Page 63 of Infamous
“He’s still protective of her,” I say, quieter now. “And that’s a good thing. It means there’s something left of the man, not just the myth. And we need that balance, or we’re no better than the ones we hunt.”
Scar walks to the table, palms braced on the edge. “You know what I’m afraid of?”
I wait.
“His proximity to Nadia. That kind of attention brings heat. Questions. Someone starts connecting dots, and it’s not just him that burns - it’s us. People start asking the wrong questions, the whole empire gets dragged down with him.”
I can’t help the sound that escapes me; half-laugh, half-scoff. “Scar, even DNA couldn’t prove Ghost and Jude Mercer are the same man.”
That gets his attention. He looks up, brows drawn. “What the hell are you talking about?”
I grin, stepping closer, letting the cigarette smoke curl between us. “You remember that riot in Ford Penitentiary? The one that conveniently left nothing but bones?”
Scar nods slowly.
“Those bones weren’t his,” I say. “We switched his DNA out years ago. Every database, every blood sample, every goddamn file that ever bore his name. What’s left of Lucian Cross was buried with a John Doe we pulled from the morgue - a man who was already dead before the fire even started. We plantedhisDNA at the scene.”
Scar blinks, processing, then a low whistle leaves his lips. “You son of a bitch.”
I smirk. “It’s what I do.”
He stares at me for a beat longer, and then - finally - his shoulders drop, almost in defeat. Some of the tension bleeds out of him. “You’re telling me the man walking around out there doesn’t exist in any system on Earth?”
“Not a single one.”
Scar exhales, almost a laugh. “You know, Mason… sometimes I forget how dangerous it is having you on our side.”
“That’s the point.”
Silence stretches, comfortable now. Then Scar straightens, all business again. “Call Brando,” he says finally. “Take Jude to the zoo.”
A slow grin spreads across my face. “That what you really want?”
Scar meets my eyes. “That’s what needs to be done.”
“Copy that,” I say, turning for the door.
As I step into the hall, I can feel it - the shift. The calm before the kind of storm that leaves bodies in its wake.
I pull my phone from my pocket, already dialing Brando’s number.
“Bring your tools,” I say when he answers. “Scar’s given the green light.”
A pause. Then Brando’s voice, low and eager: “We feeding the animals tonight?”
“Yeah,” I murmur, a grin ghosting across my mouth. “And this time, they get fresh meat.”
40
LUCIAN
The irony isn’t lost on me.
Finding afamily- if that’s what this is - who don’t blink at what’s broken in you.
Men who don’t try to fix it, or pretend not to see it - they just nod like they’ve seen worse.
They carry your shit the same way they carry their scars - quietly, and without ceremony.
