Wanted : by Her

Chapter One Celine — One Year Earlier Surveillance Room, 4th Floor, Internal Operations HQ He wasn’t supposed to look like that. Not the country’s most elusive thief. Not the man whose heists had sent the agency into a spiral for months. Not the guy who had top security systems eating dust and corrupt politicians begging for a deal. But there he was. Projected across the screen in grainy black and white, leaning casually against a glass case inside a private museum. Shirt rolled up. Gloves on. Mask pulled just enough to show the smirk that would haunt my focus for months. “Playback again,” I ordered. The tech beside me sighed. “Navarro, that’s the third time—” “Again.” The footage rolled. He didn’t even run. Just walked past four laser triggers, flipped the alarm override, winked at the camera, then disappeared through the ceiling like he was showing off. “You said this was raw footage?” I asked. “Yes, ma'am. Straight from the vault cameras. No distortion, no cut angles.” I leaned closer, squinting at his posture, the way he moved. Effortless. Unhurried. Arrogant. But smooth. Like he already knew we were watching. “What's his name again?” I asked, even though I’d seen it on the folder an hour ago. The head agent handed it over. “Ares Montecillo. Alias only. No confirmed birth record. No prints. He's a ghost. But he's hit eight targets in two years. This is the first time we’ve got a face. Kind of.” I stared at the still frame. His face was half-covered by the edge of a ski mask. But his mouth was smirking. Not smiling — smirking. Like he knew this image would end up in our system. In front of me. And it worked. Because I was already hooked. “Assign me to this,” I said. Agent Romero raised an eyebrow. “It’s off-books. High risk. This guy slips through agents like air. Why you?” “Because he’s never been caught.” I glanced back at the screen. “And I’m not everyone else.” I didn’t tell anyone the real reason I volunteered. Didn’t mention how something in my chest pulled tight the second I saw him move. How the calm in his walk made my pulse skip. How I hated that. It wasn’t attraction. Not then. It was control. He had too much of it. And I wanted to ruin it. “Give me everything you have on him,” I told Romero. He hesitated. “Celine, this guy isn’t just a thief. He’s a strategist. No trail, no partners, no motives. We’re talking precision jobs. High profile. International ties. You sure?” I nodded once. “I don’t care how careful he is. Everyone leaves something behind.” Romero studied me. “And what if he’s not your usual case? What if he’s the kind that gets under your skin?” Too late, I thought. Out loud, I said, “Then I’ll skin him back.” He gave me the files. Thick, red-stamped, half of it blacked out. Surveillance. Past crime scenes. Intel. Patterns. The more I read, the more personal it became. Ares Montecillo didn’t just break into vaults. He exposed people. He knew where to hit — not just what to steal, but who it would hurt. CEOs, politicians, judges. All dirty. All shaken after he left. It wasn’t just theft. It was a message. A warning. A game. And I was the next player. The next few nights, I studied him like religion. I memorized his steps. His files. His marks. I matched his patterns, predicted his timings, traced his tricks. I started dreaming in security footage. I started thinking like him. But it was one specific clip I kept replaying. The moment he turned to the camera, just before the escape. The lazy glance. That smirk. Like he already knew I’d come for him. And he was ready. The Next Day I showed up to HQ early. Earlier than anyone else. Security was barely booted. My badge hadn’t even scanned in yet when I was already flipping through files, cross-referencing past heists with shipment logs and underground auctions. No coffee. No distraction. Just focus. I’d barely slept. Couldn’t. Every time I closed my eyes, I’d see that clip on loop. That smooth turn to the camera. That slight tilt of his head like he was looking through it. Through me. I’d worked high-profile cases before. Traffickers, gun-runners, blackmail rings. But this one? This one crawled under my skin. I wanted him locked in a box so I could finally breathe. At 8:10 a.m., someone knocked on my office door. An intern peeked in, holding a plain black envelope. No return address. No stamp. Just my name, printed clean across the center in sharp white letters. C. Navarro. I stood, instantly alert. “Where did you get that?” “Sitting on the front desk downstairs. No one saw who dropped it.” I snatched it from her hands. It wasn’t heavy. No device inside. No ticking. Just heat in my chest and static in my throat. I tore it open. Inside was a single photo. A still from the security footage I watched the night before. The same moment. The smirk. Except this one was signed. “Nice eyes. -A” I blinked. Once. Twice. I didn’t even hear the intern leave. I just stared at the photo. Heart beating too fast, too loud. Not from fear. From something else. Not because he sent it. But because I liked that he kn ew I was watching. And he was watching back. I didn’t tell anyone about the photo. I should’ve filed it. Should’ve logged it as evidence. But instead, I slipped it into the bottom drawer of my desk and locked it. It wasn’t weakness. It was instinct. Because I knew if word got out that Ares Montecillo was playing this personal, every agent in the building would be swarming the case. And I wasn’t about to share him. He was mine. And I’d prove it. By evening, I was deep inside a low-security blacksite we used for intel scrubbing. The room was dark, lit only by dual monitors running facial recognition software and raw city traffic cams. I was following a tip. A possible sighting in Makati, near an auction house he’d hit two months ago. Nothing confirmed. Just noise. Until I felt it. A change in the room. A shift. Then my earpiece crackled. Static, soft at first. Then… a voice. Smooth. Confident. Infuriatingly calm. “You work late, Navarro.” I froze. Not because I was afraid. Because it was him. My pulse jumped. “How the hell did you get into my comms?” “Relax. I’m not inside your system. Just yours.” He chuckled. “I figured I’d check in. After all, you’ve been watching me so closely.” I stood, scanning the monitors, looking for signs of breach. Nothing. No interference. Just his voice in my ear like it belonged there. “You’re bold,” I muttered, already pulling up encryption logs. “Arrogant, even.” “Guilty.” “Keep talking,” I said flatly, “gives me time to trace you.” “Is that your thing? Chasing men who don’t want to be caught?” “No. Just men who think they’re untouchable.” He hummed, low and amused. “Funny. You don’t sound like you want to stop me. You sound like you want to find me… just to see if I’m real.” I hated how calm my voice stayed. “I’m not here to flirt, Montecillo.” “Shame. You’re very good at it.” I didn’t respond. Not at first. Because deep down, in a place I never planned to admit existed, I liked hearing his voice. Low. Unbothered. Hot as hell. But mostly? I liked that he knew exactly how to get to me. “Keep talking,” I said quietly, slipping a new trace command into the audio feed. “I’m coming for you.” His response? “I’m counting on it.” The line went dead.