Chapter 15 #2
But I already know the answer. Whatever this is between us, whatever we've just started, it's worth everything. Worth the fear, the uncertainty, the danger that comes with loving someone in our world.
Worth fighting for.
Worth dying for.
Worth killing for.
She settles back against my chest, her breathing evening out as exhaustion finally claims her. This time when she sleeps, there are no nightmares. Just peace, warmth and solid in my arms.
Mine. Finally, completely mine.
And I'm never letting her go.
* * *
The call comes just as Alastríona's breathing has finally evened out into peaceful sleep.
Maverick's name is on my phone screen. Never good news when he calls this early.
"What?" I answer quietly, slipping out of bed so I don't wake her.
"We need to search Marcus' house. Now, before anyone else thinks to do it."
"Why now?"
"Because I'm sick to my back teeth of Henry having second thoughts.
He keeps saying maybe we got it wrong, maybe Marcus was set up.
If we're going to find proof, we need to do it before the old man convinces himself his oldest friend was innocent.
I've got enough shit to deal with without listening to him calling me at three in the damn morning. "
I check the time. Six-thirty. Early enough that the neighbors won't be watching, late enough that Marcus' house should be empty. Perfect timing for a breaking and entering that could give us the evidence we need.
"Twenty minutes," I say.
"I'll pick you up," he says after I’ve given him the address to the safe house.
I dress quietly and write a note for Alastríona in case she wakes up before I get back.
Gone to tie up loose ends. Back soon. Don't leave the house.
Simple, direct. She'll understand.
The drive to Marcus' place takes us through Dublin's quiet morning streets. Office workers heading to early shifts, joggers getting their exercise before the day heats up. Normal people living normal lives, unaware that last night their city almost became a war zone.
Marcus lives in Blackrock, an expensive neighborhood where old money goes to pretend it's respectable. His house is Georgian, three stories of perfectly maintained limestone that probably cost more than most people see in a lifetime.
"Security?" I ask as Maverick parks across the street.
"Basic system. Cameras, motion sensors—nothing we can't handle."
"Neighbors?"
"Busy professionals who mind their own business. We should be fine as long as we don't make too much noise."
The street's empty except for a few parked cars and the occasional dog walker. No one pays attention to two men crossing the road like they belong there.
Getting inside is easier than it should be. Marcus' security is designed to keep out casual burglars, not professionals who know what they're doing. I have the alarm disabled and the back door open within five minutes.
"Impressive," Maverick says.
"Jer taught me well."
The house smells like expensive cologne and old leather. Everything's perfectly arranged, from the crystal decanters on the sideboard to the first-edition books lining the shelves. Marcus always did like his luxury.
"Where do we start?" Maverick asks.
"Office. If there's evidence of his betrayal, that's where we'll find it."
Marcus' office is on the second floor, windows overlooking his perfectly manicured garden. The desk is antique mahogany, probably worth more than my flat. Everything's organized with military precision.
"Check the computer," I say, heading for the filing cabinets. "Look for encrypted files, communication logs, anything that doesn't belong."
The first cabinet is full of legitimate business documents. Contracts, financial records, correspondence with Henry's various enterprises. Nothing suspicious, nothing that screams treachery.
The second cabinet is more interesting.
"Freddie," Maverick calls from the computer. "You need to see this."
I leave the files and move to look over his shoulder. The screen shows an email account I don't recognize. It’s password-protected but Maverick's already cracked it.
"Burner account," he explains. "Separate from his regular email. Look at the sent folder."
The messages are cryptic, coded, but the pattern's clear. Regular communications with someone identified only as "W.H." over the past six months. Times, dates, locations. Information that matches perfectly with Trace's attacks on our operations.
"W.H.," I say. "William Harrington. Trace's father."
"That's what I was thinking. But look at this one, sent three days ago."
The message is longer than the others, more detailed. It mentions the family dinner, Henry's house, specific details about our security arrangements. Everything Trace would need to plan his assault.
"Bastard," Maverick breathes. "He really was feeding them information."
"Gets worse. Look at the timestamps."
The messages were sent in real time, during family meetings, during strategic planning sessions. Marcus was literally sitting at Henry's table, pretending to be loyal, while typing out our secrets to the enemy.
"Print it," I say. "All of it. Henry needs to see this."
While Maverick works on the printer, I go back to the filing cabinets. The bottom drawer of the second cabinet is locked, but locks have never been much of an obstacle.
Inside, I find Marcus' insurance policy.
Bank statements showing regular payments from offshore accounts. Photographs of family members, including some of Alastríona that must have been taken without her knowledge. Detailed floor plans of Henry's house, marked with entry points and security blind spots.
And at the bottom, a handwritten journal.
"Christ," I mutter, flipping through the pages.
It's all here. Marcus' growing resentment toward Henry, his belief that the old man was losing his edge. His first contact with Trace's people, the gradual escalation from simple information sharing to active collaboration.
Most damning of all: his plans for what would have come after Henry's death; how he would have positioned himself as the new leader of the family, with Trace's backing. How he planned to modernize operations, eliminate the old guard, and build something new from the ashes of Henry's empire.
"Find something?" Maverick asks.
"His whole fucking confession. Written in his own hand."
I photograph every page with my phone, making sure we have copies even if something happens to the original. This is evidence that will convince even Henry of his oldest friend's betrayal.
"We should go," Maverick says, checking his watch. "Been here almost an hour."
"One more minute."
I'm looking for something specific now, something that will tell us where Trace is hiding and what his next move will be. Marcus was too careful to keep that kind of information lying around, but maybe—
There. A loose floorboard under the desk, visible only if you're looking for it from the right angle. I pry it up with my knife and find a metal box hidden in the space beneath.
Inside the box: three burner phones, a stack of cash, and a single piece of paper with an address written in Marcus' careful handwriting.
"Got him," I say, showing Maverick the address. "This is where Trace is hiding."
"You sure?"
"Marcus was careful about everything else, but sloppy about this. He kept Trace's location as backup, insurance in case the partnership went bad."
"Or in case he needed to eliminate a liability."
Good point. Marcus wasn't just a traitor he was a smart traitor. He'd have wanted leverage over his new partner, some way to protect himself if things went wrong.
We pack up everything we've found and make sure the house looks exactly like we found it. No point alerting anyone that we've been here, not when we might need to come back.
The drive back to Henry's safe house is quiet, both of us processing what we've discovered. Marcus wasn't just feeding information to the enemy—he was planning a complete takeover of the family's operations.
"Henry's going to be devastated," Maverick says finally.
"Better devastated than dead."
"True. But forty years of friendship, ended like this..."
"It ended when Marcus decided money was more important than loyalty."
My phone buzzes with a text message from an unknown number.
She's beautiful when she sleeps. Would hate for something to happen to her.
Attached is a photo of Alastríona, taken through the window of Henry's safe house. She's curled up in bed, peaceful, unaware that someone's been watching her.
My blood runs cold.
"Faster," I tell Maverick.
"What's wrong?"
I show him the message. His face goes hard, dangerous.
"How the fuck did they find the safe house?"
"Marcus. He must have known about it, told them where to look before he died. Fuck."
"But we were just at his house.”
“Too late, the damage was already done before we got there.”
"Then we're walking into a trap."
Maverick floors the accelerator, pushing his BMW well past legal limits. Dublin's morning traffic blurs past as we race toward Henry's safe house, toward the woman I love, who may already be in mortal danger.
I try calling the house. No answer.
Try calling Henry. Straight to voicemail.
"Fuck," I breathe.
"Easy," Maverick says. "Could be anything. Maybe they're just not answering unknown numbers."
But we both know better. In our world, when phones go unanswered, it usually means something's gone very wrong.
The safe house comes into view, looking exactly as we left it. No signs of forced entry, no obvious damage. But something feels off, wrong in a way I can't put my finger on.
"You armed?" Maverick asks.
"Always."
"Good. Because I think we're about to need it."
We approach the house carefully, weapons drawn, watching for any sign of movement. The front door is unlocked, which immediately sets off alarm bells.
Inside, silence.
Too much silence.
"Alastríona?" I call out.
No answer.
We clear the ground floor room by room, finding nothing. No signs of struggle, no evidence of violence. Just an empty house where three people should be.
Upstairs, the bedroom where I left Alastríona is empty. Bed unmade, my note still on the nightstand. But no sign of her.
"Henry's room," Maverick says.
We find Henry at the bottom of the stairs, blood seeping from a head wound. He's breathing, pulse steady, but he's been out for a while.
"Henry," I say, checking his pupils. "Can you hear me?"
He stirs, trying to focus on my face. "Freddie?"
"Yeah, it's me. What happened?"
"They came..." He tries to sit up but winces in pain. "Three men. Took her."
"Where?"
"I don't know. They knocked me out, took Alastríona. Said... said Trace wants to meet with you."
"Meet where?"
"The address is in my pocket."
I find the piece of paper and read the address. It's the same one we found in Marcus' house.
"It's a trap," Maverick says.
"Of course it's a trap. But I'm walking into it anyway."
"Freddie—"
"They have her. Nothing else matters."
I help Henry to his feet, making sure he's stable enough to stand. The head wound looks worse than it is—superficial bleeding, no sign of serious trauma.
"I'm coming with you," he says.
"No. You're hurt, and someone needs to coordinate with the others."
"She's my granddaughter."
"And she's the woman I love. I'm not losing her."
Henry nods, understanding. "What do you need?"
"Backup. But at a distance. If Trace sees an army coming, he'll kill her before we get close."
"And if it's a trap?"
"Then I'll spring it and hope I'm fast enough to keep her alive."
I'm already moving, checking weapons, grabbing spare ammunition. Time's running out, and every second I waste is another second Trace has to hurt her.
"Freddie," Maverick calls as I head for the door. "For what it's worth, I think you're doing the right thing."
"Even if it gets me killed?"
"Especially if it gets you killed. Some things are worth dying for."
Yeah. Some things are.
And Alastríona Gallagher-Grey is definitely one of them.