Night fell.
Hunter looked down at the sweet, sexy Sam, who had already fallen into a deep sleep beside him.
Perhaps she was still exhausted from the previous night, but Hunter had also put in a lot of effort today. He had pulled out all the stops—playing the wounded protector, the devoted lover, and the perfect gentleman—until he finally coaxed her back into his arms as the sun went down.
After another intense session, Hunter was confident that under the passive effects of his maxed-out [Reproduction] skill, Sam's psychological dependency and obedience would spike by the time she woke up.
However, Sam's sense of self was incredibly strong.
Her willpower wasn't much weaker than Jane Smith's or the assassin Perkins'.
She had been orphaned at a young age, dropped out of school early, and fought tooth and nail to survive on her own. She had spent years fending off aggressive suitors on a party island. If she didn't have a naturally high guard, she would have been eaten alive long ago.
When Hunter first met her, he noticed her walls were practically made of steel.
It was only after he "bought back" her mother's necklace that she finally dismantled those defenses for him.
He had originally thought he could completely conquer this sweet, sexy girl in three or four encounters.
Now he realized it was going to be a protracted war of stamina and patience.
Even with Perkins, who had actively pursued him, it had taken over a week of constant "interaction" to push her dependency and obedience to a high level.
Extrapolating from that, Hunter knew he would need to invest a bit more time to thoroughly break down Sam's remaining mental barriers.
Sam was dead to the world. When Hunter carefully slipped out of bed, she didn't even stir.
This didn't surprise him. He knew he had a Continental hit to carry out tonight, so he had deliberately pushed her hard enough to ensure she would sleep through the night and likely well into tomorrow afternoon.
He took a quick shower and changed into a set of clean, dark tactical clothing.
He didn't bother applying a disguise at the villa. He slipped out the door and melted into the tropical night, heading toward the island's most exclusive luxury real estate sector.
Paradise Island wasn't large. Its total area was only about 685 acres, roughly three square kilometers.
Walking across an island this size took hardly any time at all.
His target, the retired master thief Max Burdett, lived on the northeast corner of the island, a gated community of multimillion-dollar oceanfront villas, many boasting their own private beaches.
Hunter maintained a steady, unhurried pace. The distance between his rented villa and Max's estate was barely a walk.
Soon, he arrived at the perimeter of the luxury compound.
It was late.
Inside his villa, Max Burdett tossed and turned. After a heated argument, his lover and former accomplice, Lola, had finally fallen asleep in the guest room.
Max, however, couldn't find a trace of sleep. Feeling restless, he got out of bed, threw on a pair of board shorts, and walked out onto his private beach.
The cool ocean breeze washed over him, blowing away some of his frustration.
Staring out at the moonlit ocean, Max's mind drifted to the source of his recent headaches.
He used to be a world-renowned international thief. For years, he had operated across Europe and the United States, pulling off impossible heists. He had bypassed state-of-the-art security systems to steal priceless jewels and antiques from billionaires, socialites, and museums, either keeping them for the thrill or selling them for fortunes.
After a decade, he was universally feared by the elite and incredibly wealthy.
A year ago, Lola—who had been his partner in crime and lover for over ten years—decided she was done living on a knife's edge.
After relentless persuasion, Max finally agreed: one last job, and then they would retire to a place where no one knew them.
During that final heist, Max found himself pursued by a relentless FBI agent named Stan Lloyd.
Despite the intense heat, Max and Lola had used their unparalleled skills to outmaneuver Stan. The FBI agent knew they did it, but Max had ensured there was zero evidence to hold them. Stan had been forced to let them walk.
But by doing so, Max had permanently cemented his rivalry with the FBI agent.
Recently, Stan had shown up in the Bahamas uninvited. He had tracked Max down and taunted him with a piece of information: the third and final 'Napoleon Diamond' was currently sitting on a luxury cruise ship docked right here in Nassau.
Stan even proposed that they team up to steal it.
Max wasn't an idiot. He knew Stan, whom he had humiliated a year ago, had no intention of actually partnering with him. It was an obvious trap designed to catch him red-handed.
But despite knowing it was a trap, Max couldn't resist the bait.
Ever since he and Lola had retired to this island, Max hadn't touched a lockpick or cracked a safe.
For the first few months, the retirement life was relaxing. But soon, the boredom set in. Max missed the adrenaline, the thrill of the chase, the intellectual challenge of the heist.
Lola, who had spent over a decade by his side, obviously noticed his growing restlessness.
But she vehemently refused to let him return to that dangerous life. This had led to constant, escalating fights between them.
So, when Stan showed up dangling the Napoleon Diamond, Max took the bait.
Lola refused to help him. Instead, Max aligned himself with a local Bahamian gangster named Henri Mooré, who also had his eyes on the diamond.
Relying on his immense experience, Max successfully stole the priceless gem.
To prevent anyone from finding it, he hid the diamond inside his villa on Paradise Island, in a spot he was certain no one would ever discover.
Logically, having just stolen one of the most famous diamonds in the world, Max should have been thrilled.
But standing on the beach, he felt entirely hollow.
Today, Lola had given him an ultimatum. Either he truly retired—meaning they would leave this island, find a new place, and start completely fresh without the diamond—or they would go their separate ways forever.
Lola's absolute dedication to a normal life, and the finality in her voice, had left the former master thief feeling lost and disoriented.
He couldn't understand why the woman who used to love the thrill just as much as he did had suddenly changed so drastically.
He failed to realize that Lola, after a decade of being his "accomplice" and "lover," simply wanted the one title he hadn't given her: his wife.
Max stood by the water's edge, letting the salty wind whip against his face, completely lost in his own thoughts.
Because his mind was elsewhere, he never noticed the shadow moving in the darkness seventy meters down the beach.
The shadow raised a specialized weapon and took aim at the distracted thief.
Thwip!
The sharp hum of the projectile slicing through the air was completely swallowed by the sound of the crashing waves.
Max suddenly felt a sharp, heavy impact between his shoulder blades.
He stumbled forward, nearly knocked off his feet by the kinetic force.
Frowning, he reached behind his back. His fingers brushed against the feathered fletching of a heavy crossbow bolt.
A split second later, a searing, tearing pain erupted in his chest.
Max looked down in horror.
The steel broadhead of the bolt, designed with deep blood grooves, was protruding from the center of his chest. It had punched cleanly through his heart.
"I..."
Max opened his mouth to speak, but instead of words, a thick froth of blood bubbled up his throat and spilled over his lips.
As his life force rapidly drained away, Max's vision went black. He collapsed onto the white sand, his body twitching once before going perfectly still.
Max Burdett, the legendary master thief of a generation, met his end on Paradise Island.
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