Page 118 of The Thief
"We?" Maverick asks, his brows furrowing.
"I'm going with you."
"Me too," Emmanuel adds.
"No," Maverick says, his voice firm, final. "This is a stealth job, not an assault. Too many people and we'll blow our cover."
"So who goes?"
"Freddie and I will be going. We get in, gather intelligence, and get out. No heroics, no confrontations. We need you to stay here and take care of Lisa and Alastríona."
"And if you run into Trace?"
"Then we adapt. But the primary objective is information, not revenge."
I nod, adrenaline coursing through me. This is what I do. What I thrive on. "When do we leave?"
"Now. Every minute we wait is another minute he could disappear."
"You think one of us is the leak?" Maverick asks as we navigate winding country roads.
"Hope not. But someone's been feeding Trace information, and it's someone with access."
"Could be external. Surveillance, hacking, someone we haven't considered."
"Could be. But my gut says it's internal."
"Who's your top suspect?"
I consider the question. "I'm not sure. I don't think it's one of us. It’s more than likely another person within the Gallagher organization."
"What about the others?"
"Stephen's been my brother for fifteen years. Emmanuel's your best friend. Then there's you..."
"What about me?"
"You're sitting in a car with me, planning to break into Trace's safe house. If you were the leak, this would be the perfect time to spring a trap. But you're Jer's nephew. This is personal for you, more so than anyone. There's no way you'd betray us. Whether you like it or not, Mav, we're brothers, and that means something."
"It means fucking everything," he says thickly. "I agree. I don't think it's Stephen or Emmanuel. There's no way they'd do this. But when I find out who the fuck it is, I'm going to kill them."
We're quiet for the rest of the drive, both lost in our own thoughts. The address Lorenzo gave us leads to a farmhouse surrounded by empty fields. Isolated, defensible, perfect for a man who needs to stay hidden.
"Surveillance?" Maverick asks as we park a mile away.
"Brief. Just enough to confirm it's occupied, then we go in."
He nods, and then we move stealthily along the perimeter. The farmhouse shows signs of recent habitation. Fresh tire tracks in the dirt, lights on in several windows, smoke rising from the chimney. Someone's definitely here.
"Two guards," Maverick observes through binoculars. "Front and back. Professionals but not military."
"Security system?"
"Basic. Motion sensors, cameras—nothing we can't handle."
"Right. We go in quietly, gather what we can, and leave no trace."
The approach takes twenty minutes, moving through the surrounding fields to avoid the guards' sight lines. Getting inside is easier than expected; the security system is designed to keep out casual intruders, not professionals.
