Boston—he'd arrived!
He stepped off the plane with a cross-body travel bag that held only a change of clothes.
Hunter strode out of the terminal and took a deep breath.
As one of America's oldest cities, Boston, like Los Angeles, was a seaport town.
One lay on the West Coast, the other at the nation's northeastern corner.
He had flown clear across the entire country from Los Angeles.
The flight had kept him in the air for more than seven hours.
Add in the layover, and by the time he landed night had already fallen for a while.
"Need a ride, sir?"
A cab pulled up in front of him.
The driver was a Black uncle who didn't look the least bit shady.
Hunter opened the door and climbed in.
"Chinatown. Find me a decent hotel there—quiet and clean."
"You got it!"
The uncle gunned the engine and headed smoothly toward Chinatown.
Taxi drivers the world over seem born chatterboxes.
Back in Los Angeles Hunter had rarely taken cabs, so he'd never noticed.
But the moment he hit Boston, his very first driver turned out to be a talker.
The man rattled on nonstop—about Hunter's nationality, race, then Boston's history and must-see spots.
He kept it up until they were almost at Chinatown.
The driver glanced at him in the rear-view mirror.
Suddenly, as if remembering something, his tone turned cheeky.
"Sir, I know a hotel nearby that's pretty famous."
"If you'd like to sample some of Boston's sweet hospitality, how about giving it a try?"
In the back seat, Hunter—still in sunglasses—blinked.
He'd long heard that American folk were open and "simple."
But after meeting Dominic, who kept live grenades and banned assault rifles at home, and Steve, he'd seen the definition firsthand.
Even roadside motels had eager clerks asking lone travelers if they wanted "paid entertainment."
Yet for a cabbie himself to pimp?
That was new.
Interest piqued, he asked with a smile, "Care to elaborate?"
The driver, thrilled that his passenger finally bit, flashed a grin that said I knew you'd come around.
"Heh-heh."
"Sir, the details are best experienced firsthand."
"Bring enough cash and those Russian guys'll treat you like a god."
With that he unclipped a pouch at his waist.
He pulled out a pink card and passed it back one-handed.
Curious, Hunter took a look.
The card was pink, almost garish despite its lack of pattern.
On the front: one line of Cyrillic, with English beneath.
"Moscow Nights."
He raised an eyebrow. If it meant Russian girls, he wouldn't mind sampling their famed warmth.
He flipped the card; only a string of digits remained.
Exactly a phone number.
Out of curiosity he pocketed it.
"Let's go there."
The uncle chuckled, swung the wheel at the next intersection, and veered away from Chinatown.
Minutes later the cab stopped in front of the hotel.
"Moscow Nights, huh?"
The place wasn't luxurious—two, maybe three stars at best.
But once night fell it blazed like a beacon.
Neon tubing framed the words "Moscow Nights" in glowing color.
After paying the fare, Hunter stepped out; one of the two towering doormen strode forward at once.
"Sir, let me take your luggage!"
"Thank you!"
Hunter casually handed the small travel bag containing only a change of clothes to the man.
Following the male receptionist's guidance, he walked to the front desk.
Behind the counter were several tall, well-dressed young women.
Hunter couldn't tell if they were Russian, but they looked quite proper.
After quickly booking a room, he asked the desk for a tourist map of Boston.
Then, under the receptionist's direction, he took the elevator to the floor where his room was located.
"Sir, guests are not allowed to wander around the hotel at night."
"This must be made clear in advance."
"However, if you need any services, you can call the front desk from your room."
"Understood."
Hunter didn't take the tall receptionist's warning—if that's what it was—to heart.
Once the receptionist left, he frowned.
The room's soundproofing was excellent; almost no outside noise could be heard.
Because of that, even the faintest sounds became noticeable.
"A bug?"
"No, a camera."
Ever since his physical abilities had more than doubled those of an average person,
Hunter had become extremely sensitive to eyes on him and to stray noises.
Thus he quickly realized something was off.
He picked up the Boston tourist map he'd just gotten from the front desk.
Pretending to read it, he paced around the room, gaze mostly on the map.
Yet with his heightened senses he quickly located at least three listening devices in the room.
Cameras had also been installed in both the room and the bathroom.
Discovering this, his expression turned playful.
"Are these damn Russians up to something?"
From the moment he entered the hotel, Hunter had noticed
that all the signs were in both Russian and English, and some staff spoke Russian among themselves.
So he believed the cab driver hadn't lied—
this was a hotel run by Russians.
He'd merely thought the place might be a bit shady, but hadn't minded staying.
Now, however, he felt wary of the hotel and the Russians behind it.
He decided to keep a low profile for the night, to avoid leaking any private information.
He headed into the bathroom.
After a quick shower, he feigned fatigue and tossed his change of clothes onto a spot that happened to block the camera aimed at the bed.
With that done, he turned off the lights and lay down to sleep.
But not long after,
the room phone suddenly rang.
Frowning, Hunter picked up the receiver, and a deep voice spoke.
"Sir, are you lonely tonight? Would you like some company?"
He narrowed his eyes and glanced toward the corner where he'd blocked the camera.
He realized he might have checked into a far from ordinary place…
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