Chapter 13The Bait

The motel room smelled of bleach and old cigarettes. Vera pressed the phone to her ear, listening to the hollow ring on the other end. Her fingers left damp prints on the receiver.

*Pick up, Leo. Pick up.*

The fluorescent light buzzed overhead. Morgan sat on the edge of the stained bed, massaging her temples with both hands. Her face had gone the color of old paper.

The call went to voicemail.

Vera hung up without leaving a message. She tried again, a different number this time—a backup she hadn't used in three years. The line clicked, then nothing.

“No one answers at two in the morning,” Morgan said quietly.

“Leo owes me. He always answers.”

“Maybe he already did. To Marcus.”

The words landed like a punch. Vera stared at the phone in her hand—cheap plastic, prepaid, bought from a bodega two hours ago. If Leo had flipped, every number she knew was a trap waiting to spring.

She sat down on the bed beside Morgan, close enough to feel the heat coming off her skin. Morgan's hand moved from her temple to her neck, and Vera caught the slight tremor in her fingers.

“When did you last take your medication?”

“Doesn't matter.”

“Morgan.”

“It makes me drowsy. I need to think.” Morgan turned to look at her, and in the dim light, her eyes looked too bright, almost feverish. “We can't stay here. Marcus has resources we don't. He has a cop in his pocket, maybe more.”

“Then we stop running.”

Morgan's eyebrows rose. “You have a plan.”

It wasn't a question. Vera felt the words forming in her throat—the same cold calculations she'd made a hundred times for other clients. *Target: Marcus. Method: psychological manipulation. Endgame: confession.*

But this wasn't a job. This was Morgan's life.

“I know how he thinks,” Vera said slowly. “Because I used to think the same way. He wants to make me suffer. That means he'll come if I call.”

“No.”

“Listen—”

“I said no.” Morgan's voice cracked. She stood up, walked to the window, and pulled the curtain aside to peer at the empty street. “You think I don't see what you're doing? You want to trade yourself for me. That's not a plan, Vera. That's a suicide note.”

“It's not suicide. It's strategy.”

Morgan turned. Her hand pressed against the window frame, knuckles white. “I have four months. Maybe less. I'm not spending them watching you destroy yourself trying to save me.”

The words hung between them, sharp and final.

Vera stood. She crossed the room slowly, each step measured, until she stood inches from Morgan. She could see the pulse beating in her throat.

“I ruined my sister's life,” Vera said, her voice barely above a whisper. “I set a chain of events in motion that got her killed. I can't undo that. But I can stop Marcus from taking you too.”

“That's guilt talking.”

“No. It's love.”

The word escaped before Vera could catch it. She saw Morgan's breath catch, saw the flash of something raw and wounded in her eyes.

“Then prove it,” Morgan said. “Don't die for me. Live for me. Figure out another way.”

Vera's hand moved before she thought about it—fingers brushing against Morgan's, hesitant, questioning. Morgan's fingers curled around hers.

“There is another way,” Vera said. “But I need you to trust me.”

---

The safe house was a third-floor walk-up in a building that had been condemned twice. Vera had used it once, four years ago, to hide a client's mistress from a vengeful husband. The lock was still broken. The windows were painted shut.

Inside, the furniture was draped in white sheets. Dust motes floated in the beam of Vera's phone flashlight.

She found the cache behind a loose floorboard in the kitchen: a burner phone, three thousand in cash, and a spare set of keys to a storage unit she'd rented under a fake name.

“Always prepared,” Morgan said from the doorway.

“Paranoia pays.”

Vera activated the burner. The screen glowed to life, showing three missed calls from an unknown number. She stared at it, heart hammering.

*Leo, trying to call back? Or Marcus, tracing her footsteps?*

She called the one number she still remembered—a former associate who owed her a favor so large it had become an unspoken debt. The line rang twice before a raspy voice answered.

“Yeah?”

“It's Vera. I need information.”

Silence. Then: “You got a lot of nerve calling this number.”

“I know. But I'm out of options.”

Another long pause. Vera could hear the man breathing, could picture him sitting in his cramped office surrounded by monitors and frequency scanners.

“Marcus is holed up in Red Hook,” the voice finally said. “Warehouse on Van Brunt. But he's not working alone.”

“I know. A cop.”

“You know about Reeves?”

The name hit like a splash of cold water. Detective Reeves. The same Reeves who had investigated her sister's death and called it a suicide within forty-eight hours.

“He's the one feeding Marcus intel,” the voice continued. “They've got history. Something about a brother.”

“What brother?”

“Marcus had a younger brother. Worked for Richard Cole. After Cole's marriage fell apart, he started cleaning house. The brother ended up dead. Marcus blames The Unraveler.”

Vera's hand tightened on the phone. *Richard Cole. The job that started everything. The job that killed her sister.*

“You still there?” the voice asked.

“I'm here. Do you have an address for Reeves?”

“You're not thinking of going after a cop, are you?”

“I'm thinking of ending this.”

The line went silent. When the voice spoke again, it was softer. “Van Brunt, number 47. But Vera? If you go there, don't expect backup. Everyone's scared of Marcus. He's got nothing left to lose.”

The call ended.

Vera stood in the dusty kitchen, the burner phone still pressed to her ear. Morgan watched from the doorway, arms crossed, face unreadable.

“Reeves,” Vera said. “The detective who handled my sister's case. He's Marcus's inside man.”

“So Marcus has been planning this for years.”

“Since before I knew his name.”

Morgan stepped into the room. She took the phone from Vera's hand and set it on the counter. Then she took Vera's face in both hands, forcing her to meet her eyes.

“We do this together,” Morgan said. “Or we don't do it at all.”

Vera wanted to argue. Every instinct screamed at her to push Morgan away, to protect her, to shoulder the danger alone. But the warmth of Morgan's palms against her cheeks, the steady certainty in her gaze—it made the words die in her throat.

“Together,” Vera agreed.

---

They found the warehouse an hour before dawn. Red Hook was silent, the streets empty except for a stray cat that darted between trash bins. Vera parked the stolen car three blocks away, and they made their way on foot, keeping to shadows.

From a rooftop across the street, they watched.

The warehouse had a single light burning on the second floor. Figures moved behind the grimy windows—two of them, maybe three.

Vera raised the camera she'd bought from a pawn shop. The zoom was weak, but it was enough.

She saw Marcus first, pacing near the window. Then a second figure stepped into view, broader, wearing a police uniform.

Detective Reeves.

Morgan's hand found hers in the darkness. Her skin was cold, trembling slightly.

“We have them,” Morgan whispered.

“We have proof they're connected. That's not enough.”

Vera lowered the camera. She watched Marcus stop pacing, watched him gesture angrily at Reeves. The cop shrugged, indifferent.

*He doesn't care,* Vera realized. *He's just a tool Marcus is using.*

The real threat was the man who had nothing left to lose.

She turned to Morgan, the plan forming in her mind. It was reckless. It was dangerous. It was the only play she had.

“I'm going to draw him out.”

Morgan's grip tightened. “We talked about this.”

“We talked about doing it together. And we will.” Vera met her eyes. “But Marcus needs to think he's winning. He needs to believe I've broken.”

“You want to pretend to surrender.”

“I want to give him exactly what he asked for. A chance to watch me lose you.” Vera pulled out the burner phone. “But I'll be the one controlling the stage.”

She typed the message slowly, each word deliberate:

*You want me to watch? Then let's meet. Just you and me.*

She sent it before she could second-guess herself.

The reply came thirty seconds later.

*Where.*

Vera looked at Morgan. The wind whipped her hair across her face, and in the gray pre-dawn light, she looked fragile and fierce all at once.

“Abandoned pier on the Hudson,” Vera said. “Midnight tomorrow.”

“He'll bring an army.”

“He'll bring Reeves.” Vera slipped the phone into her pocket. “But he'll come alone to the meeting. He's too arrogant not to.”

Morgan stared at her for a long moment. Then she stepped closer, close enough that Vera could feel her breath warm against her lips.

“If we survive this,” Morgan said, “I want more than four months.”

Vera's heart stopped.

“What are you saying?”

“I'm saying I've spent my whole life being careful. Protecting Julian. Managing expectations. Never taking risks.” Morgan's voice dropped to a whisper. “I don't want to die careful.”

Vera kissed her.

It was soft at first, tentative—two women standing on the edge of something terrifying. But Morgan's hands found her waist, pulling her closer, and the kiss deepened into something desperate and real.

When they broke apart, Vera's cheeks were wet.

“I don't know how to do this,” she admitted. “I've spent years pushing people away. I don't know how to let someone in.”

“Neither do I.” Morgan's thumb traced her jawline. “But I'd like to learn. With you.”

Below them, the warehouse light clicked off.

Dawn was breaking over the city, and somewhere out there, Marcus was already planning his move.

Vera took Morgan's hand and led her back to the stairs.

The trap was set. Now all they had to do was survive the night.