In the morning he stretched languidly.
Seeing only rumpled sheets on the bed, Hunter walked to the bathroom to wash off the sticky sweat.
"This hotel is probably more complicated than I thought."
Last night, after realizing his Moscow Nights room had surveillance cameras,
he'd quickly used his discarded clothes to cover the one facing the bed.
Barely minutes later the hotel called, offering services.
Hunter was no ordinary person.
Over the past two months he'd dealt with street racers, the FBI, Los Angeles police, lawyers, international thieves, and gold-bandit gangs.
After meeting so many extraordinary people, he'd grown sharp himself.
Last night the hotel had promptly sent over a pair of curvy, passionate beauties.
But with their arrival, the shirt Hunter had draped over the camera was soon kicked aside by one of the girls, seemingly without a care.
He'd never encountered this tactic before, yet piecing together his recent experiences, a hunch began to form.
'Don't tell me this hotel is run by the Russian mafia?'
Russian mafia groups are notorious well beyond the borders of the States.
On a global scale their reputation is especially ugly.
They trace back to the notorious Gulag camps of the red Soviet era.
After the Soviet Union collapsed, waves of Russian émigrés spread across the world.
They quickly gained a foothold—and flourished—in the prosperous nations of Europe and America.
Among those who left were plenty of Soviet-era elites and technicians, but the vast majority were ordinary folk.
And among those gritty working-class Russians willing to fight abroad, a sizeable number were hardened troublemakers once locked in the Gulags.
They were fearless, brutal, and thrived on violence.
Coupled with the widespread discrimination Russian immigrants faced right after the Union fell, what began as banding together for survival soon evolved into the birth of the Russian mafia.
In barely a decade, the term had become synonymous with infamy.
That was true in Europe; in America, home to the largest Russian diaspora, they were even more feared.
Fortunately, Hunter had no intention of making trouble.
The pair of girls sent to his room was merely a sign of mild suspicion.
He had come to Boston on a job, so there was no conflict between them.
After a quick shower, Hunter considered switching hotels, but since the task here would take only a day or two at most, he saw no point in wasting effort finding a new place.
He simply extended his stay for two more nights, had a quick buffet breakfast, and left the hotel under the odd stares of several desk clerks and male receptionists.
Along the way he picked up the cheapest new phone he could find and a no-name SIM.
Dominic's address wasn't in Boston's port district; it was at an inland river dock more than thirty kilometres away.
Hunter had memorised the location, so after a short ride he reached his destination.
Following the address, he soon found a warehouse near the dock.
'This is it?'
He frowned at the closed warehouse door.
Dominic's coordinates had led him here, yet the place was locked up tight.
Hunter glanced around to confirm the area was clear, then sprang upward, kicked off the wall, and caught the ledge of a window more than four metres above ground.
With a pull-up he slowly raised himself until he could peer inside.
The warehouse was empty, nothing stored within.
He dropped back down and reasoned that this must be the depot Dominic's contacts had rented in advance for the shipment.
He pulled a metal wire from his private space and, with level-5 Lockpicking Skill, opened the lock in seconds.
After pushing the door inward and checking for cameras, he waved his hand; the air shimmered and the container he had stashed at Los Angeles port now materialised inside.
Job done, he stepped out, locked the door, and found a vantage point nearby to keep watch.
He drafted an email to Dominic: 'Arrived at destination, package delivered. Will contact client for pickup now. All quiet.'
Once sent, he dialled the number Dominic had given him using the cheap handset and its anonymous SIM.
After a few rings the call connected.
Hunter cleared his throat, deliberately lowering his voice until it was hoarse.
'The shipment from Los Angeles has reached the drop point. Come collect it; the cargo is inside the agreed warehouse.'
As the rasped words ended, the familiar mechanical tone followed.
Hunter chuckled; he hadn't expected that trying to hide his real voice would accidentally unlock a 'voice-changing' skill.
On the other end of the line, silence lingered for a moment.
No one answered Hunter before the call was cut off.
He wasn't upset—most of the goods Dominic and company stole had to be fenced through smuggling.
These people are prime targets for the U.S. police, even the FBI and IRS.
Without extreme caution, they'd already be behind bars.
He quickly stowed the phone into his private space.
Hunter hunkered down in the spot he'd chosen and waited patiently.
About ten minutes later, a sedan and two vans rolled up to the warehouse one after another.
A dozen men climbed out, all inked with full sleeves and radiating menace.
Hunter noticed most carried only bats, but tell-tale bulges at their waists betrayed hidden guns.
Two hulking men, nearly two metres tall, even stepped down from a van brandishing shotguns.
'From the skin tone, they look Latino,' he thought.
By now Hunter had been in this world for a while.
He could already judge from complexion and speech where immigrants' families hailed from.
After a few more glances he was certain: their skin wasn't black, white, or yellow, but a ruddy off-white.
That's a classic Latino trait—though whether from South America, the Caribbean, or Central America he couldn't tell.
The group conferred in front of the warehouse.
One inspected the door lock while several others fanned out to check the surroundings.
After a while someone fiddled with the lock and the big door rolled open.
A stir rippled through the crowd.
Immediately almost everyone outside was called in.
Only a few stayed on watch while the rest entered to eat inside.
Hunter had no idea what was happening in there.
He only knew that half an hour later two small trucks arrived and drove into the warehouse.
They kept at it until nearly noon before leaving.
Hunter snapped some photos with a digital camera.
Though he figured Dominic must trust these people, he still tailed them to their hide-out just to be safe, then left.
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