"So they really ran."
Hunter sat in his car, idling outside Toretto's Market & Cafe. The building had already been leased to new tenants. The familiar scent of tuna sandwiches and motor oil was gone, replaced by the sterile smell of fresh paint.
Dom, Mia, Letty—they had vanished without a trace.
Hunter drummed his fingers on the steering wheel. He couldn't blame them for leaving him behind. When the heat came down, it came down fast. A clean break meant no loose ends, and contacting him would have only painted a target on his back.
Irony was a cruel mistress; the FBI had targeted him anyway.
He tried to recall the original Fast & Furious timeline. Dom usually fled to Baja, Mexico, or further south to the Caribbean—the Dominican Republic or maybe Cuba.
"Doesn't matter," Hunter murmured, shifting the car into gear. "Dom can't stay quiet for long. Wherever engines are revving and safes are being cracked, I'll find him."
His only worry was the split. In the original canon, Dom ran alone to protect the others, leaving Mia and Letty behind. That decision almost got Letty killed and led to a whole mess of drama with Elena Neves and a secret child.
Now, it seemed they had all run together. That was a deviation. A dangerous one. If Dom got sloppy and separated from them... Hunter cracked his knuckles. He liked the bald gearhead, but if Dom let anything happen to Mia, Hunter would introduce him to the business end of his triple-human strength.
Hunter drove back to his apartment complex.
Michael's door was still sealed with yellow tape.
The apartment next door—Léon's—was empty. The hitman had cleaned it out.
Hunter smiled faintly. By saving Mathilda early, he had inadvertently saved Léon too. The professional killer hadn't been forced into a suicide mission to rescue the girl. He was alive, free, and likely halfway to Italy by now.
"A better ending for the cleaner," Hunter thought. "Maybe he'll find a nice plant to take care of."
Hunter checked his own apartment. No notes. No signs of entry. He decided to keep the lease for now—a backup safe house was always useful.
He headed for the Seaside Hotel.
Margie had the key card when the FBI picked her up. Hunter had extended the booking, gambling that she might return.
Margie was... complicated. She was older, experienced, and insatiable. She had been his mentor in the bedroom, teaching him things that no textbook could cover. She had given him the "Grand Slam" experience, and for that alone, she earned a permanent spot on his roster.
If she had returned to the hotel, it meant she had nowhere else to go. Stansfield was gone. The FBI case was cooling. She was free.
Hunter walked into the lobby. The manager spotted him instantly.
"Mr. Sun! Thank God," the manager rushed over, wiping sweat from his brow. "Your... guest returned a few days ago. She's been charging everything to the room. The bill is currently—"
"I'll handle it," Hunter cut him off, pulling out a thick roll of cash. "Put it on my tab."
The manager's anxiety vanished. He personally escorted Hunter to the elevator, bowing like a servant to a king.
Hunter walked down the hallway, the plush carpet muffling his steps. He knocked on the door.
Knock. Knock.
Footsteps. The lock clicked.
The door swung open to reveal a scowling twelve-year-old girl.
Mathilda.
"Hi," Hunter said, offering a small wave.
Mathilda stared at him with dead, shark-like eyes. She hated her father. She hated her sister. The only person she tolerated was her little brother (Margie's son). Seeing Hunter didn't seem to improve her mood.
She nodded once, sharp and dismissive, then turned her back on him, shouting into the room.
"Mom! Your boy toy is here!"
Hunter chuckled. The kid had spirit.
He stepped inside and closed the door. Before he could fully turn, a wave of perfume hit him, followed by a soft, warm body slamming into his chest.
"Thank God," a husky voice whispered in his ear. "You finally came, my little wolf."
Hunter wrapped his arms around Margie, patting her back reassuringly. He pulled back slightly to look at her.
She didn't look like a grieving widow.
Michael was dead. Her stepdaughter was dead. Her stepson was dead.
But Margie's face wasn't stained with tears. It was flushed with relief. Maybe even excitement. Michael had been a drug-dealing thug who dragged her into hell. Now, he was gone.
And she was holding onto her lifeline.
Margie looked up at him, her eyes shining not with sorrow, but with a desperate, hungry affection.
"I missed you," she purred, her hands already wandering.
Hunter raised an eyebrow.
"I missed you too," he lied, steering her toward the bedroom.
The door clicked shut behind them, sealing off the world and the weight of everything outside.
Margie's desperation fueled the fire. She pushed him against the wall, her mouth claiming his in a kiss that was equal parts relief and raw need. Her tongue swept in, tasting him like she was starving, her fingers clawing at his shirt until buttons popped free. Hunter matched her urgency, his hands sliding under her dress, gripping the soft curves of her hips and lifting her effortlessly against him. She wrapped her legs around his waist, grinding down with a low moan that vibrated against his lips.
They stumbled toward the bed, clothes shedding in a frantic trail—her dress pooling at her feet, his shirt torn open, pants kicked aside. Margie fell back onto the mattress, pulling him down with her, her nails raking down his back as he settled between her thighs. The heat of her skin against his was electric; she arched up, pressing her breasts to his chest, nipples hard and begging for attention.
Hunter's mouth moved lower, trailing hot, open-mouthed kisses along her collarbone, then down to capture one peak between his lips. He sucked gently at first, then harder, drawing a sharp gasp from her as her fingers tangled in his hair. She rocked against him, slick and ready, whispering his name like a plea.
When he finally slid inside her, it was slow, deliberate—letting her feel every inch, every stretch. Margie's eyes fluttered shut, a shudder running through her body as she adjusted, then locked her legs around him, urging him deeper. The rhythm built quickly: hard, steady thrusts that had the headboard tapping the wall, her moans growing louder, unrestrained. She clawed at his shoulders, meeting every movement, the chemistry between them a perfect storm of pent-up emotion and physical hunger.
Sweat slicked their skin, breaths mingling in ragged gasps. Hunter angled his hips just right, hitting that spot that made her cry out, her inner walls tightening around him in waves. She came first—hard, trembling, nails digging crescents into his back as her body clenched and released in pulsing waves. The sight and feel of her unraveling pushed him over the edge. He buried himself deep one last time, spilling inside her with a low groan, the release crashing through him like a dam breaking.
They collapsed together, tangled and spent, hearts hammering in sync. Margie pressed her face into the crook of his neck, breathing him in, a soft, contented sigh escaping her lips.
For the first time in weeks, she felt anchored.
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