Chapter 23: THE TRAP
The number arrived through my personal monitoring channels—not the team's system.
That was the first warning sign.
[PERSONAL ALERT: DISTRESS SIGNAL]
[SOURCE: ENCRYPTED CHANNEL (LEGACY)]
[CONTENT: "NEED HELP. BEING FOLLOWED. PLEASE."]
I stared at the message. The channel was one I'd set up months ago, before joining Team Machine. A way for people to reach me anonymously. I'd almost forgotten it existed.
The sender identified as Sarah Mitchell. Twenty-nine years old. Accountant. Claiming someone had been following her for weeks. Claiming she'd found my contact information through a friend of a friend.
Too convenient. Too clean. Too... Root.
I pulled up my investigation tools and started digging.
Sarah Mitchell's identity was perfect.
Employment records going back five years. Residential history. Credit reports. Social media presence. Everything a real person would have.
Everything a skilled fabricator would create.
I cross-referenced the documents. The employment records matched the company's database—but the database entry had been created six months ago. The residential history checked out—but the building's records showed the lease signed recently. The credit reports were pristine—too pristine. Real people had mistakes, late payments, errors.
Sarah Mitchell was a legend. A constructed identity. A trap.
Root built her. Built someone who doesn't exist, just to lure me out.
[ANALYSIS COMPLETE]
[IDENTITY: FABRICATED]
[PROBABILITY OF TRAP: 94.6%]
[RECOMMENDATION: DO NOT ENGAGE]
The system's recommendation was clear. But I knew Root. If I didn't take the bait, she'd escalate. Create real victims. Force my hand through collateral damage.
Better to meet her on my terms than let her choose the battlefield.
I checked my weapon. Loaded, cleaned, ready. Reese's training had made me competent enough to not embarrass myself, but against Root? I'd need more than competence.
She doesn't want me dead. Not yet. She wants to talk.
The address in the message was a warehouse in Queens. Classic ambush location. But also: classic conversation space. Private, defensible, multiple exits.
She's inviting me to play. And I'm going to accept.
I told Finch I was following a lead.
"Personal investigation," I said, gathering my things. "Something from before I joined. Should be back in a few hours."
Finch's expression was carefully neutral. "Would you like Mr. Reese as backup?"
Yes. God, yes.
"No. This is something I need to handle myself."
"Marcus." He rarely used my first name. "Whatever this is, you don't have to face it alone. That's rather the point of having a team."
I know. But if this goes wrong, I don't want to take anyone down with me.
"I appreciate that, Finch. Really. But some things have to be handled personally."
He studied me for a long moment, then nodded slowly. "Be careful."
"Always."
I walked out before he could ask more questions.
The text to Reese was brief.
Warehouse address. Queens. If I don't check in by midnight, I walked into something.
His response came in seconds: Need backup?
Not yet. Maybe soon.
A pause. Then: Don't do anything stupid.
Too late for that.
I pocketed the phone and started the drive to Queens.
The city passed in a blur of lights and shadows. I ran through scenarios in my head—what Root might want, what she might say, how she might test me. Every version ended with uncertainty. Root was unpredictable by design.
She let me interfere with her operations for months. She could have killed me a dozen times. Instead, she arranged a conversation.
Why?
The warehouse loomed ahead, dark and silent. I parked a block away and approached on foot, scanning for threats that I knew I probably wouldn't see until it was too late.
Here we go.
The warehouse door creaked open.
Inside was darkness, broken only by a single light illuminating two chairs facing each other. Root sat in one, legs crossed, dressed in dark clothes that seemed to absorb the shadows around her.
She was smiling.
"Marcus Webb." Her voice was honey over broken glass—sweet and dangerous. "You've been moving my pieces."
I stepped into the light. "And you've been hunting me."
"Hunting implies violence. I prefer to think of it as... courtship." She gestured to the empty chair. "Sit down. Let's play."
I sat. The chair was cold, metal, uncomfortable. Deliberately so, probably.
"You could have killed me already," I said.
"Where's the fun in that?" She leaned forward, studying my face with unsettling intensity. "I'm curious about you, Marcus. You appeared from nowhere. You know things you shouldn't. You interfere with work that doesn't concern you."
Her head tilted, birdlike. "Why?"
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