Jackpot!
Of course Hunter knew the real figure wouldn't top forty million.
The reason was simple: Steve's real-estate holdings.
Even with the deeds in hand he had no way to claim them.
Steve's villa had been blown up several times; the man escaped but was wanted by the Los Angeles Police Department.
Hunter had later assassinated him with the sniper laika crossbow.
Yet Steve had already been on the LAPD wanted list.
His properties would have been frozen and catalogued.
The deeds Hunter held were worthless.
Even so he felt no regret.
Strip those assets away and the gold plus everything else in the two safes still totaled more than thirty-six, thirty-seven million us dollars.
Most of the wealth Steve had scraped together now sat in Hunter's hands.
The cash alone from the safes exceeded 1.7 million us dollars.
Add to that the 600,000 us dollars Dominic paid him for delivering the shipment to Boston.
In other words, even if he didn't sell those two hundred-plus gold bricks for now he had enough to upgrade his skills.
His mood soared.
He emptied the second safe into his private space.
Then he stowed the worthington 1000 safe in there as well.
He had guessed the two safes held at least twenty million in gold.
But when he actually cracked them open the windfall still left him dizzy.
More than thirty-six million in bullion, watches, diamonds, bearer securities—one short caper had turned penniless Hunter into a multimillionaire.
The experience set his thoughts racing.
Looks like I'll need to keep an eye on world news from now on.
If this world already has characters from Fast & Furious, The Italian Job, léon: the professional and the avenger, who knows what other movies have bled into reality.
There could be more treasure out there waiting for me.
The thought made his heart pound with excitement.
He didn't linger in the warehouse; he locked it and slipped away.
Instead of heading straight back to the Moscow Nights hotel he wandered Boston for a while.
He hit several parts stores to restock supplies.
With his carry permit he even browsed a local gun supermarket.
In the end he spent a little over three thousand us dollars: a brand-new Remington M870 shotgun, three seven-round extended magazines, and more than two hundred shells—all for just seventeen hundred us dollars.
Hunter also bought an armalite ar-15 semi-automatic rifle—the best-selling semi-automatic rifle in the entire US.
Its base model costs less than a thousand us dollars at an ordinary gun store.
But Hunter didn't pick the standard version; he chose the fully-loaded edition with a 25-round magazine, suppressor, hardwood stock, grip, and infrared scope—virtually every accessory.
According to the gun-store owner who'd strongly recommended it, the rifle matches the accuracy and stability of an M1A out to 200 yards (183 m).
At 600 yards (549 m) it still delivers exceptional precision.
For an expert, even 800 yards (732 m) is within lethal reach.
And without the punishing recoil of traditional rifles, it makes an excellent sporting or hunting firearm.
Given the choice, Hunter would have preferred a true military-grade sniper rifle.
But in the States, buying one from a licensed shop means paperwork and a background check that can take over two weeks to clear.
Back and forth, at least half a month.
He couldn't wait that long in Boston.
He knew unlicensed dealers stocked police and military sniper rifles—yet in Boston he had no contacts.
For the moment he couldn't find a channel.
So he shelved the idea, planning to hunt for something heavier on the black market once he was back in Los Angeles.
Flush with cash, he eventually splurged more than twenty thousand us dollars on a top-tier 7.62 mm armalite ar-15 semi-automatic rifle.
He tossed in several boxes of ammo and restocked bolts for his sniper laika crossbow on the way out.
Then he left the gun store and continued wandering Boston.
Time trickled by.
In the afternoon Hunter returned to the Moscow Nights hotel.
He checked out at the front desk and walked away from Moscow Nights.
Once clear of the area, he followed a route he'd scouted earlier to a secluded stretch of shoreline.
From his private space he quickly produced his old vintage motorcycle.
After swapping on a fake plate, he repainted the bike's livery with practiced speed.
When everything was done and he was sure no one was around,
he began applying makeup to mask his real face.
The sun tilted westward, sinking slowly.
As the hour crept past five,
Hunter—now sporting an outlandish, rebellious look and a riot of colorful, messy hair that made his race almost unidentifiable—packed the mirror back into his private space.
"Next, time to pick up Tali."
He still couldn't be sure she'd show up tonight.
After all, last night at Moscow Nights she'd clearly written him off as just another lecherous thrill-seeker.
Even so, Hunter intended to keep his word.
He would head to the family restaurant where he'd met Tali yesterday evening.
If he found her, he'd take her—by force if necessary.
Today he would get Tali out of Boston.
With a roar he tore off like a relic hippie, vanishing into the sunset…
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