The Interrogation Room.
Hunter Sun raised an eyebrow.
That was easy.
He had watched enough spy thrillers in his previous life to expect resistance. He thought elite assassins were made of sterner stuff—brainwashed, fearless, unbreakable.
But Perkins? She had folded like a cheap lawn chair after one round of waterboarding.
"Good," Hunter thought. "Saves me time."
He stood before her, his expression unreadable. Perkins was still gasping for air, her eyes wide with a mixture of terror and lingering resentment.
"Speak," Hunter commanded.
His voice was devoid of warmth. Yes, he was a hedonist who enjoyed beautiful women. But when his safety was on the line, beauty meant nothing.
Perkins hesitated, her mouth opening and closing like a fish.
Hunter's eyes narrowed.
Hesitation is refusal.
Without a word, he grabbed another sodden sheet of newspaper and slammed it onto her face.
SLAP.
"Mmph!"
Perkins panicked instantly. The suffocation was back, immediate and terrifying. She thrashed against the cross, her lungs burning, her mind screaming.
Hunter watched her struggle, counting silently.
Last time was 30 seconds. Let's do 40.
He waited until her struggles weakened before ripping the paper away.
RIIIP.
"Haaa... Haaa..."
Perkins sucked in air greedily, her face a blotchy mess of red and purple.
"Remember," Hunter said coldly, leaning in close. "There's an old Eastern saying: 'Three strikes and you're out.' You just used your second strike. Next time, I don't stop."
As he spoke, his gaze drifted to her hands.
Even in her panic, her fingers were moving. Not trembling—moving. He watched as her thumb dislocated itself with a sickening pop, sliding out of the zip tie's grip before snapping back into place.
So that's how she did it, Hunter realized. Bone displacement. A useful trick.
He felt a flicker of admiration. Talent like that was rare.
Over the last few months, Hunter had handled everything solo. Whether it was robbing Steve and Stansfield, dodging the FBI, or fighting Russian mobs in Boston, he had relied on his System and his own hands.
But as his enemies multiplied, the workload was becoming unmanageable.
He couldn't be everywhere at once. If someone decided to target Stella, Mia, Tally, or Margie to get to him...
He needed a crew. A loyal, capable team to handle the dirty work.
Maybe I should start recruiting, he mused. But loyalty is expensive.
He pushed the thought aside and focused on Perkins.
"My patience is gone," Hunter said, his voice hard as flint. "Tell me what I want to know. Who hired you?"
Perkins looked at him, truly broken this time. The pain in her stomach from his kick was agonizing, but the memory of drowning was worse.
"We don't know!" she cried out, her voice raspy. "We're just contractors! The Company handles the clients! Only Aces like Jane get the full dossier!"
Hunter frowned. He glanced at Jane.
The other woman was still strapped to her cross, battered and bruised, but her head was held high. She met his gaze with defiance.
She knows, Hunter realized. But she won't talk. Not yet.
He looked back at Perkins, disappointment clouding his features.
"So you're useless," Hunter said flatly. "If you can't tell me who wants me dead, why should I let you live?"
His murderous intent flared, the temperature in the room seemingly dropping a few degrees.
Perkins felt it. The cold shadow of death.
"Wait!" she shrieked, desperate to bargain. "I don't know the client's name! But... but I know how to stop the contracts!"
Hunter paused. "Explain."
"If you want the Company to stop sending people after you," Perkins said, her words tumbling out in a rush, "I can give you a number."
Her expression shifted. The fear receded slightly, replaced by a strange, twisted look—part mockery, part warning.
"You call this number," she said, a dark smile touching her lips. "Tell them Perkins sent you. Your 'problem' will go away."
"But I'm warning you," she added, her voice dropping to a whisper. "It's a one-way ticket to Hell. Once you make that call, you become one of us. You can never go back to being a normal civilian. Not until you're dead."
Hunter stared at her.
A secret number? An invitation to the underworld?
It sounded like an entry point into the High Table or the Continental.
He considered it for a moment. Curiosity warred with caution.
"Give me the number," Hunter said finally. "And I'll keep my promise. You walk free."
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