Page 141 of The Thief
We're in Henry's study, waiting for the mole to surface. The other men have been briefed, sent away with their false information, told to keep quiet about operational details. Now it's just a matter of time.
The waiting is the worst part. Sitting here while somewhere in Dublin, one of our own is probably already on the phone to Trace, reporting whatever lies we fed him. The thought makes my skin crawl.
"What's your gut say?" Stephen asks, pouring himself another whiskey. It's only noon, but these aren't normal circumstances.
"My gut says it's someone closer. Someone we'd never suspect."
"Like who?"
"I don't know. But Sean Murphy's too obvious. If he was selling us out, he'd be better at hiding it. The man wears his emotions on his sleeve."
Stephen leans back in his chair, frustrated. "So we're looking for someone who's a good actor. Someone who can lie to our faces while planning our destruction."
"Exactly."
"That's what makes this so fucked up. Any of these men, we'd have trusted them with our lives. Some of us have trusted them with our lives."
I think about the operations we've run, the jobs we've pulled, the times we've depended on each other for survival. How many of those moments included our traitor? How many times has he sat at our table, drunk our whiskey, and pretended to give a damn about our welfare while calculating how much our secrets were worth?
"Whoever it is," I say, "they've been planning this for months. The payments started three months ago; that's months of systematic betrayal."
"Three months of getting our people killed."
The anger in Stephen's voice matches what I'm feeling. This isn't just about money or territory; it's personal. Someone we trusted has been systematically destroying everything we've built.
My phone buzzes. It’s an unknown number, but the area code makes my blood run cold. Mountjoy Prison. There’s only one reason they'd be calling me.
"I need to take this," I say, stepping into the corridor.
"Freddie Kinnock?"
"Speaking."
"This is Officer Brady from Mountjoy Prison. We have an inmate here requesting to speak with you. Liam Kinnock. Says he's your father."
My father. It’s been fifteen years since I've spoken to him, longer since I've wanted to. Liam Kinnock, career criminal, convicted murderer, the man who taught me how to steal and fight before abandoning me to the streets when I needed him most. The man who chose alcohol and violence over his son, who ended up in prison for armed robbery when I was fourteen. Who then killed a guard during his first stretch, guaranteeing he'd never see freedom again.
"Put him through."
The line crackles, static hissing— institutional phones that have heard a thousand desperate conversations—then a voice I recognize despite the years, despite everything that's happened between us, speaks.
"Freddie? Christ, son, is that really you?"
"It's me." My voice comes out flat, emotionless. Years of practice keeping my feelings locked away. "What do you want?"
"Just to hear your voice. I’ve been trying to reach you for years, but you never answered. You moved on with your life. Can't blame you for that."
He sounds older than I remember. Tired. The sharp edges that made him so dangerous seem worn away by years of prison routine.
"Da." The word feels strange on my tongue. "Why are you calling now?"
"Because I had a visitor yesterday. American fella, well dressed, dangerous. Said he knew you."
My blood turns to ice. Trace. Somehow he found my father, tracked down a connection I haven't acknowledged in over a decade, and used it to get information, or to send a message.
"What was his name?"
"Trace Harrington. Ring any bells?"
