Chapter 39
MASON IRONSIDE
Scar’s still pacing when I walk back into the war room, his temper cutting through the air like static.
The table’s a battlefield of papers and photos, most of them crumpled where his fists landed. He doesn’t look up, just mutters, “Don’t start, Mason.”
I take my time, shut the door behind me, and lean against it. “Didn’t come to start. Came to keep you from breaking something else you’ll regret.”
He finally glances up, eyes burning, the storm still alive in them.
“That son of a bitch jeopardized everything we’ve built.
You know what happens if someone spots him dragging a man into a truck outside a residential complex?
We’ve worked years to clean up this city.
Years, Mason. We can’t afford this shit. ”
I nod, slow and calm, like I’m agreeing just to get him to breathe. “You’re right. It’s messy.”
He scoffs. “Messy?”
“Yeah. Messy. But understandable.”
Scar’s eyes narrow. “Don’t you start romanticizing this. You and your bleeding-heart logic.”
“I’m not romanticizing anything,” I say, pushing off the door. “I’m reminding you who we are.”
Scar turns away, but I press on.
“Any one of us would’ve done the same. Hell, probably worse.
” I step closer, voice low. “You remember what Lucky did to that judge who had his wife’s stalker released on bail?
You remember what Brando did when Mia got that threat letter in the mail?
You remember me in that prison yard, Scar - when I put a shiv through a man’s ribs because he so much as looked at my woman’s photo? ”
Scar goes still.
I take another step forward. “We’re all murderers wearing nicer suits now. But the reason we’ve survived this long isn’t because we don’t feel - it’s because we remember who we’re killing for.”
He exhales through his nose, still not looking at me. “That’s not the point, Mason. We took Jude in for a higher purpose. To clean up the city’s filth. To remind the world what happens when monsters run unchecked. Not to have him fuck it all up because of a woman.”
“And yet,” I say, pacing now, matching his rhythm, “that woman’s the only thing that’s kept him human.
You think we want a killing machine? We already had one.
His name was Ghost. The version we have now - the one who still chooses who to kill, who still thinks twice before pulling the trigger - that’s progress. ”
Scar turns finally, eyes cold. “Progress gets people killed.”
I shrug. “So does detachment. You of all people should know that.”
He opens his mouth to argue, then stops, jaw tight. There’s history there - his, mine, all of ours. He doesn’t have to say it. We’ve all buried people we loved because the job came first.
“The fact that he didn’t outright kill Michael,” I continue, “and instead came here? That tells me something important. It means he’s in control of his impulses.
His thoughts. His emotions. The man’s been locked up for ten years, Scar.
If he were still a robot, we’d be scrubbing blood off this floor by now. ”
Scar drags a hand through his hair, muttering something under his breath I don’t quite catch.
“He’s still protective of her,” I say, quieter now. “And that’s a good thing. It means there’s something left of the man, not just the myth. And we need that balance, or we’re no better than the ones we hunt.”
Scar walks to the table, palms braced on the edge. “You know what I’m afraid of?”
I wait.
“His proximity to Nadia. That kind of attention brings heat. Questions. Someone starts connecting dots, and it’s not just him that burns - it’s us. People start asking the wrong questions, the whole empire gets dragged down with him.”
I can’t help the sound that escapes me; half-laugh, half-scoff. “Scar, even DNA couldn’t prove Ghost and Jude Mercer are the same man.”
That gets his attention. He looks up, brows drawn. “What the hell are you talking about?”
I grin, stepping closer, letting the cigarette smoke curl between us. “You remember that riot in Ford Penitentiary? The one that conveniently left nothing but bones?”
Scar nods slowly.
“Those bones weren’t his,” I say. “We switched his DNA out years ago. Every database, every blood sample, every goddamn file that ever bore his name. What’s left of Lucian Cross was buried with a John Doe we pulled from the morgue - a man who was already dead before the fire even started. We planted his DNA at the scene.”
Scar blinks, processing, then a low whistle leaves his lips. “You son of a bitch.”
I smirk. “It’s what I do.”
He stares at me for a beat longer, and then - finally - his shoulders drop, almost in defeat. Some of the tension bleeds out of him. “You’re telling me the man walking around out there doesn’t exist in any system on Earth?”
“Not a single one.”
Scar exhales, almost a laugh. “You know, Mason… sometimes I forget how dangerous it is having you on our side.”
“That’s the point.”
Silence stretches, comfortable now. Then Scar straightens, all business again. “Call Brando,” he says finally. “Take Jude to the zoo.”
A slow grin spreads across my face. “That what you really want?”
Scar meets my eyes. “That’s what needs to be done.”
“Copy that,” I say, turning for the door.
As I step into the hall, I can feel it - the shift. The calm before the kind of storm that leaves bodies in its wake.
I pull my phone from my pocket, already dialing Brando’s number.
“Bring your tools,” I say when he answers. “Scar’s given the green light.”
A pause. Then Brando’s voice, low and eager: “We feeding the animals tonight?”
“Yeah,” I murmur, a grin ghosting across my mouth. “And this time, they get fresh meat.”