Page 157 of The Thief
They've found us.
And Freddie's not here to protect me.
The sound of breaking glass echoes through the house, followed by shouting and gunfire. Henry's men are engaging the enemy, trying to hold them off.
I press my back against the wall beside my window, knife ready, and wait. Wait for footsteps on the stairs, for doors to splinter, for the moment when hiding becomes fighting. There's a hurley stick right beside me. My fingers clench around the handle. I'm ready for whatever happens next.
Dad's voice echoes in my mind: When the time comes, mo stór, you'll know what to do. Trust your instincts.
My instincts are screaming that this is it. The final confrontation, the end of everything we've been building toward.
And I'm facing it alone.
The gunfire stops abruptly, leaving a silence that's somehow worse than the chaos. I strain to listen, pressing my ear against the door.
Footsteps. Heavy boots on hardwood floors, moving with purpose through the house below. Too many of them, too coordinated. Henry's men are either dead or overwhelmed.
Then I hear his voice. Smooth, cultured, American. The voice from the phone calls, from my nightmares.
Trace Harrington.
"Hello, Henry. You look older than your photos."
"Trace." Henry's voice is steady, controlled. No fear, just cold professionalism. "Took you long enough to work up the courage for a face-to-face meeting."
"Courage? This isn't about courage. This is about justice."
"Justice?" Henry laughs, the sound echoing up the stairs. "You killed your pregnant wife, and you want to talk about justice?"
"I protected my family. From people like you."
"You murdered an innocent woman because you're a paranoid psychopath who can't tell reality from delusion."
I creep to the top of the stairs, staying low, trying to see what's happening below. Through the banister rails, I can make out shapes moving in the entrance hall. Henry’s standing near the bottom of the stairs, positioning himself between me and whatever's coming up.
He's protecting me. Even now, even knowing he's outnumbered and outgunned, he's putting himself between his granddaughter and danger.
"Where is she?" Trace asks.
"Who?"
"Don't play games with me, old man. Your granddaughter. Killian's daughter. The girl who thinks she can hide from what's coming."
"What makes you think she's here?"
"Because you're here. Because men like you don't abandon family, even when staying means dying."
"She's not here," Henry says calmly.
"Bullshit. I can smell her fear from here. Not to mention all the guards you’ve got around this place. Guards who are dying as we speak."
"What you smell is your own madness. Three psychiatric hospitalizations, wasn't it? Maybe you should have stayed for the fourth. And as for the guards, they may be dead, but so are the men you brought with you. Can’t you hear that, Trace? There’s no one here but you and I. Your men are dead. It’s only you left."
Silence stretches for a moment. When Trace speaks again, his voice is different. Harder, less controlled.
"You don't know what you're talking about."
"Don't I? Paranoid personality disorder with psychotic features. That's what your doctors called it. Delusions of persecution, violent ideation, complete disconnection from reality."
