Page 100 of The Thief
"Marcus. He must have known about it, told them where to look before he died. Fuck."
"But we were just at his house.”
“Too late, the damage was already done before we got there.”
"Then we're walking into a trap."
Maverick floors the accelerator, pushing his BMW well past legal limits. Dublin's morning traffic blurs past as we race toward Henry's safe house, toward the woman I love, who may already be in mortal danger.
I try calling the house. No answer.
Try calling Henry. Straight to voicemail.
"Fuck," I breathe.
"Easy," Maverick says. "Could be anything. Maybe they're just not answering unknown numbers."
But we both know better. In our world, when phones go unanswered, it usually means something's gone very wrong.
The safe house comes into view, looking exactly as we left it. No signs of forced entry, no obvious damage. But something feels off, wrong in a way I can't put my finger on.
"You armed?" Maverick asks.
"Always."
"Good. Because I think we're about to need it."
We approach the house carefully, weapons drawn, watching for any sign of movement. The front door is unlocked, which immediately sets off alarm bells.
Inside, silence.
Too much silence.
"Alastríona?" I call out.
No answer.
We clear the ground floor room by room, finding nothing. No signs of struggle, no evidence of violence. Just an empty house where three people should be.
Upstairs, the bedroom where I left Alastríona is empty. Bed unmade, my note still on the nightstand. But no sign of her.
"Henry's room," Maverick says.
We find Henry at the bottom of the stairs, blood seeping from a head wound. He's breathing, pulse steady, but he's been out for a while.
"Henry," I say, checking his pupils. "Can you hear me?"
He stirs, trying to focus on my face. "Freddie?"
"Yeah, it's me. What happened?"
"They came..." He tries to sit up but winces in pain. "Three men. Took her."
"Where?"
"I don't know. They knocked me out, took Alastríona. Said... said Trace wants to meet with you."
"Meet where?"
