Page 167 of The Thief
"Do I? You killed my father. You took my wife. You destroyed my family's legacy. Sounds pretty fucking real to me."
"Your wife left you because you're a monster. Your father died because he tried to take what wasn't his. Your family's legacy is blood and madness."
"My family's legacy is power!"
He's screaming now, straining against the restraints so hard the zip ties cut into his wrists. Blood runs down his arms and pools on the floor. The facade of control is completely gone, replaced by pure rage and insanity.
"Power that you pissed away," Maverick says, pulling the knife from Trace's leg and examining the wound. "Power that died with you."
"I'm not dead yet."
"No," I agree. "But you will be."
But even as I say it, something changes in Trace's expression. The madness doesn't leave, but it reshapes itself into something else. Something that looks almost like clarity.
"You know what's funny?" he says, his voice suddenly calm despite the blood and pain.
"What?"
"You think this is about winning. About justice. About protecting the people you love."
"Isn't it?"
"No. This is about understanding that love is a weakness. That caring about people makes you vulnerable. That everyone you've ever loved will die, and there's nothing you can do to stop it."
His laugh starts low, building to something hysterical. Blood sprays from his mouth with each cackle.
"Your mentor died bleeding in the street. Henry died protecting someone who couldn't save him. And your precious Alastríona? She's next."
I hit him again, hard enough to split my knuckles. But he keeps laughing, even as more teeth break, even as his face swells beyond recognition.
"You can't stop it! You can't save them all! Everyone you love dies, Freddie, and it's all your fault!"
He's completely broken now, lost in whatever hell his mind has constructed. The laughter turns to sobbing, then back to laughter, then to something that might be singing.
"Look at him," Maverick says quietly. "There's nothing left."
He's right. Whatever information Trace might have had, whatever plans he might have revealed, they’re locked away behind eyes that no longer see reality. We're not going to get anything useful from him now.
I produce my gun, check the chamber. One bullet, clean and quick. More mercy than he deserves, but I'm not him. I don't torture for pleasure.
"Wait," Trace says, suddenly lucid again, his broken voice cutting through the warehouse air. "There's something you need to know."
"What?"
"About your girlfriend. About what's coming for her."
"She's safe."
"Is she? Because I've got men who know where she is right now. Men who will finish what I started if I don't check in."
Something cold settles in my stomach. But it's a bluff. Has to be. Trace is dying, desperate, saying anything to buy himself more time.
Still, I pull out my phone and dial Tríona's number. It rings once, twice, three times.
No answer.
"She’s probably still sleeping," Maverick says. "After what she's been through."
