Chapter 24
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
freddie
We find Jason at his flat in Temple Bar, packing a bag like he's planning a holiday instead of running for his life.
The door's unlocked when we arrive, which should have been our first warning. Jason's many things, but careless isn't one of them. He knows we're coming.
"Jason." I push through the door first, gun drawn, Maverick close behind me.
He doesn't even look up from his suitcase, just keeps folding clothes with methodical precision, like this is any other Tuesday evening.
"Freddie. Maverick." His voice is calm, resigned. "Took you long enough."
"Going somewhere?"
"I was. Until I realized there's nowhere left to run."
The flat is sparse but functional. Not much personality in the decor, which makes sense now. Hard to get attached to a place when you're planning to disappear.
"Hands where we can see them," Maverick orders.
Jason complies without resistance, spreading his fingers, showing us he's not armed. Smart move, considering we're about two seconds away from putting bullets in him anyway.
"You know why we're here," I say.
"Yeah. I know."
His resignation is almost worse than if he'd tried to fight or run. It suggests he's made peace with whatever's coming, which means he thinks he's justified in what he's done.
"Pack faster," Maverick says. "We're taking a trip."
"Where to?"
"Somewhere quiet. Somewhere we can have a proper conversation."
Jason nods and zips up his bag. "The warehouse on the south side?"
"You know about that?"
"I know about a lot of things."
He's right, of course. As part of Jer's crew, Jason had access to our safe houses, our meeting places, our operational procedures. Which means he's probably told Trace about all of them.
"Car's outside," I say. "Move."
* * *
The warehouse is exactly what we need; isolated, soundproof, somewhere we won’t be disturbed.
Henry and Denis are already here when we arrive, waiting in the shadows like judges at a trial. They must have come straight from the safe house and set up the space; made sure we wouldn't be interrupted.
The building is massive, filled with rusted machinery and the ghosts of whatever legitimate business once operated here. Now it's just another Dublin graveyard, a place where problems get solved permanently.
"Sit," Maverick orders, pointing to a wooden crate in the center of the space.
Jason complies without argument. The Jason I knew was always clean-shaven, always put together. This man has stubble, hollow cheeks, and the look of someone who hasn't been sleeping.
"Comfortable?" I ask.
"I've been better."
"You'll be worse before this is over."
Maverick produces zip ties from his jacket and secures Jason's hands behind his back. Professional restraints, the kind that won't break no matter how hard you struggle.
"This really necessary?" Jason asks.
"Given that you've been betraying us for months? Yeah, it's necessary."
The warehouse is empty except for old machinery and the smell of rust. Perfect place for what we need to do. The acoustics are good too; sound carries well enough for conversation but won't escape the building.
"So," I say, settling into my own crate across from him. "How long have you been working for Trace?"
"Since October. But it's not what you think."
"Isn't it? Because from where I'm standing, it looks like you've been selling us out for months. Getting good men killed for money."
Jason's laugh is bitter, hollow. "I've been trying to survive. Trying to protect the woman I love."
The words hang in the air like smoke. Protect the woman he loves. Not loved; loves. Present tense.
"What woman?" But even as I ask, I think I already know.
"Ava."
The name hits the room like a physical blow. Ava, dead for months, pregnant when she died. The woman who started this war, who played games none of us understood until it was too late.
"Ava's dead," I say, stating the obvious.
"Because of you. Because of all of you."
Maverick moves closer, fists clenched, violence radiating off him in waves. "Explain that."
"She was coming back to Dublin to be with me. We had plans, a future. She was going to leave Trace, leave Boston, and start over with our baby."
"Your baby?"
The question comes out strangled. Because if Ava was pregnant with Jason's child, that changes everything. The timeline, the motivation, the reason Trace killed her.
"Mine. The child she was carrying when she died, that was my baby."
The words hit like sledgehammers. Ava wasn't carrying Trace's child. She was carrying Jason's. Which means her death wasn't just about betrayal or territory; it was about love, and jealousy—the oldest motives in the world.
"How long?" I ask, needing to understand the scope of this deception.
"How long what?"
"How long were you and Ava together?"
"Since we were teenagers—ten years on and off. When things got complicated between us, when we fought or broke up, she'd go to you. You were her safety net, Freddie. Her backup plan."
The casual way he says it, like I was just some convenient distraction, makes my blood boil. But underneath the anger, there's something else. Relief, maybe. The knowledge that what I felt for Ava wasn't real love; it was just loneliness and need dressed up as something deeper.
"She was using me."
"She was protecting herself. Ava loved me, but she was smart enough to know that putting all her eggs in one basket was dangerous in our world."
"So she played us both."
"She survived. Until you and Jer got involved, until Jer started pushing her to sort her life out. That's when everything went to hell."
Maverick steps forward, his face carved from stone. "You're blaming us for Trace killing his own wife?"
"I'm blaming you for putting her in an impossible position. She was trying to get information for me, trying to find a way for us to disappear together. But that was never enough. Jer hated that she was upsetting Callie by always being gone. He knew she was up to something."
"She was married to our enemy."
"Because she was trapped! Trace would have killed her if he'd found out about us. But she was working on it, finding a way out. We just needed more time."
I study Jason's face, seeing him clearly for the first time in months. The stress lines around his eyes, the way his hands shake slightly even though he's trying to hide it. He's been carrying this burden alone, planning something desperate.
"So you decided to get revenge," I say.
"I decided to make you pay for destroying our future."
"We didn't destroy anything. Trace killed his wife because he's a paranoid psychopath."
"Trace killed his wife because you made him paranoid. Because you killed his father and destabilized his entire organization."
The logic is twisted, but I can see how Jason might believe it. Grief makes people think in ways that don't make sense to anyone else.
Maverick grabs a metal chair from somewhere in the warehouse debris and sets it down hard enough to make Jason flinch.
"Let's cut the bullshit," he says, settling into the chair. "You've been feeding information to Trace for months. Getting our people killed."
"I've been trying to stay alive long enough to avenge the woman I love."
"By betraying the men who treated you like family?"
"By doing whatever it takes to make you pay for what you did to her."
The righteousness in his voice is infuriating. This bastard has been selling us out, getting good men killed, and he thinks he's the victim. Thinks he's some kind of romantic hero instead of a traitor who's chosen revenge over loyalty.
"What exactly did we do to her?" I ask.
"You killed William Harrington. Trace's father. That made Trace paranoid, and made him suspicious of everyone around him. Including Ava."
"William Harrington was a piece of shit who deserved to die."
"He was also the only thing keeping Trace stable. With his father gone, Trace became unhinged. He started seeing enemies everywhere, started questioning everyone's loyalty."
The pieces click into place. William's death destabilized Trace, made him paranoid enough to suspect his own wife. Which led to increased surveillance, increased pressure, and eventually to Ava's murder.
"So this is revenge," I say.
"This is justice."
Maverick punches him in the face, hard enough to snap his head back. Blood streams from Jason's nose, spatters the concrete floor, but he doesn't cry out.
"Justice?" Maverick snarls. "You got Jer killed. Jer, who treated you like a son. Who taught you everything you know about survival. How's that justice?"
"Jer was collateral damage."
The words come out flat, emotionless, like he's discussing the weather instead of the death of the man who saved both our lives.
"Collateral damage?" This time I'm the one hitting him, my fist connecting with his ribs hard enough to hear something crack. "Jer was family. To all of us."
"So was Ava. To me."
"Ava was a lying whore who played every man she met."
"Fuck you!" Jason tries to lunge at me, but the restraints hold him in place. Good thing, because I'm about two seconds away from putting a bullet in his skull and ending this conversation permanently.
"Easy," Henry says from the shadows. "We need information first."
"What information? He's told us everything. He loved Ava, blamed us for her death, and decided to get revenge by working with a madman."
"Not everything," Denis adds, stepping into the light. "Tell us about Trace's plans. What's he planning next?"
Jason spits blood and glares at us with hate-filled eyes. "Why would I tell you anything?"
"Because if you don't, we're going to take a very long time killing you."
"You're going to kill me anyway."
"True. But there are quick deaths and slow deaths. Your choice."
Maverick produces a knife from his jacket and tests the edge against his thumb. A thin line of blood appears, bright red against his pale skin. "I vote for slow."