5. Mason
5
MASON
I t’s a strange turn of events. Not altogether bad, just… unexpected.
I’ve seen and heard it all. I’ve dealt with liars, thieves, killers—the kind that can slit a throat and sit down for dinner like it’s just another Tuesday. But Ghost? He’s something else entirely. The way he dances around the fact that he was convicted on fourteen counts of kidnap and murder is almost impressive.
The only thing I know for sure? He’s a killer.
Everything else? That’s still up for debate.
Because the damned always find a way to justify their sins. Always.
Ghost leans back slightly, his posture deceptively relaxed, but his eyes—those dark, watchful eyes—don’t miss a thing. “So, what brings you here?”
His lips twitch, just slightly, like he already knows the answer. Like he’s enjoying this little game of give and take.
“Traffic violation,” I tell him, though we both know that’s bullshit.
He scoffs, a quiet, amused sound, and levels me with a look that strips through the act.
Ghost isn’t the kind of man you can lie to. He’s got that eerie ability to see people, like peeling back their skin and picking apart the bones of what makes them tick. If even half of what I’ve read about him is true, the man is a genius-level psychopath.
And that’s what makes him dangerous.
He could be a model, just stepped out of a high-end magazine, but there’s nothing pretty about him. Not really. There’s something carved into him, something cut into his face—the kind of hardness that comes from knowing what it means to take a life. His aura is dark, unsettling, magnetic. It wraps around him like smoke, pulling you in even when you know you should stay the hell away.
I don’t break the stare, but I switch gears. “Tell me why you think he’s innocent.”
His gaze flicks past me to where Clay Monroe sits, still perched on that bench, still pretending he isn’t watching us.
“I can spot a killer in a crowd before he even opens his mouth to speak.” Ghost’s voice is low, edged with an unreadable mask. “That kid? Not a killer. I don’t know many murderers who are afraid of roaches.”
I shake my head, rolling my eyes. “That’s your logic? He hates bugs, so he couldn’t have killed anyone?”
Ghost smirks like he knew I’d say that. Like he’s been two steps ahead of this conversation the whole time. “It’s not just that. There are too many flags. The kid’s smart. A tech wizard. And I’m willing to bet my last breath that he’s got something valuable—something someone wants. But a killer?” He shakes his head. “Nah. He’s being framed.”
“For murder? By who?”
Ghost tilts his head slightly. “That’s the million-dollar question, isn’t it?”
I follow his gaze back to Clay. The kid is young, but there’s something about him that makes me uneasy. Something that sinks its teeth into me, makes me give a damn when I shouldn’t. Maybe it’s because Mia is about his age. Maybe because I look at him and see a kid on the edge of being swallowed whole, a kid who won’t make it out if the system gets its claws in too deep.
“He doesn’t know?” I murmur.
Ghost watches me carefully. “He has his suspicions. But he hasn’t shared them with anyone.”
I turn back toward him, and he tips his head slightly, his dark eyes glittering in the sharp afternoon light. “You see that knee?” he asks, and I follow his line of sight, noticing the subtle, rhythmic bounce of Clay’s leg. “That’s not nerves. That’s fear. A knee-jerk reaction. The kid is just waiting for someone to step up and shank him. He’s scared. He knows something. He’s just waiting for it to catch up to him.”
I shake my head and drag my gaze back to Ghost.
I didn’t come here to make conversation.
Didn’t come to thank him for pulling me out of yesterday’s mess—he knows damn well I can handle myself.
No, my standing beside him in the prison yard right now isn’t an accident. It’s something else, something bigger. And Ghost knows it too. Even if he won’t come right out and ask it.
He watches me, expectant, his body relaxed but not at ease. Like a predator waiting for his prey to step closer. Just close enough.
I exhale, slow and steady. “You read people well.”
“I survive well,” he corrects, his smirk deepening just a fraction. “The two aren’t so different.”
I glance around the yard, let my gaze sweep over the inmates, over the guards leaning against the fences like they don’t give a shit what happens in here. “If you survive so well, why are you still here?”
Ghost tilts his head, eyes narrowing. “You think I want to be here?”
“I think if you really wanted to be out, you would be.”
His expression doesn’t change, but I know I’ve hit on something. A truth he doesn’t want to acknowledge, or maybe one he just doesn’t care to share. Instead, he shifts, turning his attention back to Clay, watching him with something almost resembling interest.
“And you?” he asks. “Why are you here, Ironside?” He studies me again, the way he did when I first approached. Like he’s picking apart the layers of my skin, searching for the pieces I don’t show anyone. “Not for a traffic violation.”
“No.”
“Not for something small.”
“No.”
Ghost grins, slow and sharp. “Then I suppose you came to the right place.”
I smirk. “Did I?”
His eyes darken, a flicker of something unreadable shifting behind them. “You came looking for me.”
I don’t answer.
Because he already knows I came here for him.
I offer Ghost a lifeline. A man doing life has nothing left but time, and time is a cruel thing—it stretches, it suffocates, it makes ghosts out of men long before they’re dead. And Ghost? He’s got no reason to believe he’ll ever breathe free air again. He’s running out of appeals. He has no second chances. No exit strategy.
Until now.
Because I can give him something he hasn’t had in ten years.
A chance. Hope.
I have the means, the resources, and if there’s one thing men like me don’t do, it’s make promises we don’t intend to keep. If I say I can get him out, I will. No question.
“There’s a transfer coming in a few days,” I say, keeping my voice even, my tone casual. “I need him taken care of.”
Ghost doesn’t blink, doesn’t look remotely surprised. If he was a killer on the outside, there’s no reason he can’t be one on the inside. I already know I won’t be here much longer—Saxon North will make damn sure I don’t cross paths with Altin Kadri. So I have to pivot. Rework the plan. Because there’s no way in hell I let that bastard get deported. No way I let him slip out of reach. Not after what he’s done. If he makes it back to his own home turf, he’ll be lost to us on foreign terrain, and vengeance for what he’s done will be a long-forgotten memory.
Ghost watches me, then smirks. “What makes you think I’m your man?”
“Because you have nothing to lose. And everything to gain.”
“Such as?”
He’s interested. That’s good. Even if he keeps his posture loose, his eyes scanning the yard with calculated disinterest, I know I have his attention now. He just doesn’t want anyone else to know he’s invested in our conversation. Smart.
“A way out,” I say. “And by that, I don’t mean footing your legal bills. Better than that.”
His head snaps toward me, sharp and sudden, like the thought had never even crossed his mind. His first real reaction.
“What did you have in mind?” His voice is quieter now, weighted.
“The wiring in this place is shot. Hasn’t been updated in decades. Corrupt contractors, dirty politicians—you know how it goes. In a few weeks, a fire’s going to break out. One big enough to trigger the auto-unlock on all doors. You’ll be in isolation. In the confusion, in the fear—no one remembers you.” I pause, watching him. “Meanwhile, you head to the nurse’s station. Wanda will be waiting.”
He narrows his eyes. “Wanda?”
I roll mine. “The nurse starting here tomorrow. Familiarize yourself. Get a stomachache, fake the flu. But don’t say a word. She knows who you are.”
His jaw locks. The gears turning in his head. Staring at the yard like it’s the last time he’ll see it. Like he’s almost afraid to say goodbye.
“And after?”
“Your body will be recovered, burnt to a crisp. The world will mourn you. Or maybe not,” I shrug. “Case closed. After that, we’ll get you to safety. Surgery. A new life. In that order.”
Ghost doesn’t ask if I can be trusted. He already knows the answer. And we both know that this plan—it’s well thought out, and it’s failproof.