Chapter 4 Mutual Hunting

# Chapter 4: Mutual Hunting

Dawn broke as Dominic's SUV pulled into an isolated cabin nestled among pine trees, far from the main roads. The safe house—his personal retreat, he claimed—looked deliberately unremarkable from the outside. I remained tense as we entered, scanning for signs of a trap, but found only sparse furnishings and tactical precision. A soldier's space, not a prison.

"No one knows about this place," he said, securing the door behind us. "Not even the Bureau."

I arched an eyebrow. "The dedicated FBI agent keeps secrets from his handlers? I'm shocked."

"Don't confuse dedication to justice with blind loyalty to bureaucracy." He moved to the windows, checking sight lines before drawing the curtains. "Coffee?"

"I'd prefer answers."

He nodded, his expression grim. "You should clean up first. Bathroom's down the hall. There are clothes in the bedroom that might fit you."

I hesitated, unwilling to relinquish the files I'd taken from the lab. Sensing my reluctance, he added, "I won't touch your findings until you're ready to share them."

In the bathroom, I examined myself in the mirror. Blood and dirt streaked my face, and a cut above my eyebrow had dried to a crusty line. I looked haunted—appropriate, given the ghosts I'd encountered in that mansion. The woman in the formaldehyde coffin. The brain in the jar labeled with my name.

The hot water stung my wounds but washed away the physical traces of the laboratory. The mental images would be harder to cleanse.

In the bedroom, I found women's clothing in the closet—simple items, practical rather than personal. A go-bag for emergencies, not a lover's left-behinds. I selected a black sweater and jeans, both slightly too large but manageable.

When I returned to the main room, Dominic had set up an evidence board on one wall—photos, documents, and red string connecting various points. At the center was a family portrait: a younger Dominic, perhaps sixteen, standing beside two adults and a small girl with my eyes.

"You've been busy," I remarked, keeping my distance.

He handed me a mug of coffee. "I've had this ready for years. Waiting."

"For what? The miraculous return of your dead sister?"

"For evidence she wasn't dead." His eyes held mine. "The FBI found bodies of my parents and three servants after the home invasion. A small body presumed to be Valentina was recovered, but it was... damaged beyond visual identification. DNA testing was still rudimentary then."

I sipped the coffee, buying time to process this. "And you never believed it was her."

"I was there that night," he said quietly. "Hidden in a panic room my father had installed. I saw men take my sister alive while they shot my parents. When the official report claimed she died in the attack, I knew someone was covering up the truth."

"So you joined the FBI to find her." The pieces aligned with sickening clarity. "Used their resources to hunt for a ghost."

"I became what I needed to become." No apology in his voice. "Just as you did."

I set down the coffee and approached the evidence board, studying the web he'd constructed around my possible identity. Newspaper clippings about the Graves family massacre. Reports on missing children matching his sister's description. Surveillance photos of Marcus Costa and his associates.

And photos of me—from my first arrest at eighteen through my most recent prison intake. My entire criminal career, documented by the brother who couldn't stop searching.

"When did you first suspect me?" I asked.

"Three years ago, during your interrogation for the Meridian heist." He pointed to a close-up of my booking photo. "Something in your eyes when I mentioned family. A reaction you couldn't control."

I remembered that interrogation—his questions veering strangely toward my childhood, my fixation on certain gemstones. I'd thought he was trying to establish psychological patterns. Instead, he'd been testing me, looking for his sister in the thief across the table.

"The birthmark confirmed it," he continued. "But I need the DNA results to be certain."

"And then what?" I challenged. "We become one big happy family? I trade my prison cell for your supervision? I'm not the little girl in that photo anymore, Dominic."

"No," he agreed. "You're a professional thief with a penchant for leaving poison at crime scenes. But you're also possibly the last living blood relative I have."

I turned away from the evidence board, uncomfortable with his intensity. "I need to show you what I found."

I retrieved the files and diary from my jacket, spreading them on the kitchen table. Dominic approached cautiously, as if sensing the horror contained within.

"This was Elena Graves," I began, showing him the photograph from the sarcophagus. "Your mother. My... potential mother. Her remains are preserved in that house like a museum exhibit."

His face drained of color as he took the photo, fingers tracing the image of the woman who had raised him. "Costa's trophy room," he whispered. "We suspected he kept mementos of his kills, but we never found it during the raid."

"There's worse." I opened the files from the laboratory. "The basement contained a research facility. They were conducting experiments—something to do with memory extraction."

Dominic's training visibly kicked in as he examined the documents, his personal anguish suppressed beneath professional analysis. "These are advanced neurological protocols. Brain mapping, cognitive reprogramming." He looked up sharply. "They weren't just hiding you. They were changing you."

"There was a brain specimen." My voice sounded distant even to my own ears. "Labeled with my name."

He reached for my hand—an instinctive gesture of comfort that I immediately pulled away from. "Not your brain," he said firmly. "Tissue samples, perhaps, used to map neural pathways. The technology existed even then—experimental, highly classified."

"Why? What possible value could a five-year-old's memories have?"

"It's not about your memories." He tapped a page in the file. "It's about creating capacity for new ones. These protocols are similar to deep-cover intelligence training—establishing artificial personas that can withstand scrutiny because the subject believes they're real."

The implications settled over me like a shroud. "You're saying they turned me into someone else. Erased Valentina Graves and created Valentina Costa."

"A sleeper agent," he confirmed. "Raised within Costa's organization, trained as a thief, but programmed for something else entirely."

I laughed bitterly. "Perfect. I'm not just a thief—I'm a thief who might have hidden triggers turning me into a weapon at any moment."

"We don't know that for certain."

"Don't we?" I gestured to the files. "Child-sized restraints. Brain specimens. A laboratory hidden in a crime lord's basement. What exactly would you call that?"

Before he could answer, my burner phone buzzed. A text message from an unknown number: "Fremont Gala tonight. The Duchess returns. 8 PM."

Dominic read it over my shoulder. "A job offer?"

"A test," I replied. "Someone knows I'm looking into my past and wants to see what I'll do next."

"The Duchess of Windsor's necklace," he said, understanding immediately. "The one piece from your heists that was never recovered."

I nodded. "The signature of the Red Viper—one trophy kept from each major score."

"You never had it," he realized. "Costa did."

"A leash around my neck. Proof that could send me back to prison anytime I strayed too far." I pocketed the phone. "And now he's dangling it as bait."

Dominic's expression hardened. "You're not going."

"Of course I am." I met his gaze directly. "But not for the reasons Costa expects."

"It's a trap."

"Obviously. But it's also our best chance to get close to him. He won't be there personally—too cautious—but whoever delivers the necklace will lead us to him."

"Us?" Dominic raised an eyebrow. "You're proposing we work together?"

"Temporarily." I maintained a cool exterior despite the storm of confusion within. Brother or handler, ally or captor—I couldn't fully trust him yet. "You want Costa for the Graves family murders. I want him for turning me into... whatever I am. Mutual interests."

He studied me for a long moment. "How do I know you won't disappear with the necklace?"

"You don't." I smiled thinly. "That's what makes this fun."

---

The Fremont Gala transformed the city's Museum of Art into a glittering showcase of wealth and pretension. Security was predictably heavy—armed guards, metal detectors, guest list verification at three checkpoints. The McClellan diamonds, on loan from a European collection, were the centerpiece of the exhibition, displayed in a specially designed case with pressure sensors and laser triggers.

I moved through the crowd in a gown of deep emerald that complemented the viper tattoo visible above my collarbone—a calculated risk, displaying my signature mark. My hair was styled differently, my makeup transforming my features just enough to confuse facial recognition without appearing disguised.

Dominic entered separately, unrecognizable in a tailored tuxedo with his hair slicked back, playing the role of European art collector. We maintained distance, communicating through nearly imperceptible signals established during our hasty planning session.

"Target identified," his voice murmured through the microscopic earpiece I wore. "Northeast corner. Woman in red, diamond choker."

I turned casually, appearing to admire a sculpture while locating the woman. Tall, elegant, with the practiced smile of someone accustomed to these events. Around her neck glittered the unmistakable design of the Duchess's necklace—diamonds arranged in a swooping pattern that resembled a crown.

"Costa's messenger," I confirmed quietly. "The question is, does she know she's being used as bait?"

"Only one way to find out."

I circulated through the party, gradually making my way toward the woman in red. She stood near a less-trafficked exhibition—perfect for a private conversation. As I approached, recognition flickered in her eyes.

"The prodigal daughter returns," she said, her voice carrying a hint of Eastern European accent. "I wasn't sure you'd come."

"The Duchess and I have unfinished business." I gestured to her necklace. "Though she seems to have found a new companion."

"Merely a temporary arrangement. She misses your touch." The woman sipped champagne, eyes scanning the room. "As does her owner."

"Marcus was never good at letting go of his possessions," I replied. "Where is he?"

"Closer than you think. He's eager to reunite."

"I'm sure he is." I accepted a champagne flute from a passing server. "To return what he lost... or to finish what he started?"

Her smile remained fixed, but her eyes hardened. "Both, perhaps. He has questions about your recent archaeological expedition."

So Costa knew I'd been to the mansion, discovered the laboratory. "I found it enlightening," I said. "Though I'm curious why he preserved his trophies so carefully. Sentiment seems unlike him."

"Not sentiment. Insurance." She leaned closer, lowering her voice. "The woman was valuable. Her research even more so."

Elena Graves had been a researcher, not just a victim. Another piece clicking into place.

"And what was I?" I asked. "Test subject or prototype?"

The woman's expression revealed nothing. "Why don't you ask him yourself? He's prepared a private viewing of his collection. Tonight, after the gala." She slipped a key card into my clutch. "The old theater on Westbrook. Midnight. Come alone, or don't come at all."

She turned to leave, but I caught her wrist, my grip just tight enough to demonstrate strength. "The necklace," I said. "Consider it my RSVP."

For a moment, I thought she might refuse. Then she smiled—a predator recognizing another. "He said you'd ask for proof of good faith."

With practiced ease, she unclasped the necklace and pressed it into my palm. "Until midnight, Viper."

As she walked away, Dominic's voice sounded in my ear. "You got it?"

"And an invitation," I confirmed, securing the necklace in my clutch. "Costa wants a reunion at the old theater. Midnight."

"It's an execution, not a reunion."

"Probably," I agreed, moving toward the exhibition hall where the McClellan diamonds gleamed under spotlights. "But I'm going anyway."

"We need backup. A tactical team."

"No." I kept my voice low as I admired the diamonds, noting the security measures surrounding them. "The moment official FBI gets involved, Costa disappears again. This ends tonight, just the three of us."

"It's suicide."

"It's justice," I countered. "For your family. For me."

A commotion near the entrance interrupted our conversation—security guards rushing toward the front doors, hands on their weapons. The woman in red had triggered an alarm on her way out, creating a diversion.

"They're onto us," Dominic warned. "We need to move."

I lingered by the McClellan display, an idea forming. "Not yet. We can use this."

"Whatever you're thinking, stop."

But I was already in motion, slipping a diamond-tipped glass cutter from a hidden pocket in my gown. While security focused on the entrance, I moved to the blind spot I'd identified earlier, using the cutter to create a small opening in the display case—not enough to remove the diamonds, just enough to trigger a secondary alarm.

The reaction was immediate. Sirens blared, metal shutters began descending over the exits, and guests scattered in confusion. Perfect chaos.

"Meet me at the service entrance in two minutes," I instructed Dominic, already moving toward the eastern corridor.

"What did you do?" His voice held equal parts exasperation and admiration.

"Created our escape route and our cover story." I navigated through panicked socialites and confused security personnel. "Costa's people will think we're fleeing with the McClellan diamonds. They'll never expect us to head straight for their boss."

At the service entrance, Dominic waited in a staff uniform he'd somehow acquired, his tuxedo abandoned. He handed me a server's jacket. "Put this on. Service vehicles are still being allowed to leave."

As we made our way to the loading dock, his hand gripped my elbow. "You almost got us caught in there."

"But I didn't," I reminded him. "And now we have leverage—the necklace Costa wants returned."

"And a plan that will get us both killed."

I stopped, turning to face him fully. "You've spent twenty years looking for your sister. I've spent my entire conscious life not knowing who I am. If Costa has those answers, I'm willing to risk everything to get them."

Something shifted in his expression—recognition, perhaps, of the determination we shared. "Then we do this together. No disappearing acts."

"No promises," I replied, but offered the ghost of a smile.

We exited through the loading area as police cars screamed up to the museum's main entrance. In the confusion, no one noticed two catering staff slipping into the night.

In the car, I examined the Duchess's necklace more carefully. The diamonds were genuine, but something about the setting caught my attention—a small irregularity in the gold work near the clasp.

Using a hairpin, I pressed the abnormality, and the central diamond pivoted to reveal a hidden compartment containing a microchip.

"What is that?" Dominic asked, eyes darting between the road and the necklace.

"Insurance," I murmured. "Or activation codes."

He tensed. "For what?"

I met his gaze, the answer hovering between us like a blade. "For me."

We drove in silence toward our confrontation with Marcus Costa, the necklace heavy in my hand. The microchip it contained might hold the key to my past—or the trigger that would erase me completely.

Either way, by dawn, Valentina Costa would finally know who she truly was. The question remained whether she—I—would survive the revelation.

As we approached the theater, Dominic reached across the console, his fingers briefly touching mine. "Whatever happens in there," he said quietly, "remember who you are now. Not who they tried to make you."

I withdrew my hand but nodded slightly. "And who is that, Agent Graves? The thief or the sister?"

"Both," he answered simply. "And something more they never anticipated—a survivor."

We parked a block from the theater, checking our weapons one final time. The necklace I secured around my throat—bait and possibly weapon in one glittering noose.

"Ready?" Dominic asked.

I touched the diamond pendant, feeling its weight against my skin. "I was born ready," I replied, the irony not lost on either of us. "Or at least, I was made that way."