CHAPTER 1

TORONTO, CANADA - August, 1975

00:15

Emerging from darkness, Gabrielle Hyde savored the silence, anticipating tonight's deception. Stealing for profit alone would never suffice. Too pedestrian. Theft was more than an occupation.

This lesson was fundamental. To thrive, one must elevate their endeavors to artistic mastery. Only the exceptional should endure; natural selection at work. If nothing else, this night represented a personal victory in an ongoing war against a cruel world.

Still air in the ventilation shaft carried a musty scent of old paper that made Hyde's nose itch as she scrutinized the room. Dull burgundy curtains hung limp from neglect, framing windows that offered glimpses of the city's half-finished skyline. Lights from beyond cast muddy shadows across the worn carpet.

Faded commendations and yellowed newsprint adorned wood-paneled walls, bearing witness to achievements now obscure. The office breathed history, but not the kind anyone valued. An antiquated desk calendar remained fixed on 1965, reflecting ten years of disuse, like everything else in this outpost.

This presentation was an almost too-perfect veneer.

The room held more than relics. Hidden beyond the dated pictures and decor lay a meticulously disguised vault. The safe contained many precious things, but Gabrielle only received payment for the classified documents.

Unknown to the customer, the secrets weren't her primary goal.

Her shadowed form unscrewed the air vent cover and lowered it on a slender cable. Exiting the narrow opening in a fluid motion, her shoulders rolled with a dancer's precision. Years of experience allowed the master burglar to slip through such confines.

Descending with feline grace, Hyde's weight barely tested the sturdy oak desk. Her inky silhouette launched forward, body arcing fluidly through the air. Muscles tensed beneath the dark fabric as her long fingers reached out, grasping the exposed pipe running along the wall.

Balancing precariously, Hyde retrieved a tiny screwdriver from a hidden vest compartment and popped open a rusting metal box housing the room's security.

As the wires twisted together with a satisfying sizzle, the dated security system's lights flickered off. 

Hyde clicked a compact two-way radio, whispering, "System's down. On timeline."

Producing a small strip of tape from the same pocket, she rubbed it across the edge of the junction box, leaving behind two partial fingerprint remnants. She had obtained it from one of Vasquez's brutally unwitting FBI agents.

"That should keep Bruno running in circles," Hyde mused, dropping to the floor, now free to maneuver.

Gabrielle's gaze swept over the framed clippings of victories against organized crime, a map with fading pushpins, and an untouched '40s typewriter. Her gloved finger straightened the photo of agents at an awards ceremony.

The faint creak of the floorboards beneath Hyde's feet vanished beneath the muffled thrum of street traffic a few stories below. The smell of exhaust mingled with mustiness, while a distant orchestra elicited a twinge of excitement. If they only knew.

Rumors swirled amongst law enforcement agencies that Hyde possessed supernatural abilities, a notion as preposterous as it was useful. Interpol was the worst; they built profiles, analyzed evidence, consulted experts, and never once considered that their phantom might wear heels. Their sexism was her greatest disguise; one she didn't even have to work for.

Yet, it rankled a part of her soul to let their narrow-mindedness persist. Her yearning to shatter their chauvinist illusions warred with the supreme tactical advantage such assumptions provided. Pragmatism won. It always did with her.

None of these automatons could fathom Gabrielle's real aim, for it was a deep departure from her usual quarry. It wasn't about money or data. This was far more important. But such value carried enormous risk.

Sure of the path, Hyde refocused.

In the corner, the massive vault sat unassumingly behind an angled, dusty painting. Her slim gloves traced the painting's weathered frame. Careless hands had left the outer edges conspicuously clean.

The vault's design, studied and analyzed, was almost amateur. A vintage Sargent and Greenleaf, the lock was likely state-of-the-art in its day. Pity surfaced for the government that hid its secrets here. Those seeking absolute protection should expect failure.

With skill, Hyde manipulated the antiquated mechanism. The tumblers aligned with faint clicks, sounding like the ticking of a grandfather clock. The lock clinked open. There was no turning back the moment that latch swiveled.

It was the only way forward. Yet, she froze.

Hyde looked down at her hand. It quivered and then stilled. Was it nerves? This was a big moment, one that initiated a series of consequences even she could not predict.

She lifted her hand, rotating it slowly. Staring at the numbers, their presence soothed her in the most unusual of ways. Like Virgil in Dante's Inferno, Gabrielle was ready to cross the threshold and transcend mere excellence.

The door swung open with a whisper, revealing a barely visible tripwire hook in the top corner of the safe. Hyde noted its calculated placement. This confirmed the intel on her new government shadow.

She smiled. Finally, another who sought to impose order. But this young agent still had a lot to learn.

The two-way radio beeped.

"We have movement. Target's approaching. Sixty seconds."

The setup was perfect. "Copy," she replied.

Her icy eyes found the silver case instantly. That part was simple. A thrill coursed through Gabrielle at the prospect of this new challenge. Yet that joy was pure veneer, a deceptive veil for a lifelong pursuit of liberation.

Those who wielded power controlled everything, never sharing willingly. As with all things, she would have to force the issue.

Outside the imposing single-pane windows, the CN Tower's construction lights distantly blinked as agents flooded the building's entryway. They rushed headlong into the waiting jaws of her trap. Among them was the man she wanted so desperately to meet.

Satisfied, Hyde turned and crafted the scene, creating scuffed tracks from the vault, disturbing papers on random desks along the way with deliberate, almost theatrical flourishes.

"That will do nicely." A smile formed as she anticipated the impending confusion.

The stomping footsteps ascending the stairwell grew louder. The thief sprang up with acrobatic grace, sliding into the narrow vent and replacing the cover just as FBI and Interpol agents heaved against the locked door.

They were too late.

Their arrival was merely prelude to the long and twisted road ahead. It was time to put another shovelful of dirt on the grave of her hideous past.