Chapter 19
CHAPTER NINETEEN
freddie
The call comes at six a.m., dragging me from the first decent sleep I've had in weeks.
Maverick's name is on the screen. Never good news when he calls this early.
"What?" I answer quietly, slipping out of bed so I don't wake Alastríona.
"We've got a problem. A big one."
"What kind of problem?"
"The kind where someone's been feeding information to Trace. Someone on our side."
My blood runs cold. "You sure?"
"Sure enough. Meet at Stephen's in an hour. Bring Alastríona. None of us are leaving our women alone right now."
The line goes dead before I can ask for details. But Maverick's tone tells me everything I need to know. This is bad. Worse than bad.
I dress quickly and check my weapons out of habit. Whatever's happening, whatever we've discovered, it's going to require careful handling.
"Freddie?" Alastríona's voice is groggy and full of confusion. "What's wrong?"
"Business. We need to go to Stephen's."
She sits up, immediately alert despite the early hour. "What kind of business?"
"The kind that could get us all killed if we're not careful."
* * *
Stephen's house looks like a fortress when we arrive. Extra security at the gates, armed men positioned around the perimeter. He's taking no chances.
Maverick's already there, Lisa beside him looking worried but determined. Emmanuel arrives minutes after us, Clodagh close at his side. The women exchange looks. They know something's happening, something that's got their men spooked.
"Living room," Stephen says, gesturing to the women. "Jessica's got coffee and breakfast ready."
"We want to know what's happening," Lisa says.
"After we figure it out ourselves," Maverick replies. "This could be sensitive."
"Sensitive how?"
"The kind where people die if the wrong information gets out."
The women retreat without further argument, but I can see the questions in their eyes. They're not stupid; they know when their men are worried.
In Stephen's office, the atmosphere is tense, and the air is charged. If what Mav says is true, someone close to us is going to die. The question is, who's stupid enough to betray us?
"Talk," I say.
"Lorenzo called an hour ago," Maverick starts. "Sullivan's dead."
Stephen's eyes narrow as he turns to Maverick. "How?"
"Tortured. Badly. Someone wanted information from him, and they took their time getting it."
My stomach clenches. Sullivan was our inside man, the source who gave us Trace's plans. If he's dead, if he talked before he died...
"What did he give up?"
"We’re assuming everything. Names, locations, operational details. Trace knows we had a man inside his organization."
"Fuck."
"Gets worse. Trace also knows specific details about our security protocols, our safe houses, our family arrangements. Information that Sullivan never had access to."
The implications hit like a sledgehammer. "Someone on our side is feeding him intel."
"Has to be. The question is who."
We look at each other, weighing possibilities. The Houlihan organization is small, and tight-knit. Everyone's been vetted, tested, and proven themselves loyal over years of service.
But someone's playing both sides.
"Could be anyone," Emmanuel says. "Driver, security guard, office worker. Doesn't have to be someone high up to have access to sensitive information."
"Or it could be someone very high up," Stephen adds. "Someone with access to everything."
The room goes quiet. We're all thinking the same thing, but nobody wants to say it out loud.
"We need to narrow down the possibilities," I say finally. "Who had access to information about the safe house where Alastríona was staying?"
I watch Maverick as he thinks. "Too many people," Maverick says, consulting his notes. "Henry, you, me, Stephen, Emmanuel, Jason, not to mention many of our men and the Gallaghers."
"And who knew about Sullivan?"
"Same people."
"We need to narrow it down," I say through gritted teeth.
"We're also in that group of people," Stephen points out. "For all we know, one of us is the leak."
The accusation hangs in the air like smoke. Four men who've bled together, fought together, trusted each other with their lives. And one of us might be a traitor.
"There's something else," Maverick says. "Lorenzo's people have been tracking Trace's financial activities. Multiple shell corporations, offshore accounts, and property rentals across Ireland."
"Where?"
"Everywhere. Dublin, Cork, Belfast. He's got bolt-holes all over the country."
"Any recent activity?"
"One property in particular. Leased three weeks ago through a shell company, paid for in cash. Remote location, perfect for hiding."
"Address?"
Maverick slides a piece of paper across the table. "County Wicklow. Middle of nowhere, no neighbors for miles."
I study the address, memorize it. "What's the plan?"
"Reconnaissance first. See what we can learn about his operation, his resources, his next moves."
"And then?"
"Then we end this. Permanently."
Maverick's phone rings. He lifts it up so we can see who's calling. Lorenzo's name is on the screen.
"Yeah?"
"Maverick, whoever gave Trace that information also told him about the information I've given you. He's moved on. Location's been compromised."
"Shit."
"But we've got a new lead. Financial records show another property, purchased yesterday. Same shell company, same payment method."
"Where?"
"I'll text you the details. But, Maverick, be careful. Whoever's feeding information to Trace, they're close to you. Close enough to know your every move."
The line goes dead. A moment later, his phone chimes with a text containing an address.
"New location," Mav tells us, showing them the message. Kildare. "But Lorenzo thinks our leak knows about this, too."
"Then we move fast," Stephen says. "Get there before Trace realizes we're coming."
"We?" Maverick asks, his brows furrowing.
"I'm going with you."
"Me too," Emmanuel adds.
"No," Maverick says, his voice firm, final. "This is a stealth job, not an assault. Too many people and we'll blow our cover."
"So who goes?"
"Freddie and I will be going. We get in, gather intelligence, and get out. No heroics, no confrontations. We need you to stay here and take care of Lisa and Alastríona."
"And if you run into Trace?"
"Then we adapt. But the primary objective is information, not revenge."
I nod, adrenaline coursing through me. This is what I do. What I thrive on. "When do we leave?"
"Now. Every minute we wait is another minute he could disappear."
* * *
"You think one of us is the leak?" Maverick asks as we navigate winding country roads.
"Hope not. But someone's been feeding Trace information, and it's someone with access."
"Could be external. Surveillance, hacking, someone we haven't considered."
"Could be. But my gut says it's internal."
"Who's your top suspect?"
I consider the question. "I'm not sure. I don't think it's one of us. It’s more than likely another person within the Gallagher organization."
"What about the others?"
"Stephen's been my brother for fifteen years. Emmanuel's your best friend. Then there's you..."
"What about me?"
"You're sitting in a car with me, planning to break into Trace's safe house.
If you were the leak, this would be the perfect time to spring a trap.
But you're Jer's nephew. This is personal for you, more so than anyone.
There's no way you'd betray us. Whether you like it or not, Mav, we're brothers, and that means something. "
"It means fucking everything," he says thickly. "I agree. I don't think it's Stephen or Emmanuel. There's no way they'd do this. But when I find out who the fuck it is, I'm going to kill them."
We're quiet for the rest of the drive, both lost in our own thoughts. The address Lorenzo gave us leads to a farmhouse surrounded by empty fields. Isolated, defensible, perfect for a man who needs to stay hidden.
"Surveillance?" Maverick asks as we park a mile away.
"Brief. Just enough to confirm it's occupied, then we go in."
He nods, and then we move stealthily along the perimeter. The farmhouse shows signs of recent habitation. Fresh tire tracks in the dirt, lights on in several windows, smoke rising from the chimney. Someone's definitely here.
"Two guards," Maverick observes through binoculars. "Front and back. Professionals but not military."
"Security system?"
"Basic. Motion sensors, cameras—nothing we can't handle."
"Right. We go in quietly, gather what we can, and leave no trace."
The approach takes twenty minutes, moving through the surrounding fields to avoid the guards' sight lines. Getting inside is easier than expected; the security system is designed to keep out casual intruders, not professionals.
The house smells like cigarettes and must. Documents are scattered across the dining room table; laptops open and running—the detritus of a man planning war.
"Jackpot," Maverick whispers, photographing everything with his phone.
I'm already moving toward what looks like a home office. Inside, I find a safe built into the wall. Industrial grade, expensive, but nothing I haven't cracked before.
"How long?" Maverick asks.
I grin at him. "Less than two minutes."
"I'll keep watch."
The safe takes less than ninety seconds to open. Not my best time, but one of the better ones. Inside is cash, weapons, and most importantly, files. Detailed intelligence on our operations, photos of family members, financial records showing payments to sources within our organization.
"Freddie." Maverick's voice is urgent. "We've got company."
Car engines are approaching fast. Multiple vehicles by the sound of it.
"Time to go," I say, grabbing what files I can carry.
But as we head for the back exit, I spot something that makes me change course. A laptop, still open, logged into what looks like offshore banking accounts.
"What are you doing?" Maverick hisses.
"Making a withdrawal."
My fingers fly across the keyboard, navigating through account menus with practiced ease. Trace has been careful, spreading his money across multiple banks in multiple countries. But careful isn't the same as secure.
"Freddie, we need to leave. Now."
"Two more minutes."
I'm into the primary account now, looking at a balance that makes my eyes widen. Trace has been accumulating serious money; enough to fund his war for years.
Had been accumulating. Because I'm transferring every penny to accounts I control.
"Done," I say, closing the laptop. "Let's go."
We slip out the back as the front door explodes inward. Trace's reinforcements—arriving just too late to catch us, but early enough to know someone's been inside.
The run back to our car takes us through muddy fields and over stone walls. Behind us, shouts sound and flashlight beams sweep the surrounding area as they search for intruders they'll never find.
"What did you get?" Maverick asks as we reach the vehicle.
"Everything. Financial records, intelligence files, and about twelve million euros in liquid assets."
"You stole his money?"
"Every fucking penny. Let's see how long his operation lasts without funding."
The drive back to Dublin is quiet, both of us processing what we've learned. Trace is well-funded, well-informed, and has resources we didn't know about. But now he's significantly poorer, and that might make him desperate.
Desperate men make mistakes.
* * *
Stephen's house is still secure when we return, guards alert and professional. Inside, the women are playing cards while Emmanuel and Stephen are anxious. Their faces are void of emotion, but I can see the anger and wariness in their eyes.
"Success?" Stephen asks as we enter his office.
"Partial. We've got intelligence on his operation, but it's safe to say that he'll be moving on from that location."
"And the financial angle?"
"Handled. Trace just lost his war chest."
I spread the files across Stephen's desk, photographs and documents. Maverick shows the pictures he took on his phone. Everything shows us exactly what we thought: Trace Harrington has been planning this for a fucking long time.
"Look at this," I say, pointing to the document that shows what we've feared. "Payment records for sources within our organization."
"Code names only," Maverick observes.
"But look at the amounts. This one, Raven, has been paid over two hundred thousand euros in the past six months."
"Someone high up. Someone with access to valuable information."
"And this," I continue, indicating another file. "Detailed layouts of all our properties, including the safe house where Alastríona was staying."
Stephen studies the documents with growing anger. "Whoever this is, they've been planning our destruction for months."
"The question is: how to catch them without alerting them that we know?"
"Bait," Emmanuel suggests. "Feed different information to different suspects and see which version makes it back to Trace."
"Good idea, but it'll take time. And time's something we might not have."
My phone rings. Unknown number.
"Kinnock."
"Well played, Mr. Kinnock. I have to admit; I didn't see that coming."
Trace. Calling from whatever hole he's crawled into.
"Trace. Enjoying poverty?"
His laugh is cold, bitter. "Temporary setback. I've got resources you don't know about."
"Do you? Because I've got account numbers for all your shell companies. Want me to empty those too?"
"You can try. But money isn't everything. I still have something more valuable."
"Which is?"
"Motivation. You took everything from me, Freddie. My wife, my child, my future. I've got nothing left to lose."
"Good. Makes this easier."
"Does it? Because I'm not done. Not with you, not with your precious Alastríona, not with any of them. This war doesn't end until you're all dead."
The line goes dead. I look around the room at my brothers, seeing the same determination in their faces that I feel in my chest.
"He's not backing down," I tell them.
"Neither are we," Stephen replies.
"What's the next move?"
"We find him. And we end this."
I think about Alastríona in the other room, probably worrying about what we're planning. I think about the fear in her eyes when she wakes from nightmares; the way she flinches at unexpected sounds.
Trace did that to her. Trace and whoever's been helping him.
Time to return the favor.
"I'm going to kill him," I say quietly. "Slowly. Personally."
"We'll all take a turn," Maverick agrees.
"But first, we find our leak. Because until we do, we're fighting blind."
The others nod. Tomorrow, we start hunting our own people, looking for the traitor who's been selling us out. Not a pleasant task, but a necessary one.
Tonight, though, I just want to hold Alastríona and pretend the world isn't trying to kill us.
Tonight, that's enough.