"So, Stansfield ran."
Hunter Sun sat back on the sofa, snapping the Los Angeles Times open. The headline screamed across the fold: CORRUPT DEA AGENT FLEES MANHUNT.
Tally moved behind him, her small, surprisingly strong hands working the tension out of his shoulders.
For the past few days, Hunter had been lying low in her apartment, treating it as a bunker. They had spent the time... efficiently. Every corner of the small rental had been tested for comfort and privacy. Hunter's enhanced stamina—three times that of a normal man—had left Tally exhausted but clingy.
He hadn't officially asked her to be his girlfriend. He didn't need to. Tally, with her traumatic past as a pawn for the Russian mob, didn't ask for labels. She simply accepted her new role: Hunter's lover. Hunter's shadow.
"What does it say?" Tally asked, resting her chin on his shoulder.
Hunter tilted the paper so she could see. She was sixteen, but her eyes held a weariness that made her seem older. Still, she was a girl at heart. She glanced at the dense text about RICO statutes, bribery charges, and the FBI's manhunt for Stansfield, and immediately lost interest.
"Boring," she muttered, pouting slightly as she returned to massaging his neck. She wanted celebrity gossip, not federal indictments.
"Easy," Hunter said, reaching up to stop her hands. "You had surgery yesterday."
He turned to look at her. "I hired the best private surgeon in the city. The incision to remove that tracker is small, but it's still a wound. No strenuous activity for two weeks."
Tally had been branded by the Russian mob in Boston—a micro-GPS tracker embedded in her lower abdomen to keep her from running. Hunter had saved her during a run for Dom Toretto, brought her to LA, and finally, yesterday, paid to have the device cut out.
Because of the stitches, he hadn't touched her since the operation.
Tally, however, seemed to have developed an appetite. Her body pressed against his back again, warm and soft.
"Not even a little bit?" she whispered, her voice teasing. "The doctor said it was a clean cut. It doesn't hurt."
Hunter raised an eyebrow. The offer was tempting. But he shook his head. "No. You'll tear the stitches and scar. If you're that desperate..." He gestured to the nightstand where he'd left a few... gifts he'd bought her. "Innovate."
Tally flushed red. "Fine."
But she didn't walk away. Instead, she moved around the sofa, stood in front of him, and slowly sank to her knees.
Hunter froze, surprised.
She looked up at him through her lashes, a mischievous glint in her eyes. "This doesn't use my stomach muscles, does it?"
Hunter's resolve crumbled. He smirked, leaning back into the cushions and picking up the newspaper again.
"Carry on."
Tally's fingers worked quickly but gently, freeing him from his pants with practiced ease. The air between them thickened instantly, charged with the quiet intensity of gratitude and desire. She leaned forward, her breath warm against his skin, lips brushing teasingly at first—slow, deliberate kisses that made Hunter's grip tighten on the newspaper. Then she took him fully into her mouth, the wet heat enveloping him in a rhythm that was both tender and insistent.
Her eyes never left his, dark and focused, conveying everything words couldn't: thank you for saving me, thank you for seeing me, thank you for this new life. Hunter's free hand slid into her hair, not guiding but simply holding, fingers threading gently as waves of sensation built. The newspaper crinkled forgotten in his other hand. Tally's movements grew more confident, tongue swirling, lips tightening just right, drawing low groans from deep in his chest. The chemistry was raw and unspoken—her devotion fueling every stroke, every flick, until the pleasure crested sharply. Hunter's hips lifted slightly, breath hitching, and he spilled with a quiet shudder, the release crashing through him like a long-held breath finally let go.
Tally pulled back slowly, licking her lips with a small, satisfied smile. She rested her cheek against his thigh for a moment, catching her breath, before rising to curl against his side.
Hunter set the crumpled newspaper aside and wrapped an arm around her, pressing a kiss to her temple.
They stayed like that in comfortable silence for a while.
3:00 PM.
Hunter left the apartment feeling lighter.
Stansfield's flight was the best possible outcome. By running, the corrupt agent had tacitly admitted guilt to every crime Hunter had framed him for. The bombing, the assassinations, the theft—it was all Stansfield's legacy now. The FBI would spend months chasing his ghost, leaving Hunter in the clear.
He headed to the Los Angeles Land Registry Office.
It was time to diversify. He needed a safe house outside the city—a farm or ranch where he could stash Tally, and perhaps Margie, if she was willing. With a net worth now eclipsing half a billion dollars, he could afford to keep a few secrets.
But there was a catch. He couldn't just drop millions on a sprawling estate.
The IRS monitored large cash transactions. His wealth was "black money"—untraceable cash and bearer bonds. He couldn't explain it.
So, he needed a property under one million dollars. Something he could justify with his fake identity's income or small loans.
He spent an hour with a real estate broker, outlining his needs: secluded, private, under six figures cash. He paid the consultation fee and left, telling the agent to call him when something came up.
Hunter didn't go back to Tally immediately.
He ducked into a public bathroom, applied a quick disguise—changing his hair color and adding a few years to his face with makeup—and headed for Echo Park.
It had been weeks since he'd seen Mia Toretto or Letty (Slater).
He felt a pang of guilt. Mia and Letty were... different. In a country as open as the US, finding two women who had given him their virginity was rare. They held a special place in his hierarchy of relationships.
He hadn't visited them because he didn't know how to explain his absence, or his new life. But with the heat dying down, he wanted to see Mia. He wanted to take her shopping, maybe convince her to stay in LA when Dom inevitably had to run.
Hunter convinced himself it would be easy. He'd hire a shark of a lawyer, sever Mia's connection to Dom's crimes, and keep her safe.
He rode his motorcycle toward the Toretto house, the familiar streets of Echo Park rolling by.
He turned the corner onto their block.
He slammed on the brakes.
The iconic craftsman house was dark.
Across the front door, bright yellow tape formed an X.
FBI - CRIME SCENE - DO NOT ENTER.
Hunter sat on his idling bike, staring at the seal. The realization hit him like a bucket of ice water.
Dom was gone. Mia was gone. Letty was gone.
They had run.
And suddenly, the pieces clicked into place.
The FBI surveillance on him. The sudden intensity of the investigation. It wasn't just about his connection to Margie or the stolen goods.
They had been watching him because they knew he was connected to Dom Toretto.
"Shit," Hunter whispered.
He was too late.
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