Chapter 27 #2
"You know what's funny?" he says, his voice suddenly calm despite the blood and pain.
"What?"
"You think this is about winning. About justice. About protecting the people you love."
"Isn't it?"
"No. This is about understanding that love is a weakness. That caring about people makes you vulnerable. That everyone you've ever loved will die, and there's nothing you can do to stop it."
His laugh starts low, building to something hysterical. Blood sprays from his mouth with each cackle.
"Your mentor died bleeding in the street. Henry died protecting someone who couldn't save him. And your precious Alastríona? She's next."
I hit him again, hard enough to split my knuckles. But he keeps laughing, even as more teeth break, even as his face swells beyond recognition.
"You can't stop it! You can't save them all! Everyone you love dies, Freddie, and it's all your fault!"
He's completely broken now, lost in whatever hell his mind has constructed. The laughter turns to sobbing, then back to laughter, then to something that might be singing.
"Look at him," Maverick says quietly. "There's nothing left."
He's right. Whatever information Trace might have had, whatever plans he might have revealed, they’re locked away behind eyes that no longer see reality. We're not going to get anything useful from him now.
I produce my gun, check the chamber. One bullet, clean and quick. More mercy than he deserves, but I'm not him. I don't torture for pleasure.
"Wait," Trace says, suddenly lucid again, his broken voice cutting through the warehouse air. "There's something you need to know."
"What?"
"About your girlfriend. About what's coming for her."
"She's safe."
"Is she? Because I've got men who know where she is right now. Men who will finish what I started if I don't check in."
Something cold settles in my stomach. But it's a bluff. Has to be. Trace is dying, desperate, saying anything to buy himself more time.
Still, I pull out my phone and dial Tríona's number. It rings once, twice, three times.
No answer.
"She’s probably still sleeping," Maverick says. "After what she's been through."
"Probably," Trace agrees, blood making his words wet and slurred. "Or maybe she's got other things on her mind. Like the men surrounding the house right now."
"You're lying."
"Am I? How many security guards did Henry have posted? Six? Eight? You think that's enough to stop a determined assault?"
My blood runs cold. He's playing mind games.
But what if he's not? What if this whole interrogation was just a distraction while other teams moved into position?
"Call Denis," I tell Maverick.
He's already dialing. The phone rings for what feels like an eternity before Denis picks up.
"Everything okay there?" Maverick asks.
I can't hear Denis' response, but I see Maverick's eyes flick to mine as he gives me a subtle nod.
"We won't be much longer," Maverick says, hanging up.
"He's full of shit," I summarize.
"He's full of shit. The fucker's spouting nonsense to try and save his ass."
The madness in Trace's eyes flickers with something that might be satisfaction. "Tick tock, Freddie. Are you going to go to her, to try to save her?"
The gun in my hand is pressed against Trace's bloody forehead, safety off, my finger on the trigger.
"You're full of shit. Do you think we're stupid?"
His laughter is maniacal. "Smart man. I thought you'd run to her."
"So you can escape? Never. You're going to die here, Trace, and there's no one left to help you."
His laughter turns desperate, unhinged. "You think you've won? You think killing me ends anything?"
"I think it ends you. And that's enough."
But I don't pull the trigger. Not yet. This bastard has taken too much from us, caused too much pain. A bullet is too quick, too clean for what he deserves.
"Maverick," I say quietly.
"Yeah?"
"How long can we keep him conscious?"
"As long as you want."
Trace's eyes widen as understanding dawns. The bravado, the madness, all of it cracking as genuine fear seeps in.
"You can't," he whispers. "I'm a United States citizen. I have rights—"
"You lost your rights when you murdered Jerry and Henry," I cut him off. "When you terrorized an innocent woman. When you started a war that got good men killed."
"Please—"
"Did you show mercy to any of your victims? Did you hesitate when you put a knife in Henry's chest?"
Maverick's already moving, selecting tools from the workbench. Pliers, wire cutters, things that will cause maximum pain without killing quickly.
"Let's start with the fingers," I say. "One joint at a time."
The pliers close around Trace's pinky finger. The sound of breaking bone is sharp, distinct. His scream echoes off the warehouse walls, raw and desperate.
"That's for Jer," I say.
The next finger. Another break, another scream.
"That's for Henry."
By the time we reach his thumb, Trace is sobbing. Blood and snot stream down his face as he begs for mercy that will never come.
"Please, I'll tell you anything you want to know—"
"We don't need to know anything else. This isn't about information anymore."
Maverick moves to his other hand. The pattern repeats; bone breaking, screams echoing, justice being served one piece at a time.
Trace's screams turn to whimpers, then to something that might be praying. But there's no God here, no salvation for monsters.
"Stop," he gasps. "Please, just kill me. End it."
"End it?" I lean close enough to smell his fear. "This is just the beginning."
The wire cutters find his toes next. Ten little piggies that will never go to market again. Each cut is precise, calculated to cause maximum agony.
Trace passes out twice. Maverick slaps him awake each time, makes sure he feels every moment of what we're doing to him.
"How does it feel?" I ask during one of his lucid moments. "To know you're dying piece by piece? To know that no one's coming to save you?"
"Fuck... you..."
"Wrong answer."
The knife finds his kneecap this time. Not deep enough to sever anything vital, just deep enough to grind against bone and cartilage. His shriek is inhuman.
"This is for Tríona," I say. "For every nightmare you gave her. For every moment of fear you put in her life."
We work systematically, professionally. Breaking what can be broken, cutting what can be cut, ensuring that every nerve in his body screams in agony.
By the end, Trace is barely recognizable as human. A broken, bloody thing that whimpers and pleads in languages that might not even be English anymore.
"Any last words?" I ask, pressing my gun against his temple.
He tries to speak, but only blood comes out. His eyes are glassy, unfocused, lost in a hell of our making.
"Didn't think so."
I pull the trigger. The shot echoes through the warehouse, final and absolute.
Trace Harrington slumps forward, held up only by the restraints. Dead at last, payment extracted for every life he took, every heart he broke.
"Feel better?" Maverick asks.
"No. But it's finished."
We leave him there for others to clean up. Let them see what happens to men who declare war on family, who think they can terrorize innocent people without consequence.
The drive back to Henry's house is quiet. Both of us processing what we've done, what it means, what comes next.
"Think it was enough?" Maverick asks as we pull into the driveway.
"For Henry? For Jer? For all the others?" I consider the question. "Nothing could ever be enough. But it's what we had to give."
"And now?"
"Now we go home. We hold the people we love. We rebuild what he tried to destroy."
Because that's what matters in the end. Not the violence, not the revenge, but what we protect. Who we save. What we build from the ashes of our enemies.
Trace Harrington is dead. His war is over.
Time to start living again.