Chapter 11
CHAPTER ELEVEN
freddie
I wake up before dawn, like I always do when violence is coming.
Alastríona's still asleep beside me, dark hair spread across the pillow, one hand curled against my chest. She looks younger in sleep, peaceful in a way she never is when she's awake. It makes my chest tight just watching her breathe.
Christ, when did this happen? When did she stop being a job and start being the most important thing in my world?
The thought of losing her, of Trace getting his hands on her, makes my blood run cold.
I've lost too many people already. Mam died when I was eight, cancer eating her alive while I watched helplessly.
Dad's been rotting in prison for the last fifteen years.
He might as well be dead for all the good he does me.
And now Jer's gone; the man who saved my life is lying cold in the ground because of Trace Harrington's twisted need for revenge.
Can't lose her too. Won't lose her.
She shifts in her sleep, moving closer to my warmth. Her hand flattens against my chest, right over my heart, like she's making sure it's still beating.
Smart girl. Sometimes I'm not sure it is.
I slip out of bed carefully as I don't want to wake her. She needs rest before tonight, before everything goes to hell. The floorboards don't creak under my feet—old habits from a lifetime of breaking into places I don't belong.
Downstairs, I hear voices in the kitchen. Henry's gravelly tone mixing with someone else's. Someone I recognize.
Marcus.
Rage hits me like a physical thing. That bastard is standing in Henry's kitchen, drinking Henry's coffee, pretending to be loyal while planning to sell us all out to Trace. Acting like he's not the reason good men are going to die tonight.
I take the stairs two at a time, trying to keep my footsteps quiet. The last thing I need is to alert Marcus that I'm coming. Element of surprise might be the only advantage I have.
They're at the kitchen table when I round the corner, Henry with his morning paper and coffee, Marcus with a plate of eggs like he doesn't have a care in the world. Domestic scene—if you ignore the fact that one of them is a fucking traitor.
"Morning, Freddie," Henry says without looking up. "Sleep well?"
"Well enough." I pour myself coffee, keeping my movements casual. "What's the plan for today?"
"Final preparations," Marcus says. "Making sure everything's ready for tonight's dinner."
The way he says it, so calm and matter-of-fact, makes me want to put my fist through his skull. He knows what's coming tonight. He knows Trace is planning to turn Henry's family dinner into a massacre.
"Right," I say. "The dinner."
"Should be a lovely evening," Marcus continues. "All the family together, celebrating Alastríona's homecoming."
Celebrating. Christ, the bastard's practically gloating.
"Henry," I say, my voice carefully controlled. "Could I have a word? Privately?"
Something in my tone must register because Henry looks up from his paper and studies my face. "Of course. Marcus, would you excuse us?"
"Certainly. I'll be in my office if you need me."
Marcus leaves, but not before shooting me a look that's probably meant to be friendly. All I see is the face of a man who's about to get a lot of good people killed.
The moment he's gone, I'm moving; checking for listening devices, sweeping the room with practiced efficiency. Can't be too careful when you're about to accuse someone of treason.
"What's this about?" Henry asks.
"Marcus."
"What about him?"
"He's the mole."
The words hit Henry like a slap. All the color drains from his face, and for a moment he looks every one of his seventy-odd years.
"That's impossible."
"Is it? Sullivan confirmed it last night. Someone in your inner circle has been feeding information to Trace for months. Someone with access to family schedules, security protocols, personal details about our operations."
"It could be anyone—"
"It's Marcus." I sit across from him and lean forward. "Think about it. Who else knew about Alastríona before I brought her home? Who else has been questioning her place in the family? Who else would have access to the kind of detailed information Trace has been getting?"
Henry's shaking his head, but I can see doubt creeping into his eyes. "Forty years, Freddie. Forty years of loyalty."
"And what's he got to show for it? He’s still playing second fiddle to the man who built everything while he did the grunt work. Maybe he got tired of being in your shadow."
"He's like a brother to me."
"And sometimes family betray one another."
Silence stretches between us. Henry stares at his coffee like it holds answers to questions he doesn't want to ask.
"What proof do you have?" he asks finally.
"Sullivan told us Trace knows about tonight. He knows the whole family will be here for dinner. Knows exactly when and where to hit us."
"That could be a coincidence—"
"Twenty minutes ago, Marcus was talking about tonight's dinner like it was already planned. How did he know about it? Did you tell him?"
"No. I was going to announce it this morning, after I spoke with Denis."
"Then how did he know?"
The question hangs in the air like smoke. Henry's face crumbles as the implications sink in.
"Christ," he whispers. "If you're right, if Marcus has been..."
"He has been. And tonight, when Trace comes for us, Marcus will make sure we're sitting ducks."
Henry's hands shake as he reaches for his phone. "I need to call Denis. Cancel the dinner, change the plans."
"No. We use it. Let Trace think he's walking into an easy target while we prepare a welcome he'll never forget."
"Are you insane? If Marcus is feeding him information—"
"Then we feed Marcus false information. Make him think we're unprepared, unaware. Let Trace commit all his resources to an attack that's doomed from the start."
Henry considers this, weighing options. "It's risky."
"Everything's risky. But this way, we control the battlefield. We know when he's coming, how many men he's bringing, what his objectives are. We turn his trap into our ambush."
"And Alastríona?"
"Will be somewhere safe. Far from here when the shooting starts."
"Where?"
"Stephen's house. Jessica will look after her; keep her occupied while we handle business."
Henry nods slowly. "Call Denis. Tell him we need to meet. Quietly."
* * *
Denis arrives within the hour, along with Malcolm and Danny. We gather in Henry's study, door locked, phones turned off. We can't afford to have Marcus overhear what we're planning.
"Trace is coming tonight," I start without preamble. "During the family dinner. His objective is to kill as many of us as possible, send a message that no one's untouchable."
"How do you know this?" Malcolm asks.
"Because we have someone inside his operation. Someone who's been feeding us information."
"And you trust this source?"
"I don't trust many. But I believe he's telling the truth, as does Stephen."
Denis leans forward. "What's the plan?"
"We let him come. Make him think he's catching us off guard while we prepare a surprise of our own."
"That's insane," Danny says. "This house isn't a fortress. Too many ways in, too many blind spots."
"Which is exactly why Trace picked it. He thinks he knows your security; thinks he can waltz in here and slaughter us like sheep."
"Can't he?"
"Not if we're ready for him. Not if we turn this house into a killing ground."
We spend the next two hours planning. Positions, fields of fire, escape routes. How to funnel Trace's men into predetermined kill zones while keeping ourselves alive. It's complicated, dangerous, but it could work.
More importantly, it's our best chance to end this war permanently.
"What about the mole?" Denis asks.
"We deal with him after. Right now, we need him to think everything's normal."
"And if he gets suspicious?"
"Then we adjust. But for now, we let him think his plan is working."
Henry's been quiet through most of the discussion, but now he speaks up. "I want him alive. Marcus. Whatever else he's done, I want the chance to ask him why."
"Might not be possible. If shooting starts—"
"Make it possible. I need to understand how forty years of loyalty turned into betrayal."
I can't blame him for wanting answers. Hell, I want them too. But in a firefight, priorities change fast. Keeping good people alive matters more than satisfying curiosity.
"We'll try," I say. "But no guarantees."
"Understood."
We finalize the details, assign positions, and synchronize watches. By the time we're done, it's lunchtime and everyone is geared up for what’s about to come.
"Alastríona leaves soon," I say. "I'll take her to Stephen's personally, make sure she's safe."
"Good. The less she knows about tonight, the better." Henry says with a sigh.
"She won't like being kept in the dark."
"She'll like being dead even less."
Fair point. But I know Alastríona well enough to know she'd rather fight beside us than hide while others die protecting her. She's got her father's courage, her father's loyalty.
Also her father's stubborn streak.
"I'll handle it," I say.
The meeting breaks up, everyone heading to their positions. Denis to coordinate with our external security. Malcolm to check weapons and ammunition. Danny to brief the men who'll be holding the house with us.
And me? I have to convince the woman I love to let me put her somewhere safe while I walk into a war zone.
Should be interesting.