Page 148 of The Thief
His resignation is almost worse than if he'd tried to fight or run. It suggests he's made peace with whatever's coming, which means he thinks he's justified in what he's done.
"Pack faster," Maverick says. "We're taking a trip."
"Where to?"
"Somewhere quiet. Somewhere we can have a proper conversation."
Jason nods and zips up his bag. "The warehouse on the south side?"
"You know about that?"
"I know about a lot of things."
He's right, of course. As part of Jer's crew, Jason had access to our safe houses, our meeting places, our operational procedures. Which means he's probably told Trace about all of them.
"Car's outside," I say. "Move."
The warehouse is exactly what we need; isolated, soundproof, somewhere we won’t be disturbed.
Henry and Denis are already here when we arrive, waiting in the shadows like judges at a trial. They must have come straight from the safe house and set up the space; made sure we wouldn't be interrupted.
The building is massive, filled with rusted machinery and the ghosts of whatever legitimate business once operated here. Now it's just another Dublin graveyard, a place where problems get solved permanently.
"Sit," Maverick orders, pointing to a wooden crate in the center of the space.
Jason complies without argument. The Jason I knew was always clean-shaven, always put together. This man has stubble, hollow cheeks, and the look of someone who hasn't been sleeping.
"Comfortable?" I ask.
"I've been better."
"You'll be worse before this is over."
Maverick produces zip ties from his jacket and secures Jason's hands behind his back. Professional restraints, the kind that won't break no matter how hard you struggle.
"This really necessary?" Jason asks.
"Given that you've been betraying us for months? Yeah, it's necessary."
The warehouse is empty except for old machinery and the smell of rust. Perfect place for what we need to do. The acoustics are good too; sound carries well enough for conversation but won't escape the building.
"So," I say, settling into my own crate across from him. "How long have you been working for Trace?"
"Since October. But it's not what you think."
"Isn't it? Because from where I'm standing, it looks like you've been selling us out for months. Getting good men killed for money."
Jason's laugh is bitter, hollow. "I've been trying to survive. Trying to protect the woman I love."
The words hang in the air like smoke. Protect the woman he loves. Not loved; loves. Present tense.
"What woman?" But even as I ask, I think I already know.
"Ava."
The name hits the room like a physical blow. Ava, dead for months, pregnant when she died. The woman who started this war, who played games none of us understood until it was too late.
"Ava's dead," I say, stating the obvious.
