I was planted right beside the boss, close enough to hear him breathe. “You’re loyal, aren’t you?” he asked, smiling like a knife. I forced a laugh. “Always.” Then his phone buzzed—my name on the screen. The room went silent. He leaned in and whispered, “Did you really think you were the hunter?” The door locked. My handler didn’t answer. And that’s when I realized… I wasn’t the bait—I was the prize.
My name is Ethan Cole, and three weeks earlier I was just a “consultant” with a clean suit and a fake résumé. Officially, I’d been hired as operations support for Victor Kane, a private logistics magnate in Miami who moved high-value cargo for “clients” no one ever named. Unofficially, I was working with Agent Marissa Grant from a federal task force. My job was simple: get close, find proof, and walk away before Kane noticed the wire buried beneath my collar.
Kane liked me fast. Too fast. He brought me into his inner circle, gave me keys, codes, access. He invited me to dinners where men talked in quiet numbers and never said the word “money” out loud. He watched everything—how you held your fork, where your eyes went when someone lied, whether you flinched at the wrong joke.
The break came the night Kane asked me to run point on a “special transfer.” A black SUV, two crates, one destination: a warehouse off the river. Marissa’s instructions were clear: record the handoff, tag the crates, and leave. I did exactly that—until Kane changed the plan mid-drive.
“We’re not going to the river,” he said, staring straight ahead. “We’re going to my place.”
My throat tightened. “Why?”
He smiled without warmth. “Because I trust you.”
At his estate, Kane waved off his guards and guided me into a private study lined with framed photos and locked drawers. He poured whiskey, then slid a thin folder across the desk. I recognized the first page instantly—my real name, my real address, a photo of me walking out of my old apartment.
Kane tapped the folder like it was a receipt. “Tell me, Ethan,” he said softly, “how long have you been lying to me?”
And that’s when his phone buzzed—my name on the screen—and the door clicked shut behind me.
I didn’t move. Not because I was brave—because my body went cold, like it knew something my brain refused to accept. Kane didn’t even look at the phone at first. He watched me watch it.
“You want to answer it?” he asked.
My mouth felt dry. “It’s probably a wrong number.”
Kane’s smile widened. He set the phone on the desk between us and hit speaker. “Go ahead,” he said. “Prove it.”
The call rang twice. Then Marissa’s voice cut through the room. “Ethan. Status.”
I didn’t speak. I couldn’t. Kane lifted an eyebrow, enjoying my silence like it was entertainment.
Marissa tried again, sharper this time. “Ethan, you need to get out now. Do you copy?”
Kane leaned forward and pressed a finger to his lips. He looked at me as if he was teaching a lesson. Then he spoke into the phone in a calm, pleasant tone. “Agent Grant, right? Thank you for calling.”
On the other end, there was a pause so long I could hear Marissa breathe.
Kane continued, “I’m Victor Kane. Ethan’s with me. He’s safe—for the moment.”
Marissa’s voice lowered. “Victor. Let him go. This doesn’t have to—”
“Oh, it has to,” Kane interrupted. “Because you didn’t just send him in. You offered him to me.”
My stomach turned. Offered? I shot Marissa a look as if she could see me through the walls.
Kane hung up and folded his hands. “Here’s what you didn’t understand, Ethan,” he said. “I don’t fear the government. I buy their mistakes.”
He stood and walked to a side cabinet, opened it, and pulled out a tablet. With a few taps, he brought up security footage—grainy but clear enough. It showed Marissa, in a parking garage, handing an envelope to a man I recognized from Kane’s dinners: Caleb Rourke, Kane’s head of security.
My chest tightened. “That’s… no. That’s not—”
“You thought Marissa was your lifeline,” Kane said, voice almost sympathetic. “She was my early warning system.”
I felt my pulse pounding in my ears. “So what is this?” I demanded. “A confession? A victory lap?”
Kane stared at me like I was slow. “It’s an audition,” he said. “I need people who can lie convincingly. You’ve done well.”
He stepped closer, close enough that I smelled whiskey on his breath. “Now you’re going to make one more call,” he said. “You’re going to tell Marissa you panicked. You’ll ask her to meet you—alone—at the river warehouse.”
My voice cracked. “And if I don’t?”
Kane nodded toward the study window. Outside, under the security lights, I saw my car. The trunk was open. Inside it—zip-tied and bleeding from the lip—was Caleb Rourke, the same man from the footage, staring at me with terrified eyes.
Kane’s voice turned gentle again. “Your handler set the trap,” he murmured. “I’m simply choosing who it catches.”
My hands shook as I picked up the phone. Kane didn’t rush me. That was the worst part—he didn’t need to. He’d already taken control of the room, the night, the story I’d been telling myself since day one.
I stared at Caleb in the trunk through the glass, trying to make sense of it. If the footage was real, Marissa wasn’t just compromised—she was running the compromise. But why leave Caleb out there like that? Why show me? Unless… Kane wanted me to believe only one version of the truth.
I forced my voice steady and hit redial. It rang once.
Marissa answered instantly. “Ethan—thank God. Where are you?”
Kane folded his arms, watching my face like it was a lie detector.
“I messed up,” I said. “He knows. I barely got out.” I swallowed hard. “Meet me at the river warehouse. Please. Come alone. Fifteen minutes.”
There was a sharp inhale. “Ethan, no. Don’t go there.”
“I don’t have a choice,” I whispered, and I meant it in more than one way.
Kane nodded, satisfied, as I ended the call. Then he surprised me by stepping back and tossing me a set of keys. “Take your car,” he said. “You’ll drive yourself.”
I blinked. “You’re just letting me go?”
He smiled. “I’m letting you make a decision.”
Outside, the humid air hit my lungs like a warning. Kane’s men didn’t follow me to the driveway. They didn’t need to. I slid into the driver’s seat, staring at my own reflection in the windshield. The wire under my collar felt like it weighed fifty pounds.
As I backed out, I saw movement near my trunk. Caleb wasn’t in there anymore.
My blood ran colder than it had in the study.
At the first red light, my phone vibrated with a text from an unknown number: STOP. HE’S LISTENING. A second later, another message came through—same number, different tone: DON’T TRUST MARISSA.
My hands tightened on the wheel until my knuckles hurt. This could be Kane, messing with me. It could be Marissa, trying to regain control. It could be someone else entirely—someone who knew this operation was rotten from the start.
I turned onto the highway anyway, because every option led to the same place: the river warehouse, the meeting, the moment where someone would decide whether I lived as a pawn or died as proof.
And that’s when I understood the real trap.
Kane didn’t set it for Marissa.
Marissa didn’t set it for Kane.
They set it for me—the disposable man in the middle, the one who could take the blame, the bullet, or the fall.
If you were in my shoes, what would you do next—go to the warehouse, call someone else, or disappear right now? Drop your answer in the comments, because I’ll tell you what I chose… and why it almost got me killed.
