Chapter 38 : The Hunt
Five days of waiting. Five days of watching my own people with suspicious eyes.
The trap was elegant in its simplicity: feed each suspect a different piece of false information, then watch to see which leak reached Bullock. Twelve suspects meant twelve different "secrets"—shipment schedules, meeting locations, planned operations. Each one unique, each one traceable.
"You're running a disinformation campaign on your own crew," Terry observed. We were in my office, the list of suspects spread between us.
"I'm testing loyalty. There's a difference."
"Not much of one." But he didn't argue further. Terry understood necessity.
Day one: I told Devon about a "major shipment" coming through the abandoned warehouse on Miller Street. Weapons, supposedly. High value.
Day two: Rachel received information about a meeting with a new supplier at Vincenzo's restaurant. Fictional, but plausible.
Day three through five: similar stories for the other ten suspects. Each one planted with casual precision, each one designed to be tempting enough to report but specific enough to identify.
Then I waited.
The system offered insights during the process. [LOYALTY ASSESSMENT: 8 OF 12 STABLE. 4 REQUIRE ATTENTION.] Four potential weak points. Four people who might break under pressure.
Devon was one of them. His loyalty readings had been fluctuating for weeks—stress patterns, anxiety markers, the kind of signals that suggested someone carrying a weight they weren't built to bear.
"Kid's twenty-three. Probably got squeezed by Bullock, threatened with prison, given a choice between betrayal and losing everything. Can't entirely blame him. But I can't forgive him either."
On day four, I called Harleen.
"Darek!" Her voice was warm, genuinely pleased. "I was just going to call you. The research is progressing beautifully—we've had three successful early interventions this month."
"That's wonderful." I meant it. Harleen's work mattered, even when everything else felt compromised. "I wanted to check in. See how you're doing."
"Busy. Overwhelmed. The usual." A pause. "Is everything okay? You sound... tense."
"Work stress. Nothing I can't handle."
"If you need to talk, I'm here. You've been so supportive of my research—the least I can do is listen."
The offer was genuine. Harleen Quinzel, future Harley Quinn, offering emotional support to a crime lord. The irony wasn't lost on me.
"I appreciate that. Really. Just... be careful at Arkham, okay? Some of those patients—"
"I know. I'm always careful."
"No, you're not. You're idealistic and caring and you see good in everyone, and someday that's going to destroy you unless I can change the trajectory."
"I'll call you next week," I said. "We can have lunch."
"I'd like that."
Day five. The break came.
Marcus burst into my office at noon, tablet in hand. "Boss. GCPD just raided the warehouse on Miller Street."
My heart rate spiked. Miller Street. Devon's false information.
"What did they find?"
"Nothing. The place was empty except for some old equipment." Marcus looked confused. "Why would they raid an empty warehouse?"
"Because someone told them it wouldn't be empty."
The pieces clicked into place. Devon had taken the bait, fed the information to Bullock, and Bullock had acted on it. The raid on an empty warehouse was embarrassing for the detective—and confirming for me.
[TRAITOR IDENTIFIED: DEVON]
[STATUS: Marco holdover, 23 years old, recruited post-conflict]
[PROBABLE CAUSE: GCPD pressure, fear of prosecution]
I dismissed Marcus with instructions to monitor police channels, then sat alone with the knowledge.
Devon. Young guy, scared, trying to survive in a world that didn't offer easy choices. I remembered him from the early days—eager to please, desperate to prove himself. Not a bad person, really. Just weak.
The question now was how to handle it.
The old way—Marco's way, the traditional criminal way—would be simple. Put Devon in a hole, make an example, ensure nobody else got ideas about talking to cops.
But Batman's warning echoed in my mind. "One death—one murder that can be traced to your organization—and our arrangement changes."
And beyond that: was killing really the smart play? Devon had information about my operation, yes. But dead men couldn't be useful. Dead men couldn't be... redirected.
I pulled out my phone and called Terry.
"Get Devon to the warehouse tonight. Routine meeting. Don't let him know anything's wrong."
"You found him?"
"I found him."
Silence on the line. Then: "What are we going to do?"
"Something different."
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