Page 175 of Mason

She’s gone before I can answer.

And I stand there, in a house without bourbon, holding a list of places to rebuild the pieces of myself I’ve ignored for too long.

It’s a start.

And for the first time in a long time, I want to try.

45

MASON

My phone sits on the nightstand. Screen dark. No new messages. No missed calls. Nothing from Shelby.

She’s gone quiet since the bridge. I don’t blame her.

I’ve played that moment in my head a thousand times—her eyes when I pulled her from the blood-soaked concrete, when I pressed my hands to her wound and begged the universe not to take her from me.

But that wasn’t the worst part.

The worst part was watching her look at me likeImight be the thing she has to run from too.

So I let her go.

Not because I want to.

Because I owe her the space to heal without me bleeding all over her peace.

Because this time, love isn't about holding on—it’s about stepping back long enough to become the kind of man she won’t have to survive.

I clench my jaw and rise. My muscles ache from tension, not time. My chest is raw where hope tried to bloom and got crushed under the weight of reality.

I can’t fix what’s broken between us right now.

But I can do something else.

I canmake sure Ghost walks out of that prison alive.

The plan’s already in motion, every moving piece a product of months of quiet, deadly coordination. The world think Ghost is rotting in a cell, forgotten and useless. They think they’re safe from his brand of madness. That’s their first mistake.

And the Feds?

They knowsomethingis coming. But not this.

I slide on my shoulder holster. The gun settles against my ribs like it belongs there. Maybe it always did.

I tuck the burner phone into my pocket. I grab my jacket. I leave my doubt behind.

Because here’s the truth: I can’t change what’s happened. I can’t erase the pain I’ve caused others. I can’t chase after Shelby when she doesn’t know where the hell she’s going yet.

But I can control what comes next.

And what comes next is blood, fire, and freedom.

By the time I step into the war room, the plan is already in motion.

The place hums with low voices and quiet tension. Screens line the walls, showing live feeds from every angle of Ford Penitentiary—long concrete hallways, barred cells, yards swallowed in shadow.

Kanyan and Brando are locked in, eyes on the monitors, fingers twitching near the controls like they’re waiting for a trigger.

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