Vince and Slater.
To Hunter, they were less than nothing. Just two thugs from Dom's crew who had tried to jump him back in the beginning.
Vince had been jealous of Hunter's proximity to Mia. Slater had been his enforcer, threatening to break Hunter's legs just for the fun of it. That fight had ended decisively: Hunter had broken them instead, sending both men to the hospital in casts.
Hunter had almost forgotten about them. He figured they were just collateral damage in his rise to power.
But now? Now they were liabilities.
Dom's flight, the FBI surveillance, the sudden collapse of Toretto's market—it all pointed to a leak. And Hunter had a strong suspicion that the leak came from the hospital beds he had put them in.
The FBI likely squeezed them. Vince, bitter and broken, or Slater, looking for a plea deal, had talked. They had sold out Dom. And in the process, they had pointed a finger at Hunter, painting a target on his back as an accomplice.
Hunter's eyes narrowed, a cold glint of steel flashing in the dim light.
"Thanks," Hunter said, stubbing out his cigarette.
He stood up. Whether Parker was telling him this out of loyalty to Dom or just old-man weariness, it was a favor.
"I won't be coming back here," Hunter added quietly.
He turned to walk away.
"It was Slater!"
Parker's voice cracked through the silence, desperate and loud.
Hunter stopped dead, his back to the mechanic.
"He came to me," Parker shouted, his voice trembling. "He wanted me to testify against Dom. He wanted me to be a witness for the prosecution. I refused. That's why they seized the garage."
Hunter stood motionless for a second, processing the intel. Then, without a word, he resumed his stride, disappearing into the city.
Two Nights Later. 3:00 AM.
Hunter stood in the shadows of an alleyway, looking up at a run-down apartment complex.
He adjusted his gloves and moved to the back of the building. Like a spider in the dark, he latched onto the drainpipe. His [Climbing LV4] skill kicked in, turning the vertical ascent into a casual stroll. He vaulted past AC units and window ledges, reaching the fifth floor in seconds.
Thud.
He landed silently on a window sill, balancing on the narrow concrete lip. He shifted his weight, peering through the glass.
This was where Slater lived.
Hunter had spent the last forty-eight hours doing his homework. A few well-placed bribes had confirmed that Slater was no longer in protective custody. The FBI had wrung him dry and cut him loose. He was back in his own crib.
And he had picked up a habit.
According to the intel, Slater was using heavy narcotics to manage the pain from his broken limbs. That made things easy.
Hunter listened. His enhanced hearing picked up the rhythmic breathing of a single occupant in the room. Deep. Heavy. Asleep.
He pushed the window up. It slid open silently—cheap, old construction with no locks. Hunter slipped inside.
The first room was occupied by a woman, likely Slater's girlfriend or sister. Hunter ignored her, ghosting past the doorframe into the hallway.
He found Slater in the second bedroom.
Hunter's lips curled into a cruel smile as he took in the scene.
The room was a sty. Empty takeout boxes, dirty clothes, and on the nightstand—a tourniquet, a spoon, and a lighter.
"Interesting," Hunter whispered.
He reached into his Inventory and pulled out the kit he had prepared: a syringe and a 20ml vial of saline solution. But the vial didn't contain just saline. It was spiked with a lethal concentration of the pure heroin Hunter had looted from Stansfield's stash.
He approached the bed. Slater was out cold, sweating through his sheets, likely crashing from his last hit.
Hunter worked with surgical precision. He swabbed the vial to ensure no prints, drew the liquid into the syringe, and flicked the needle to clear the air bubbles.
He grabbed Slater's arm.
The man flinched as the needle pierced his vein.
"Mmph..." Slater groaned, eyes fluttering but failing to focus. The drugs in his system kept him pinned to the mattress.
Hunter depressed the plunger.
Twenty milliliters of high-grade death flooded Slater's bloodstream.
Slater's eyes shot open for a split second, wide with terror, before they rolled back into his head. His body arched, seizing violently as the overdose hit his heart like a sledgehammer. Foam began to bubble at the corners of his mouth.
Hunter stepped back, watching dispassionately. He waited until the thrashing stopped. Until the gasping breaths turned into a final, rattling silence.
Job done.
Hunter picked up the syringe and the empty vial. He walked over to the corpse, grabbed Slater's limp hand, and pressed his fingers onto the plunger and the glass, leaving a perfect set of prints.
A tragic accident. An addict who pushed his limits too far.
Hunter placed the paraphernalia on the nightstand, next to Slater's own gear.
He turned, climbed out the window, and vanished into the night.
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