Page 17 of Hunter's Game
Eden found she didn’t care which outcome they were hurtling toward. For the first time in three years, she felt truly alive. The combination of adrenaline, desire, and imminent danger sparked something in her that had been dormant since her mother’s death.
The war was about to begin. And this time, she wasn’t fighting alone.
Whether that made her stronger or more vulnerable remained to be seen. But as Hunter’s hand found hers in the darkness, she decided some risks were worth taking.
Even if they ended in blood.
Especially if they ended in blood.
Eden’s backup location wasn’t just off the grid; it was a ghost in the system, a digital fortress masquerading as urban decay.
The converted industrial space in the warehouse district looked abandoned from the outside, all rust-stained concrete and broken windows. But those windows were bulletproof, the rust patterns concealed state-of-the-art cameras, and the seemingly random graffiti contained RFID—radio-frequency identification—sensors that tracked any approach.
Hunter swept the perimeter while Eden set up her equipment, his trained eye noting details that spoke of years of paranoid preparation. Multiple escape routes were disguised as structural damage. Ventilation systems were modified to detect chemical agents. Power supplies that could run silent for weeks without external connection. This wasn’t just a hideout—it was a war room designed by someone with a lot of money and power who expected the worst.
Eden moved with practiced efficiency through the space, her olive skin catching the blue light of monitors, dark hair tucked behindone ear. The rigorous training regimen she maintained was evident in every controlled movement, from the way she adjusted equipment to how she scanned entrances out of habit.
“Three years,” Eden answered his unspoken question as her fingers flew across keyboards, bringing systems online. “That’s how long I’ve been building this place. Ever since I found my mother’s body buried on private land owned by one of my father’s shell corporations.”
The bank of monitors she’d assembled would have made a CIA tech drool. The screens cast a cool glow across her sharp features, highlighting the small scar on her left cheekbone—a reminder of lessons learned the hard way about trusting the wrong people.
Each monitor screen displayed different data streams—surveillance feeds, financial transactions, encrypted communications being intercepted and decoded in real-time. Three years of gathering intelligence, all focused on a single goal.
One monitor dedicated itself to tracking Dr. Chen’s movements through the Institute’s security feeds. During her surveillance, Eden had been struck by how the woman seemed to anticipate their investigation’s needs. Every piece they needed to track had detailed documentation. Every suspect transaction had perfect paper trails. Almost as if Chen were deliberately leaving breadcrumbs for them to follow.
“Show me.” Hunter moved closer, positioning himself at her back, noting how she tensed slightly before forcing herself to relax. Trust didn’t come easily to either of them apparently.
Hunter towered behind her, his six-foot-two frame casting a shadow across her workstation. The tactical shirt he wore did little to hide the muscled physique beneath, and Eden found herself cataloging details professionally—the way he distributed his weight evenly, ready to move in any direction, the controlled breathing of someone always prepared for combat.
“Show me what you found that day.”
Eden’s hands stilled on the keyboards for a moment. Then she pulled up files she clearly knew by heart—crime scene photos that had never made it into official reports, financial records showing suspicious transfers, surveillance footage that had been conveniently “lost” during the initial investigation.
“Sarah Mitchell.” Her voice was carefully controlled, almost clinical, as she brought up her mother’s DEA file. “Undercover operative investigating connections between outlaw MCs and international antiquities trafficking. Disappeared fifteen years ago after allegedly compromising her own investigation and stealing evidence.”
Hunter studied the image on screen—a woman with Eden’s fierce eyes and dangerous smile, pictured in what looked like an archaeological digsite. “She was more than just a federal agent,” he said with no small amount of admiration.
“She was an expert in ancient languages and archaeological preservation.” Eden’s pride was evident despite her neutral tone. “Perfect cover for infiltrating the artifact smuggling operation. No one questioned her interest in my father’s ‘art collection’ because she had legitimate credentials in the field.”
More files appeared—documentation of Sarah’s undercover work, carefully encrypted notes about patterns she’d discovered, surveillance photos showing familiar faces.
“That’s Romano.” Hunter recognized the younger version of the man they’d just escaped. “He was involved even back then?”
“He was just getting started.” Eden’s smile held no humor. “Building connections between legitimate museums and criminal organizations, using artifact restoration as cover for moving sensitive materials. I believe my mother was the first one to recognize the pattern.”
She pulled up images of tablets and scrolls—ancient artifacts that looked unremarkable to untrained eyes. “These aren’t just valuable antiquities. They’re encoded with information.
“Dr. Chen’s reports flagged these specific pieces,” Eden noted, pulling up the curator’s documentation. “She requested extensive testing on each one, created detailed photographs from every angle. The kind of thoroughness that lookslike professional dedication unless you know what she was really documenting.”
Hunter studied the reports. “The same pieces your mother was investigating before she died.”
“Exactly.” Eden’s fingers traced over Chen’s precise handwriting. “And her notes...the way she phrases certain observations, the specific details she chooses to highlight. It’s exactly how my mother used to document evidence.” She paused, that nagging sense of familiarity growing stronger. “Almost like she had access to Mom’s original case files. Financial records, blackmail material, evidence of crimes going back generations. The organizations Romano works with have been hiding data in plain sight for decades.”
“Using archaeological artifacts as secure storage.” Hunter understood the elegance of it. “No digital trail, no electronic intercepts. Just physical objects that can be moved through seemingly legitimate channels.”
“Exactly.” Eden brought up more files—shipping manifests, restoration records, museum acquisition documents that showed a clear pattern. “Specific pieces being ‘discovered’ in war zones or disaster areas, moved through controlled channels, displayed briefly in legitimate museums before disappearing into private collections. Each one carrying encrypted data that would be worthless to anyone who didn’t know what to look for.”
“And your mother figured out the code.”
