Hunter Sun put distance between himself and Stansfield's villa before slowing down. Ensuring the coast was clear, he executed a rapid sequence of evasion tactics.
He pulled a motorcycle from his Inventory, slapped a fake license plate onto the fender, and tore down the road for twenty miles. Finding a blind spot in an alley, he stopped to alter his disguise again. He swapped the motorcycle's plate for a fresh forgery, rode a convoluted route through the city's outskirts, and finally ditched the bike back into his dimensional storage.
Now looking like his normal self, he hailed a cab and headed straight for the seaside hotel where he had stashed Margie.
He arrived to find an empty room.
The room hadn't been checked out, but Margie was gone. A quick, casual inquiry with the hotel manager confirmed his suspicions: The FBI had arrived an hour ago and taken her into "protective custody." They were likely grilling her about her late husband, Michael.
Hunter raised an eyebrow. The Bureau hadn't left a message for him. No summons, no agents waiting in the lobby.
He paused, calculating. The FBI had been surveilling him for weeks; they knew about his affair with Margie. If they grabbed her but left him alone, it meant their focus had shifted.
"Excellent," Hunter muttered, a predator's grin touching his lips. "I've finally dropped off their High-Priority Watchlist."
He was in the clear. Now, it was time to ensure Stansfield wasn't.
Hunter thought back to the items he had looted from the bunker. Amidst the gold and cash, he had grabbed a stack of black ledgers. A cursory glance in the dim light of the vault had revealed dates, names, and dollar amounts—Stansfield's bribe log and distribution records.
He didn't dare read them here. Margie might be released, or the FBI might double back. He decided to keep the room for a few days—the cost was negligible now—but he wouldn't stay.
With a conservative estimate of one hundred million dollars sitting in his Inventory, Hunter felt a new kind of weightlessness. He had enough capital to power-level his System skills for years. He could finally stop counting pennies.
But he couldn't get cocky.
A sudden, intrusive image flashed in his mind: An IRS tactical team kicking down his door.
Hunter shuddered. In the United States, you could outrun the FBI. You could evade the CIA. But the Internal Revenue Service? They were the true apex predators. If the tax man flagged his sudden, unexplained wealth, they wouldn't send agents; they would send forensic accountants who could reconstruct his entire life from a few receipts.
"Caution," he reminded himself. "Always caution."
4:00 PM. Near the FBI Los Angeles Field Office.
A FedEx delivery van pulled into the parking lot.
Hunter stepped out, transformed. He wore a standard-issue Federal Express uniform, his skin darkened with bronzer to resemble a Southeast Asian immigrant. He tugged the cap lower, then paused. Too suspicious.
He turned back to the van, reached into his Inventory, and pulled out a Walkman and a pair of chunky headphones. He slid them on, bobbing his head to silent music, affecting the carefree vibe of a minimum-wage courier trying to get through his shift.
He grabbed a package and a clipboard, walking toward the heavily fortified entrance.
Hunter had prepared for this days ago. He had rented the van and uniform legally, paying a premium to a local shipping center under the guise of planning a "romantic surprise delivery" for his girlfriend. It was intended as a backup plan for the anonymous tip.
Today, it was the main event.
The FBI building was on high alert. Uniformed officers with carbines patrolled the perimeter, and new security cameras swiveled on the walls.
They ignored the delivery guy.
Hunter breezed past the outer perimeter, head bobbing to the rhythm, looking completely harmless.
He pushed through the glass doors into the lobby.
"Delivery!" Hunter called out, altering his voice to a slightly higher, accented pitch. "Package for the Director's office! No recipient name on the slip!"
Two agents in suits approached him immediately, eyes scanning him up and down.
Hunter kept his cool. To the Western eye, Asian ethnicities often blurred together. His disguise held.
"Hand it over," one agent said, extending a hand.
Hunter passed the package and the clipboard. "Sign here, please."
The second agent stepped in, cautious. "Where's this from?"
"No idea, boss," Hunter shrugged, sliding one headphone off his ear. "Came in this morning. Priority overnight. Sender paid cash."
The agents exchanged a look. One of them leaned in, listening to the package for the tell-tale tick of a clockwork mechanism or the hum of electronics. Nothing. He squeezed it—pliable, paper-dense.
He tore it open.
Inside were the black ledgers and a single white envelope.
The agent opened the letter. He read two lines, and his face went pale.
Hunter watched the reaction with hidden glee. Bullseye.
"Sir?" Hunter tapped the clipboard impatiently. "I got a route to finish. Can you sign?"
"Uh, right." The agent scribbled a signature without looking, his eyes glued to the evidence. He whispered something urgent to his partner, and they bolted toward the elevators, clutching the notebooks like holy scripture.
Hunter took his clipboard, replaced his headphones, and bopped his way out the door.
Minutes later, Hunter was blocks away, parking the van on a quiet street.
He swapped to a burner phone—brand new, never activated. He punched in a number he had memorized from the client list in Stansfield's files.
It rang four times.
"This is Stan," a voice answered. It was tight, vibrating with suppressed rage.
Hunter smiled. He activated a voice modulation technique he had been practicing, dropping his register to a smooth, gravelly baritone.
"A mutual friend asked me to give you a heads-up," Hunter said. "He wanted you to know your... financial contributions... were not in vain."
Stansfield didn't speak. He was listening.
"The FBI has the scent, Stan. They received a package today. Ledgers. Dates. Names. They know." Hunter let the silence hang for a second. "Clean house. Good luck."
He hung up.
Hunter leaned back in the driver's seat and laughed.
He had framed Stansfield for murder. He had stolen his fortune. Now, he had convinced the paranoid drug lord that a corrupt insider was warning him of impending doom.
Stansfield was a rabid dog backed into a corner. And Hunter had just tossed him a lit stick of dynamite.
"I can't wait to see the fireworks," Hunter whispered.
He popped the back off the phone, snapped the SIM card in half, and flicked the pieces into the roadside brush. The engine roared to life, and the fake FedEx van disappeared into the Los Angeles traffic.
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