With a rapid flick of his wrists, the two partially emptied suppressed pistols vanished.
In the next instant, two fresh, fully loaded suppressed pistols materialized in Hunter's palms.
Ever since officially joining the Continental Hotel and becoming a professional assassin, Hunter, who was no longer short on cash, made sure his [Inventory] was permanently stocked with a massive arsenal.
He currently had ten fully loaded, suppressed handguns sitting in his pocket dimension, ready to be summoned at a moment's notice.
He didn't know who had targeted him tonight, but judging by their methods, they weren't messing around.
A sniper on overwatch, a synchronized front door breach, and a simultaneous window rappel. This was a highly trained, coordinated kill squad, and they wanted him dead.
Regardless of who sent them, tonight's incident had crossed a line.
In this life, Hunter had no intention of getting married; he was determined to live as a "Sea King."
But for the women who belonged to him—especially those whose hearts were entirely devoted to him—he intended to provide a lifetime of unimaginable wealth and luxury.
And keeping them safe was the absolute bare minimum requirement.
Now, someone had dared to cross that line. They had ambushed him in Slattery's home, putting one of his women in the crossfire.
He was furious.
After wiping out the team that breached the front door, Hunter spun on his heel.
With his fresh pistols, he aimed at the three black-clad operatives who had just touched down on the living room balcony and were preparing to storm the broken window.
Pew! Pew! Pew!
The suppressed weapons coughed in rapid succession.
With his superhuman reflexes and maxed-out shooting skill, Hunter dropped all three men before they even realized the initial breach team was dead.
With another flick of his wrist, the guns disappeared.
In their place, an alloy card, roughly the size of a playing card but with razor-sharp edges, appeared between his fingers.
Hunter flicked his wrist violently.
Guided by his [Throwing: Level 4] skill, the lethal metal card sliced cleanly through one of the thick nylon rappelling ropes dangling outside the window.
Two more rapid flicks. Two more cards flew through the air.
Snap. Snap.
All three ropes were severed, ensuring no one else could slide down from the roof.
Securing the rear, Hunter pulled out another flashbang and crept quietly back toward the ruined front door.
He stood perfectly still, his enhanced hearing straining to pick up the faintest sound from the hallway.
A few moments ago, before he threw the first flashbang and annihilated the entry team, he had heard a flurry of footsteps outside.
Now, the hallway was dead silent.
Hunter wasn't foolish enough to believe the rest of the hit squad had simply packed up and left.
The silence meant they were shocked by the speed of his counterattack and were currently stacked up outside, waiting for him to make a move.
Hunter pulled the pin on the flashbang.
He mentally counted down. When there were only two seconds left on the fuse, he hurled the canister blindly through the doorway into the hall and squeezed his eyes shut.
BANG!
The blinding flash erupted, instantly followed by panicked, disorganized gunfire from the blinded operatives outside.
Two seconds later, Hunter snapped his eyes open and surged into the hallway.
He swept both pistols in a wide arc, his eyes locking onto targets with terrifying efficiency. He fired mercilessly into the blinded, chaotic mass of black-clad men.
Pew! Pew! Pew!
Over two dozen suppressed rounds flew from his weapons in seconds.
Hunter operated with cold, mechanical precision. Under the passive effect of his maxed-out shooting skill, every trigger pull ended a life. The assassins crumpled to the floor one after another, unable to defend themselves against his impossible accuracy.
Thwack!
In the chaos, one of the blinded operatives managed to fire a wild shot that struck Hunter squarely in the chest.
Hunter's body jerked slightly from the kinetic impact, but the Continental-issued bulletproof suit absorbed it flawlessly. A standard pistol caliber couldn't penetrate the bespoke Kevlar weave.
Within moments, the hallway was clear.
Hunter stepped over the bodies, systematically putting a second bullet into the head of every single operative to ensure they were dead.
When he was certain there were no survivors on this floor, he looked toward the elevator and the stairwell, deep in thought.
These assassins were clearly highly trained professionals from a major organization.
To mobilize a hit squad of this size in downtown LA meant they likely had a larger perimeter set up outside.
If Slattery hadn't been here, Hunter wouldn't have hesitated. He would have cleared the roof, swept the lower floors, and slaughtered his way out of the building just for the sport of it.
But he had to consider Slattery's safety.
After a brief pause, he retreated into the apartment.
He pulled out his Continental phone and dialed a specific number.
It rang only twice before connecting.
"This is Hunter Sun," he said calmly. "I'm at the Wiseman Apartments. I'd like to make a dinner reservation for twelve."
He was calling in the Cleaners.
He knew the firefight, despite his suppressed weapons, had been loud enough—especially the breaching ram and the flashbangs—to wake the neighbors. Someone had undoubtedly called the LAPD.
He needed the Continental's specialized cleanup crew to dispose of the bodies and, more importantly, to intercept and handle the police response.
Calling the Hotel would also serve as a warning. Whoever had sent this hit squad would back off temporarily once they realized Hunter was under the High Table's umbrella.
And when they did, Hunter would hunt them down and completely eradicate them.
A deep, professional voice answered on the other end of the line.
"Understood, Mr. Sun. Please wait momentarily. Your dinner will be served shortly."
Hunter didn't have to wait long.
About ten minutes later, several unmarked vans bearing the logo "Professional Waste Management" pulled up to the apartment building.
Six men of varying heights and builds, dressed in matching coveralls, stepped out of the elevator and into the blood-soaked hallway.
"Good evening, Hunter."
The team leader, an older, balding man, took off his cap and gave a slight, respectful bow as he surveyed the dozen corpses littering the floor.
"Charlie. Sorry for the mess," Hunter replied smoothly.
Hunter had worked with Charlie's cleanup crew several times since joining the Continental, so they were already acquainted.
The Cleaners moved with terrifying efficiency.
They bagged the corpses, scrubbed the blood from the carpets, and swept up every casing, bullet fragment, and piece of debris. They worked in absolute silence.
A few minutes later, following a quick phone call from Charlie, a crew arrived carrying a brand-new, reinforced security door. They ripped the destroyed frame out and installed the new door as if nothing had ever happened.
Throughout the entire process, not a single neighbor dared to peek out of their apartment.
And more impressively, not a single LAPD cruiser ever showed up to investigate the noise.
Even the backup assassins who might have been waiting downstairs had completely vanished, clearly spooked by the Hotel's arrival.
Such was the terrifying, absolute power of the Continental.
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