of the others, shoulders squared like he’s ready to take whatever’s coming. He can’t be more than sixteen, but there’s something older in his eyes—something hard-earned.

Dante walks forward, slow and steady, his presence pulling all the attention without him raising his voice. He doesn’t loom. Doesn’t threaten. But nobody misses who’s in charge.

“Easy,” he says, calm as ever. “Nobody’s here to hurt you.”

The oldest boy doesn’t relax, but he doesn’t run either. That alone tells me everything I need to know about him.

Dante stops a few feet away. “Names.”

There’s a beat. The boy hesitates, then lifts his chin. “I’m Marcus. That’s Lily.” He nods to the girl beside him—fifteen maybe, her jaw tight, eyes flicking between us like she’s tracking every move. “Eli.” The younger boy, about ten, clutches a piece of rebar like it’s a weapon. “And that’s Mia.” The little one peeks out from behind Lily, all big eyes and tangled hair. She can’t be older than eight.

Dante nods once, like he’s committing each name to memory. “Marcus,” he says, voice even. “You wanna tell me why you and your family are living out here?”

Marcus swallows, but he doesn’t look away. “We’re fine.”

I almost snort. They’re anything but.

Dante doesn’t push. Just waits.

Silence stretches until it snaps.

“Our dad died,” Marcus says finally. The words come out flat, practiced. “After that… things got bad.”

Lily’s hand tightens around Mia’s shoulder.

Dante’s gaze sharpens, but his tone stays level. “Bad how?”

Marcus hesitates again. This time it’s different. His jaw locks, and I see it—the line he doesn’t want to cross.

“His new wife had plans,” Marcus says instead. “For us.”

That’s it. That’s all.

But it’s enough.

A cold weight settles in my gut. I glance at Dante, and I know he hears it too. Knows exactly what Marcus isn’t saying. There’s a kind of evil you don’t need spelled out.

Eli shifts beside his brother, gripping that piece of metal tighter. “We can take care of ourselves,” he mutters, trying to sound tough. “We don’t need—”

“You’ve been hitting my job sites,” I cut in, stepping forward. My voice isn’t as calm as Dante’s. “Tools, materials. That your idea, Marcus?”

Marcus nods once. No apology. No excuse. “We needed food.”

“Selling the tools?” I ask.