Chapter 3 The Treasure Map Trap

# Chapter 3: The Treasure Map Trap

Rain-soaked and hunted, I made my way to the only person in the city who wouldn't ask questions. Mira had been my fence for years before my incarceration—a woman who dealt in information as much as stolen goods. Her pawnshop in the Old District operated behind a legitimate storefront, but the real business happened in the basement.

I rapped on the back door in our old pattern: three quick taps, pause, two slow. Seconds later, I was ushered inside by Mira herself, her dark eyes widening at my bedraggled state.

"Viper," she whispered, using my underground name. "I heard you were out, but I didn't expect—"

"I need a car," I interrupted. "Untraceable. And supplies for a few days off-grid."

She nodded, leading me through the cluttered storeroom to her private office. "The FBI's been sniffing around. That agent—the one with the dead eyes."

"Graves," I supplied, peeling off my wet jacket.

"He came by yesterday. Asked if I'd heard from you."

I tensed. "What did you tell him?"

"That you'd be a fool to contact your old associates." She eyed me critically. "Apparently, I was wrong about that."

"He planted a tracker on me," I explained. "Had a team raid my safe house. I need to disappear for a while."

Mira sighed, opening a cabinet to reveal an array of burner phones, fake IDs, and cash. "You've been out for a day, and you're already in deeper trouble than when you went in. Some things never change."

I took the phone and a stack of bills. "I need one more thing. A portable blacklight."

She raised an eyebrow but asked no questions as she rummaged through a drawer. "Will this work?" She handed me a small UV flashlight.

"Perfect." I tucked it into my pocket. "About that car?"

Twenty minutes later, I was behind the wheel of a nondescript sedan with forged plates, heading north toward the mountains. The coordinates from my tattoo led to a property about three hours outside the city—the old Costa estate where my supposed family had been massacred fifteen years ago.

As I drove, I pieced together the fragments I knew about my past. I'd been raised by Marcus Costa, a mid-level crime boss who claimed to be my father. He told me my mother had died when I was young—a rival's poison meant for him. I believed him until I found documents suggesting I wasn't his biological daughter at all, but rather "acquired merchandise." When I confronted him, he locked me in a basement room for a week. I was fourteen.

Four years later, I ran away, stealing enough of his jewelry to start a new life. That was when the Viper was born—a jewel thief who left poisonous calling cards at every heist. A message to the man who raised me: I hadn't forgotten.

And now, Dominic Graves believed I was his sister. A girl taken twenty years ago. The timing fit—I had no memories before age five—but it seemed too convenient, too much like the plot of a tragedy seeking a redemptive final act.

Rain turned to fog as I climbed higher into the mountains. The road narrowed, winding through pine forests until it was barely more than a dirt track. According to the GPS, I was getting close.

The Costa estate had been abandoned since the FBI raid that killed Marcus's men. He had escaped, disappearing overseas, leaving behind the bodies of his wife and associates. I'd never returned, having no desire to revisit the scene of what I'd been told was my mother's murder. Now I questioned everything about that narrative.

The gates appeared suddenly through the fog—wrought iron, once grand but now rusted and hanging askew. No security visible, but I approached cautiously nonetheless. Properties like this often had booby traps left behind.

I parked the car in a grove of trees and continued on foot, feeling the weight of the gun against my hip. The main house loomed ahead, a sprawling stone structure with boarded windows and ivy-covered walls. It looked dead, but something about it pulsed with malevolent energy—as if the house itself remembered the violence it had witnessed.

The front door was chained shut, but a side entrance yielded to my lock picks. Inside, dust motes danced in the beams of my flashlight. The foyer still held remnants of luxury—a crystal chandelier, now cobwebbed; marble floors cracked with neglect; a grand staircase leading to the upper floors.

I moved carefully, testing each step. The coordinates pointed to something in the eastern wing, what had once been the master suite. As I navigated the labyrinthine hallways, memories surfaced like drowning victims—a child's laughter echoing down these corridors, the smell of gunpowder and blood, a woman's scream cut short.

The master suite was locked with a mechanism more sophisticated than the rest of the house—a digital keypad despite the building's apparent abandonment. Someone had maintained this security system. Someone expected a visitor.

I examined the keypad. No visible fingerprints, but the plastic showed wear on certain buttons. I tried combinations based on Costa family birthdays, then significant dates in their criminal history. Nothing worked.

Then I remembered the tattoo. I pulled out the blacklight and shined it on my collarbone. Among the glowing lines were five numbers, barely visible where the snake's tail curled.

38591.

I punched in the code, and the lock disengaged with a soft click.

The room beyond was pristine—no dust, no decay. Unlike the rest of the house, this chamber had been preserved. Heavy curtains blocked the windows, and the air smelled faintly of formaldehyde. I swept my flashlight across the space, revealing what appeared to be a museum dedicated to death.

Glass cases lined the walls, each containing meticulously labeled items: a bloodstained dress, a child's shoe, locks of hair in various colors. Trophies. I'd seen similar collections in the files of serial killers.

In the center of the room stood a glass sarcophagus, illuminated by hidden lights that activated as I approached. I steeled myself before looking inside, but nothing could have prepared me for what I saw.

A woman's skeleton, posed as if sleeping, wearing a rotting silk nightgown. Around her neck was a diamond pendant—the exact design of the snake tattoo on my collarbone. Her hands were positioned over her chest, holding what appeared to be a photograph.

I circled the sarcophagus, looking for a way to open it. A small keyhole was embedded in the base. Another test. I pulled out my lock picks, selecting the thinnest one for the delicate mechanism.

The lock gave way, and the glass top released with a hiss of preserved air. The formaldehyde smell intensified. Carefully, I reached for the photograph in the skeleton's hands.

It showed a woman—presumably the one whose remains I was desecrating—holding two children. A boy of about ten, serious-eyed and protective, and a smaller girl with a familiar rose-shaped birthmark visible on her ankle. On the back was written: "Elena with Dominic and Valentina, summer 2003."

My hands trembled. Dominic and Valentina. Brother and sister.

I stared at the skeleton—at Elena Graves, the woman who might have been my mother. The woman whose murder had orphaned Dominic and led to my abduction. But why take me? Why not kill me too?

As I contemplated this, my tattoo began to warm against my skin. The chemicals in the formaldehyde were reacting with the catalyst I'd applied earlier, enhancing the projection. Suddenly, lines of light emanated from my collarbone, casting a holographic map onto the far wall.

Unlike the coordinates that led me here, this projection showed the interior layout of the house, with a pulsing light indicating a location in the basement. Something else was hidden here—something Elena Graves had wanted found only by someone bearing her mark.

I photographed the projection with my burner phone before it faded. As I prepared to leave, I noticed something else in the sarcophagus—a small black journal tucked beneath the skeleton's hip. I retrieved it carefully, disturbing the bones as little as possible.

The journal's pages were filled with elegant handwriting, the ink faded but legible. It appeared to be Elena Graves' diary, documenting the months leading up to her death. I tucked it into my jacket, planning to read it somewhere safer.

As I turned to leave, a red dot appeared on the wall beside me—the same laser sight I'd seen at my apartment. I dropped to the floor as a bullet shattered the glass sarcophagus, sending fragments raining down on me.

I rolled behind a display case, drawing my gun. Through the broken window, I glimpsed movement in the tree line—multiple figures approaching the house. The same team from my apartment, or different hunters?

I had seconds to decide. The basement location on the projection might offer an escape route, but I'd have to navigate the house while under fire. Alternatively, I could try to reach my car and outrun them on the mountain roads.

The decision was made for me when I heard the front door crash open below. They were already inside. The basement was my only option.

I sprinted from the master suite, using the projection map stored on my phone as a guide. The main staircase would be watched, but the house had servants' stairs hidden behind a panel in the library.

Gunshots echoed through the hallways as I ran, bullets splintering the woodwork around me. These weren't FBI agents—they were shooting to kill, not capture. Marcus Costa's men, perhaps, protecting their boss's secrets. Or someone else entirely.

I found the library and located the hidden panel. The stairs beyond were narrow and steep, descending into darkness. I closed the panel behind me just as footsteps entered the library.

The basement was a maze of storage rooms and wine cellars. According to the projection, I needed to reach the northeast corner—once a cold storage room for the estate's game hunting.

I navigated by the dim light of my phone, aware that each minute increased the risk of discovery. Finally, I reached a heavy metal door marked with a faded biohazard symbol—unusual for a hunting storage room.

The door was locked with another keypad. I tried the same code from upstairs. Nothing. I examined my tattoo again under the blacklight, looking for additional clues, but found none.

Think, Valentina. What would Elena Graves use as a code? Something her daughter might remember or discover.

On impulse, I tried my birthdate—or rather, the birthdate listed in my forged documents. The lock remained engaged.

Footsteps echoed in the corridor behind me. Running out of time.

I pulled out the photograph from the sarcophagus. Summer 2003. I tried 062003. The lock clicked open.

Inside was not a storage room but a laboratory. Stainless steel tables held scientific equipment, now dusty with disuse. Refrigeration units lined one wall, their contents long since spoiled when the power was cut. Filing cabinets stood in neat rows, labeled with codes I didn't recognize.

And at the center of the room was a metal examination table with child-sized restraints.

I approached it slowly, a coldness settling in my stomach that had nothing to do with the basement chill. On a counter nearby lay medical instruments—scalpels, syringes, monitoring equipment—arranged with obsessive precision.

This wasn't a hunting storage room. It was an experimentation chamber.

I pulled open drawers, searching for anything that might explain what happened here. Most contained only medical supplies, but one held a stack of files. I grabbed them, stuffing them into my jacket alongside the diary.

The pulsing light on my projected map had indicated a specific refrigeration unit in the corner. I approached it cautiously, noting that unlike the others, this one had a backup power supply still humming quietly.

Inside, preserved in a jar of clear liquid, was a human brain.

The label read: "Subject V-7 (Valentina Graves), Age 5, Memory Extraction Complete."

I staggered back, knocking into a shelf of glass containers that crashed to the floor. My memory extraction. My brain. No—not my brain, but tissue samples perhaps. Pieces of me, preserved like scientific specimens.

Before I could process this horror, the laboratory door burst open. I dove behind a cabinet as bullets ricocheted off the metal surfaces around me. Through a gap, I saw three men in tactical gear, their faces covered by balaclavas.

"Find her," one ordered. "Costa wants proof she's dead."

So Marcus was behind this. My "father" was tying up loose ends—or reclaiming stolen property.

I had two bullets left and three assailants. Not good odds. I needed a distraction.

My eyes fell on the oxygen tanks stored against the far wall. Used for medical procedures, they were potentially explosive if punctured by a bullet.

I took aim and fired. The tank ruptured with a deafening boom, sending metal shrapnel flying through the lab. Alarms began to wail—ancient fire suppression systems coming to life after years of dormancy.

Through the chaos and smoke, I made for the door, keeping low. One of the men lay motionless, hit by shrapnel. Another was disoriented, clutching his bleeding ear. The third was nowhere in sight.

I slipped past the wounded man and ran back toward the servants' stairs. The house was now filling with a chemical smell—not smoke, but something more acrid. The fire suppression system was pumping halon gas into the lower levels, deadly in high concentrations.

I held my breath as I climbed, lungs burning by the time I reached the main floor. The front entrance was my best bet now—speed over stealth.

I sprinted through the foyer, expecting bullets at any moment. Instead, I found the entrance clear, the chain cut. Outside, the fog had thickened, providing natural cover.

I ran toward the tree line where I'd hidden the car, pulse pounding in my ears. Behind me, the house groaned as if in pain—the explosion had destabilized something in its ancient foundation.

As I reached my vehicle, a figure stepped out from behind a tree. I raised my gun, prepared to use my last bullet.

"Valentina," Dominic's voice came through the fog. "Stop."

He emerged slowly, hands visible at his sides. No weapon drawn. He looked different—not the FBI agent in pursuit, but something more vulnerable. His clothes were civilian, his hair disheveled as if he'd driven through the night.

"You followed me," I accused, keeping my gun steady despite the tremor in my arms.

"I followed the tracker," he admitted. "But not to capture you. To protect you."

"From what? Your own team?"

"They're not mine," he said, taking a step closer. "I came alone. Those men work for Marcus Costa. He knows you're looking for answers."

"How do you know that?"

His eyes held mine, rain beading on his eyelashes. "Because I've been looking for the same answers for twenty years."

In the distance, car engines roared to life. Costa's remaining men, regrouping for pursuit.

"We don't have time," Dominic said urgently. "Come with me. My car is faster, and they don't know I'm here."

I hesitated, the gun still pointed at his chest. "Why should I trust you? You tracked me. Used me."

"Because I think you're my sister," he said simply. "And I've spent my entire adult life trying to find you."

The engines were getting closer. I had seconds to decide—trust the man who had hunted me for years, or take my chances alone against Costa's killers.

I lowered the gun. "Lead the way."

He moved quickly to a black SUV hidden among the trees. As we pulled away, headlights appeared on the road behind us.

"They'll follow the tracker," I said, checking the back seat for weapons or restraints—anything suggesting a trap.

Dominic reached across me, opening the glove compartment to reveal a small metal device. "The tracker from your blood sample. I removed it from their system before I left the office."

I stared at the tiny chip. "You never uploaded it to the FBI database."

"No." His eyes remained on the road as he navigated the treacherous mountain curves at dangerous speed. "Some hunts are personal."

As we descended from the mountains, I clutched the stolen files and diary to my chest, my mind reeling from what I'd discovered. The laboratory. The brain specimen. The child-sized restraints.

"What did you find in there?" Dominic asked, noticing my distress.

I couldn't bring myself to describe it. Instead, I pulled out my compact mirror and wrote on its surface with the red lipstick I always carried—a habit born of prison days when notes could be dangerous.

"妹妹?" I wrote—the Chinese character for "sister," a language I'd learned during a heist in Shanghai years ago. A question I couldn't voice aloud, as if speaking it might shatter whatever fragile truth was emerging.

Dominic glanced at the mirror, his knuckles whitening on the steering wheel. "Yes," he whispered. "I think so."

As we raced toward an uncertain sanctuary, I curled against the door, the furthest I could get from him in the confined space. Brother or not, he was still FBI. Still my hunter. And I had seen what happened in that basement laboratory—experiments that defied explanation.

Who was I before I became Valentina Costa? And more importantly, what had they made me into?