Chapter 23
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
freddie
The traps are set.
Six different stories, six different suspects, six chances to catch a rat. Now we wait to see which version of events Trace responds to first.
"Sean Murphy," Stephen says for the third time in an hour. "It must be him. The man's been acting nervous for weeks."
"Nervous doesn't make him guilty," I reply, checking my phone for the tenth time. "It could just be the stress of knowing there's a mole among us."
"Or guilt eating him alive."
We're in Henry's study, waiting for the mole to surface. The other men have been briefed, sent away with their false information, told to keep quiet about operational details. Now it's just a matter of time.
The waiting is the worst part. Sitting here while somewhere in Dublin, one of our own is probably already on the phone to Trace, reporting whatever lies we fed him. The thought makes my skin crawl.
"What's your gut say?" Stephen asks, pouring himself another whiskey. It's only noon, but these aren't normal circumstances.
"My gut says it's someone closer. Someone we'd never suspect."
"Like who?"
"I don't know. But Sean Murphy's too obvious. If he was selling us out, he'd be better at hiding it. The man wears his emotions on his sleeve."
Stephen leans back in his chair, frustrated. "So we're looking for someone who's a good actor. Someone who can lie to our faces while planning our destruction."
"Exactly."
"That's what makes this so fucked up. Any of these men, we'd have trusted them with our lives. Some of us have trusted them with our lives."
I think about the operations we've run, the jobs we've pulled, the times we've depended on each other for survival.
How many of those moments included our traitor?
How many times has he sat at our table, drunk our whiskey, and pretended to give a damn about our welfare while calculating how much our secrets were worth?
"Whoever it is," I say, "they've been planning this for months. The payments started three months ago; that's months of systematic betrayal."
"Three months of getting our people killed."
The anger in Stephen's voice matches what I'm feeling. This isn't just about money or territory; it's personal. Someone we trusted has been systematically destroying everything we've built.
My phone buzzes. It’s an unknown number, but the area code makes my blood run cold. Mountjoy Prison. There’s only one reason they'd be calling me.
"I need to take this," I say, stepping into the corridor.
"Freddie Kinnock?"
"Speaking."
"This is Officer Brady from Mountjoy Prison. We have an inmate here requesting to speak with you. Liam Kinnock. Says he's your father."
My father. It’s been fifteen years since I've spoken to him, longer since I've wanted to.
Liam Kinnock, career criminal, convicted murderer, the man who taught me how to steal and fight before abandoning me to the streets when I needed him most. The man who chose alcohol and violence over his son, who ended up in prison for armed robbery when I was fourteen.
Who then killed a guard during his first stretch, guaranteeing he'd never see freedom again.
"Put him through."
The line crackles, static hissing— institutional phones that have heard a thousand desperate conversations—then a voice I recognize despite the years, despite everything that's happened between us, speaks.
"Freddie? Christ, son, is that really you?"
"It's me." My voice comes out flat, emotionless. Years of practice keeping my feelings locked away. "What do you want?"
"Just to hear your voice. I’ve been trying to reach you for years, but you never answered. You moved on with your life. Can't blame you for that."
He sounds older than I remember. Tired. The sharp edges that made him so dangerous seem worn away by years of prison routine.
"Da." The word feels strange on my tongue. "Why are you calling now?"
"Because I had a visitor yesterday. American fella, well dressed, dangerous. Said he knew you."
My blood turns to ice. Trace. Somehow he found my father, tracked down a connection I haven't acknowledged in over a decade, and used it to get information, or to send a message.
"What was his name?"
"Trace Harrington. Ring any bells?"
Fuck. The bastard's been thorough, digging into my past, looking for pressure points. Finding the one relationship that still has the power to hurt me, even after all these years.
"What did he want?"
"Information about you. Your weaknesses, your history, people you might care about. I told him to fuck off, naturally."
I can picture it, my father, twenty years older but still carrying himself like the hard man he used to be, facing down Trace in some prison visiting room. Two predators sizing each other up.
"Did you tell him anything?"
"Nothing useful. I told him you were a good kid who deserved better than the life I gave you. That seemed to frustrate him."
"But?"
"But, son, this man... there's something wrong with him. Something dangerous. He talked about you like you'd killed his family, like this was personal beyond business."
"It's complicated."
"Always is with our kind of business. But, Freddie, you need to be careful. This man, he's not stable. He asked questions about things that happened when you were a kid, things no stranger should know."
A chill runs down my spine. "Like what?"
"Your mother's death. How old you were when she died, how it affected you. Personal stuff, intimate stuff. Said he was building a complete picture of what makes you tick."
Christ. Trace has been researching me, probably for months. Digging into my past, my relationships, my psychological profile. Looking for ways to break me before he kills me.
"He asked about your first arrest too. Wanted to know if you blamed me for ending up on the streets so young."
"What did you tell him?"
"I told him that was between you and me. None of his fucking business."
My father's voice carries echoes of the man he used to be; protective, violent when threatened, loyal to family even when family wanted nothing to do with him.
"Da, I'm handling it."
"Are you? Because this man seemed to think he had ways of hurting you that you hadn't considered. He kept asking about your emotional attachments; people you might sacrifice yourself for."
The words hit like ice water. Trace isn't just planning to kill me; he's planning to torture me first. To use everyone I care about as weapons against me.
Tríona. He's thinking about Tríona.
"He mention anyone specific?"
"No names. But he was very interested in whether you'd ever been in love, whether you had family you'd die to protect. I told him you were too smart to let emotions make you vulnerable."
"And?"
"And he laughed. Said everyone has weaknesses, even the smart ones. Said love makes men stupid, makes them take risks they shouldn't take."
Silence stretches between us, fifteen years of distance and resentment crackling through the phone line. But underneath it, there’s something else. Something that might be concern, might be the ghost of paternal instinct.
"I'm sorry," my father says finally.
"For what?"
"For everything. For the drinking, the violence, for choosing crime over family. For ending up in here instead of being there when you needed me."
The words hit harder than they should. I've been carrying anger toward this man for fifteen years, using it as fuel, as motivation. Now he's apologizing, and I don't know what to do with that.
"You made your choices."
"Aye, I did. And they were shit choices. That cost me my son; cost me any chance of being the father you deserved."
"You had chances. After Mam died, after the arrest. You could have chosen differently."
"I could have. I should have. But I was angry, son. Angry at the world, at myself, at God for taking your mother. And instead of dealing with that anger, I let it poison everything good in my life."
I remember those days after Mam's funeral. Dad started drinking more, fighting more, disappearing for days at a time. Coming home with bloody knuckles and empty pockets, choosing violence over grief.
"You left me alone."
"I did. And that's the thing I'll regret until the day I die." His voice breaks slightly, and I realize this conversation is as hard for him as it is for me. Maybe harder.
"You could have been out by now," I say. "If you hadn't killed that guard."
"A different man did that, an angrier man, full of rage and self-pity. A man who couldn't accept responsibility for his actions."
"What changed?"
"Time. Therapy, though I fought it for years. Meeting other men who'd lost their families to their own stupidity. Understanding that rage is just fear wearing a mask."
He sounds different than I remember. Older, yes, but also calmer. Like prison has worn away the sharp edges that made him so dangerous to everyone around him.
"Why are you telling me this?"
"Because I love you, son. Always have, even when I was too drunk or too stupid to show it properly. And because this Harrington fella, he's going to try to use our relationship against you."
"We don't have a relationship."
"No, we don't. But we did once. You were my boy, my pride and joy. And men like Harrington, they'll use whatever emotional leverage they can find."
"I can handle Trace Harrington."
"Can you? Because he seemed to think you had weaknesses he could exploit. People you care about, things you'd die to protect."
"Everyone has weaknesses."
"Aye. But smart men don't let their enemies know what they are. And this man, he's done his homework. He knows things about you that took me twenty minutes to tell him I wouldn't share."
The implication is clear: Trace has other sources, other ways of gathering information about my personal life. Our mole, probably. Someone who's been watching me, reporting on my relationship with Tríona.
"Da, I have to go."