Rob's Apartment Building. Rooftop.
Hunter moved like a ghost. He disassembled the sniper rifle in seconds, the heavy barrel and polymer stock vanishing into his Inventory. He picked up the single brass casing—still warm—and slipped it into his pocket.
Click.
He locked the roof access door behind him, sealing the crime scene from above.
By the time the sirens began to wail in the distance, Hunter was already miles away, merging his motorcycle into the flow of late-night traffic.
He checked his watch. Time was tight.
Handsome Rob was dead. The charismatic second-in-command of Charlie's crew was gone. But a dead body in a high-end apartment would draw attention fast. Police would pull phone records, surveillance footage. The window for action was closing.
"One down," Hunter whispered into the wind. "One to go."
His next target: Left Ear.
The demolitions expert. The man who could turn a car ignition into a fireball.
Left Ear lived off the grid, paranoid and reclusive. His home wasn't a penthouse; it was a small, seven-acre farm on the outskirts of Los Angeles County. Isolated. Quiet. Perfect for testing explosives without the neighbors calling 911.
Perfect for an assassination.
Left Ear's Farm. 1:00 AM.
Hunter killed the engine a mile out, coasting to a stop in the shadows of an old oak tree. He stashed the bike in his Inventory and approached on foot.
The perimeter was marked by a low wooden fence. Hunter vaulted it effortlessly, his enhanced legs propelling him over the rail without a sound.
He moved through the tall grass, his eyes scanning the property. A small farmhouse sat in the center, a single light burning on the porch.
Woof! Woof! Woof!
A dog barked.
Hunter froze. A large Rottweiler was chained near the porch, straining against its leash, barking furiously into the darkness.
Hunter cursed silently. He pulled a suppressed pistol from his Inventory. He hated killing dogs, but if it alerted the target...
"Beau! Shut up!"
A voice shouted from the porch.
Hunter paused.
A figure stepped out of the house, silhouetted against the light. It was Left Ear. He was wearing a t-shirt and boxers, looking annoyed. He stomped down the steps toward the barking dog.
"What is it, boy? A coyote?" Left Ear grumbled, crouching down to check the animal's collar.
Hunter's eyes narrowed.
Range: 120 meters.
Target: Stationary.
Lighting: Poor, but sufficient.
He swapped the pistol for the Remington M700 sniper rifle.
He didn't bother finding a prone position. With 3x Human Strength, he could fire the heavy rifle from a standing position with zero sway. The recoil would be nothing more than a gentle shove.
He raised the weapon, the scope settling instantly on Left Ear's crouching form.
The crosshairs hovered over his center mass.
Hunter didn't hesitate.
Boom.
The shot tore through the silence of the countryside.
One hundred meters away, Left Ear was thrown backward as if kicked by a mule. The .308 round slammed into his chest, shattering ribs and obliterating his heart before exiting through his back.
He hit the dirt and didn't move.
Woof! Woof! Woof!
The dog went berserk, the smell of blood sending it into a frenzy. With a savage twist, the Rottweiler snapped its chain and charged into the darkness, straight toward Hunter's position.
"Good dog," Hunter muttered.
He scanned the grass around him. Finding the casing in this overgrown field would be impossible. He left it.
He stored the rifle and pulled the pistol again, just in case.
But he didn't shoot the dog.
Instead, he turned and ran.
He engaged his full speed. His legs pumped like pistons, the ground blurring beneath him.
30 mph... 40 mph...
He was faster than an Olympic sprinter. Faster than the dog. The barking, which had been closing in, began to fade as he put distance between them with impossible speed.
"So this is what it feels like," Hunter thought, the wind roaring in his ears. He felt like a cheetah, effortlessly outstripping pursuit.
He reached the fence line and vaulted it in a single bound.
He summoned his motorcycle, keyed the ignition, and roared away just as the snarling dog reached the perimeter.
"Lucky boy," Hunter smirked.
Left Ear was dead. The bomb maker was gone.
The threat was neutralized.
Lightpons Private Hospital. VIP Wing.
Charlie Croker was dreaming.
In the dream, he was happy. He was walking hand-in-hand with Stella through the cobbled streets of Venice. They were married. They were in love. The sun was shining on the canals, reflecting the gold they had stolen back from Steve.
They stepped onto a gondola, laughing.
Suddenly, a massive yacht smashed into them from a side canal. The gondola shattered.
Charlie hit the water, gasping. He surfaced, looking for Stella.
She was sinking. Dragged down into the dark, murky depths.
"Stella!" Charlie screamed, diving after her.
But as he swam, bodies began to fall past him.
Handsome Rob. Lyle. Left Ear. Even old John Bridger and the traitor Steve.
They were all bound in chains, their feet shackled to heavy, golden spheres.
"Help me, Charlie!"
"Charlie!"
One by one, they sank into the abyss, their eyes wide with accusation.
Charlie tried to reach them, but he felt a sudden, crushing weight on his own leg. He looked down.
A golden ball and chain was locked around his ankle.
A shadow loomed over him—a man with a faceless mask—and kicked him hard in the chest.
"No!"
Charlie screamed as the water filled his lungs, dragging him down into the darkness with his dead crew.
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