THE BAIT
1572 Words
The word hung in the air like a guillotine blade.
Bait.
Declan stared at Special Agent Reyes across the diner table. The coffee between them had gone cold. The waitress had stopped coming by. The lunch crowd had thinned out, leaving them alone in a bubble of fluorescent light and tension.
"You want me to let them come after me," Declan said.
"I want you to let them think they're coming after you. There's a difference."
"What's the difference?"
"Surveillance. Protection. Control." Reyes pulled a photograph from her file and slid it across the table. "This is our suspect. His name is Marcus Webb. Former patient of Elias Vance. Released three months ago. Supposedly cured."
Declan picked up the photograph.
The man in the image was in his thirties, with a shaved head and cold eyes. He looked like the kind of person who'd learned to hide his emotions behind a mask of stillness.
"Marcus was in the basement," Reyes continued. "For two years. Elias experimented on him. Drugged him. Erased his memories. And then, when Marcus started to remember, Elias convinced him that you were the one responsible."
"Why would Elias do that?"
"Because he needed a weapon. Someone loyal. Someone desperate. Someone who would do anything to get revenge." Reyes leaned back. "Marcus is that weapon. He's the one who's been following you. The sedan. The note. The break-in. It's all him."
Declan set the photograph down. "And you want me to draw him out."
"I want you to give him a target he can't resist. You. Alone. Vulnerable."
"This sounds like a trap."
"It is a trap. But he's the one who'll get caught in it."
---
Reyes laid out the plan over the next thirty minutes.
Declan would go back to his old apartment—the one he'd abandoned after the missing time, the one Marcus had already broken into once before. He'd stay there for three days, living his normal routine, making himself visible.
The FBI would set up surveillance. Cameras. Microphones. Agents in nearby apartments. Reyes would coordinate from a command post across the street.
When Marcus came, they'd be ready.
"And if he doesn't come?" Declan asked.
"Then we try something else."
"How many times have you tried something else?"
Reyes didn't answer.
That was answer enough.
---
Declan called Claire from the parking lot.
"I need to stay in the city for a few days."
"Declan, you said you were coming with us."
"I can't. Not yet."
"What's going on?"
"The FBI has a lead on the person who's been following me. I need to help them."
"That sounds dangerous."
"It is."
"Then why are you doing it?"
"Because if I don't, he'll keep following me. Keep watching. Keep waiting. And eventually, he'll find you. Or Finn." Declan's voice cracked. "I can't let that happen."
Claire was quiet for a long moment.
"Be careful," she said finally.
"I will."
"Come back to us."
"I will."
He hung up and drove to his apartment.
---
The building hadn't changed.
Same cracked sidewalk. Same flickering light in the hallway. Same smell of old coffee and older regret.
Declan unlocked the door and stepped inside.
The apartment was exactly as he'd left it. The bed was unmade. The dishes were in the sink. The photograph of Lara was still on the nightstand—the one that had started everything.
He picked it up.
Her terrified eyes stared back at him.
He set it down and walked to the window.
The street below was quiet. A few cars. A few pedestrians. Nothing unusual.
But somewhere out there, Marcus Webb was watching.
Waiting.
Planning.
Declan pulled the curtains closed.
---
The first day passed without incident.
Declan went through the motions—made coffee, ate breakfast, checked his phone. The FBI had given him a burner phone with a direct line to Reyes. It hadn't rung.
He spent the afternoon cleaning the apartment. Sweeping. Dusting. Organizing. It gave his hands something to do while his mind raced.
At night, he sat in the dark and listened.
The building was old. It creaked. It groaned. Every sound made his heart jump.
But no one came.
---
The second day was harder.
The waiting was worse than the fear. Declan found himself staring at the door, willing it to open, willing Marcus to appear, willing the waiting to end.
He called Finn.
"How's Oregon?" he asked.
"It's rainy. Aunt Sarah has a dog. A big one. He slobbers."
Declan smiled. "Sounds like fun."
"Are you coming soon?"
"Soon, buddy. I promise."
"Dad?"
"Yeah?"
"I miss you."
"I miss you too, Finn. More than you know."
He hung up before his voice could break.
---
The third day.
Declan woke at dawn. He'd barely slept. The sheets were tangled around his legs. His head throbbed.
He showered. Ate. Checked his phone.
Still nothing.
Maybe Reyes was wrong. Maybe Marcus had moved on. Maybe the note was just a scare tactic, a way to keep him off balance.
He walked to the window and pulled the curtain aside.
The street was empty.
But the sedan was there.
Parked across the road, engine off, windows dark.
Declan's heart stopped.
He reached for the burner phone.
He's here, he texted Reyes.
We see him, she replied. Stay where you are. Don't engage.
Declan stepped back from the window.
The minutes crawled by.
He watched the sedan through the crack in the curtains. No movement. No lights. No signs of life.
And then the door to the sedan opened.
A man got out.
Shaved head. Cold eyes. The same face from the photograph.
Marcus Webb.
He looked up at Declan's window.
And he smiled.
---
Declan's phone buzzed.
He's coming inside. Get to the back of the apartment. Stay away from the door.
Declan moved to the kitchen, his back against the wall, his eyes on the front door.
Footsteps in the hallway.
Slow. Deliberate. The footsteps of someone who knew he wasn't being followed.
A knock on the door.
Three sharp raps.
"Declan Cole," Marcus said through the wood. "I know you're in there."
Declan didn't answer.
"I'm not here to hurt you. I'm here to talk."
Still no answer.
"I was in the basement. Just like you. Elias experimented on me. Erased my memories. Made me forget who I was." Marcus's voice was calm. Measured. "But I remembered. Just like you. And now I know the truth."
"What truth?" Declan asked.
"That Elias didn't just experiment on us. He used us. Made us into weapons. Made us into tools." Marcus paused. "He made me into a killer."
Declan's blood ran cold. "Who did you kill?"
"Does it matter? They're dead. That's all that matters."
"Why are you telling me this?"
"Because I want you to understand. I'm not the monster. Neither are you. We're both victims."
"Victims don't leave threatening notes in people's houses."
"Victims don't break into psychiatric hospitals and assault doctors either. But you did." Marcus's voice hardened. "We're the same, Declan. We both did terrible things. We both tried to forget. And we both failed."
Declan walked to the door.
"Don't open it," Reyes said through the burner phone. "Declan, don't—"
He opened the door.
Marcus stood in the hallway.
Up close, he looked older than his photograph. Lines around his eyes. Scars on his hands. The smile was gone, replaced by something that might have been exhaustion.
"You shouldn't have opened the door," Marcus said.
"Neither should you."
Marcus tilted his head. "The FBI is across the street. I know. I saw them."
"Then why did you come?"
"Because I wanted you to hear it from me. I'm not the one you need to be afraid of." He reached into his coat.
Declan tensed.
Marcus pulled out a folded piece of paper. "Elias is going to be released. Not tomorrow. Not next week. But soon. His lawyers found a loophole. Something about the way the evidence was obtained."
"That's impossible."
"Nothing's impossible when you have money and power." Marcus held out the paper. "Read it. Then decide if you still want to be bait."
Declan took the paper.
It was a legal document. A court order. Elias Vance was being transferred to a federal facility pending a new hearing.
A new hearing.
That meant a chance at release.
Declan looked up. Marcus was already walking away.
"Wait," Declan said.
Marcus stopped.
"Why are you helping me?"
"Because I've spent three years doing Elias's dirty work. Killing his enemies. Stalking his targets. And I'm tired." Marcus looked back. "I'm tired of being a weapon. I'm tired of being used. I'm tired of being empty."
"So you're turning yourself in?"
"I'm turning myself in. To the FBI. To Reyes." He smiled—a sad, broken smile. "I'm done running."
Declan watched him walk down the hallway.
Then he closed the door and called Reyes.
"Marcus is coming to you," Declan said. "He wants to turn himself in."
"I saw. We're ready."
"Did you know? About Elias's transfer?"
A pause.
"We found out this morning. I was going to tell you."
Declan's jaw tightened. "You should have told me sooner."
"I know. I'm sorry."
"What happens now?"
"Now we regroup. We fight. We make sure Elias never sees the outside of a prison cell."
Declan looked at the legal document in his hand.
The fight wasn't over.
It had just begun.
- Writer
