Chapter 6 - The Baited Hook
Three days later, Patrick took the bait hook, line, and sinker.
Marcus and I set up a sleek, temporary conference room in a high-rise downtown office building to serve as the headquarters for Aegis Capital Solutions. We hired an actor to sit at the front desk as a receptionist, while Marcus played the senior managing director, and I sat quietly in the corner as his legal secretary, wearing a dark blazer and thick glasses to obscure my identity if Patrick was somehow foolish enough to remember me (though narcissists like Patrick rarely noticed anyone outside their immediate circle of ego).
The heavy glass door swung open, and Patrick walked in.
He looked different than he had at Christmas. The arrogance was still plastered across his face, but underneath it, you could smell the sweat of desperation. His designer suit was slightly rumpled, his hair uncombed, and his phone buzzed continuously in his hand.
“Mr. Callahan,” Marcus stood up smoothly, extending a hand with a polished, shark-like smile. “Welcome. I’m Marcus Vance, Managing Director of Aegis Capital.”
Patrick shook his hand firmly, forcing a hearty laugh. “Ah, Mr. Vance! Thank you for squeezing me in on such short notice. As you can imagine, the seasonal crunch in supply chain logistics has things a bit tight, but my business is fundamentally sound. Just need a bridge to clear the Q1 hump.”
“Of course, Mr. Callahan. We understand completely,” Marcus said, gesturing toward the leather chairs. “My associate here, Ms. Hayes, has the paperwork prepared.”
I kept my head down, shuffling papers so he wouldn't look too closely at my face.
Patrick didn't even glance my way. He dropped his leather briefcase onto the table and sat down eagerly. “Let’s see the terms. My previous bank dragged their feet for three weeks before backing out. Idiots, the lot of them. I need this half-million wired by tomorrow morning so I can clear my revolving credit line.”
Marcus slid the thick document packet across the table.
“The terms are straightforward,” Marcus explained calmly. “Five hundred thousand dollars, disbursed within twenty-four hours. Interest rate of eight percent, amortized over five years. Default clause requires immediate payment in full or execution of collateral seizure within seventy-two hours of missed notice.”
Patrick flipped past the first ten pages without reading a single word. His eyes locked onto the funding amount.
“Standard stuff. Fine, fine,” Patrick muttered, pulling a gold fountain pen from his pocket. “Where do I sign?”
“Right here on page fourteen,” Marcus pointed, his finger resting precisely on the borrower signature line—and crucially, on the attached collateral rider that listed the Dublin residential property as the securing asset.
Patrick uncapped the pen.
I sat across from him, my heart hammering against my ribs, watching the man who had locked a seventy-four-year-old woman in a freezing cellar sign his own financial death warrant with a smile on his face.
Scratch. Scratch.
Patrick Callahan signed his full legal name.
He closed the pen with a satisfying click, slid the folder back across the table, and leaned back in his chair, looking like a king who had just conquered a province.
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“Pleasure doing business with you, gentlemen,” Patrick beamed. “You just saved a very profitable enterprise.”
“The pleasure,” Marcus said with a chillingly polite smile, “is entirely ours, Mr. Callahan.”
