Page 164 of The Thief
"Good. How long have I got?"
"As long as you need. Maverick's keeping him conscious. Alastríona gave him a good whack over the head."
"And the others?"
"Stephen's coordinating with our people, making sure we haven't missed any of Trace's men. Emmanuel's checking security footage, trying to figure out where they are."
"Any word on casualties?"
Denis' face hardens. "Three of our men dead. Two more in hospital. Trace brought a full team."
Three good men dead because a madman wanted revenge for crimes that existed only in his twisted mind. I add them to the list of people Trace will answer for.
"I need to go," I say.
"Freddie." Denis catches my arm as I turn toward the door. "Don't lose yourself in there. Alastríona's going to need you when this is over."
"I know."
"Do you? Because right now you look like a man planning to do things he might not come back from."
He's not wrong. The rage building in my chest is cold, focused, the kind that makes men do terrible things. Trace killed Henry. Terrorized Tríona. Destroyed everything good we've been trying to build.
He deserves everything I'm planning to do to him.
"I'll be fine," I say.
"Will you? Because there's a difference between justice and revenge. One serves the living, the other just feeds the darkness."
"Sometimes they're the same thing."
"And sometimes they're not. Just remember what you've got to lose."
The warehouse is exactly as we left it after dealing with Jason. Concrete floors, rusted machinery, the kind of place where screams echo but don't carry beyond the walls.
Maverick's waiting for me when I arrive, a cigarette dangling from his lips, and blood on his knuckles. He looks up when I walk in and nods toward the center of the space.
"He's awake. Mostly."
Trace is zip-tied to the same chair we used for Jason, his head lolling to one side, blood crusted in his hair. But his eyes are open, aware, tracking my movement as I approach.
"Freddie Kinnock," he says, voice slurred but coherent. "The thief himself."
"Trace."
"Come to avenge your grandfather-in-law? How touching."
I hit him. Hard enough to snap his head sideways, hard enough to split his lip. Blood spatters on the concrete floor.
"Let's establish some ground rules," I say. "You speak when I ask you a question. You shut the fuck up otherwise."
"Or what? You'll hurt me? I'm already dying, boy. Nothing you do to me matters."
"We'll see about that."
Maverick moves to stand behind Trace's chair and produces a knife from his jacket. The blade gleams under the harsh warehouse lights, sharp enough to cut through bone.
"Where do you want to start?" Maverick asks.
