In Charlie's crew, Hunter respected Lyle the most. The self-proclaimed "Napster" was a genius hacker, capable of turning Los Angeles traffic lights into his personal orchestra. But Lyle was a tech geek, physically harmless. If Hunter had to choose, he'd spare the kid.
But Handsome Rob? Rob was dangerous.
Since Stella's rescue, things had deteriorated. Stella had refused to tell Charlie who saved her, protecting Hunter's identity. But Charlie's crew wasn't stupid. Lyle had likely run a trace on the Ford Mustang Stella drove back from the safe house.
That Mustang was registered to Hunter Sun.
Hunter had been careful, but against a hacker like Lyle, digital footprints were impossible to fully erase. They knew his name. They knew his car. And judging by the bomb threat this morning, they were ready to act.
Charlie was still hospitalized, recovering from the gunshot wounds he took during the botched rescue. He was the brain, but currently, he was immobile.
So who orchestrated the intimidation campaign? Who planted the dynamite?
Hunter bet on Handsome Rob.
Rob was the smooth talker, the driver, the social engineer. He was smart, resourceful, and loyal to Charlie. And unlike Lyle, Rob had the physical capability to plant a bomb or pull a trigger.
Alongside him was Left Ear, the demolitions expert. A man who built explosives for a living was an existential threat to Hunter's safety.
"Rob first," Hunter decided as he sped through the night. "Then Left Ear. Cut off the hands, and the head dies."
He reached a quiet street in a trendy district. Hunter had been tailing Rob for days. The charismatic driver had recently seduced a nurse from Charlie's hospital, using her apartment for his nightly escapades. But tonight, Rob was at his own place—a renovated penthouse in a converted industrial building.
Hunter parked the bike in a dark alley and moved on foot.
He wore a wig, cap, and mask, blending into the urban shadows. He reached a nondescript apartment complex facing Rob's building. The roof access door was locked.
Hunter pulled a lockpick set from his Inventory—a gift from Stella. Click. The door swung open in seconds.
He stepped onto the roof, the cool night air hitting his face. He scanned the area, finding a vantage point behind a ventilation unit.
He raised his military-grade night vision binoculars.
Four hundred meters away. The top floor of the opposite building.
Handsome Rob had taste. He had bought the entire fifth floor and replaced the walls with floor-to-ceiling glass. Great for natural light. Terrible for security against a sniper.
Through the green-tinted lenses, Hunter saw movement.
"There you are," he whispered.
In the master bedroom, the lights were dim but sufficient. Handsome Rob was living up to his nickname. He was in bed, tangled with a dark-haired woman. It wasn't the nurse Hunter had seen before; Rob moved on quickly.
They were in the throes of passion. Rob was on top, his back arching, completely absorbed in the moment.
"Enjoy it while it lasts," Hunter murmured coldly.
He swapped the binoculars for the Remington M700 PSS sniper rifle—the same weapon he had used to terrorize the FBI.
He settled into a prone position, the cold concrete seeping through his jacket. He adjusted the scope, calculating windage and elevation.
Distance: 380 meters.
Wind: Negligible.
Target: Stationary (mostly).
Hunter exhaled slowly, his heart rate dropping. He didn't feel anger. He didn't feel hesitation. He just felt the cold logic of survival.
Rob had threatened him. Rob had put a bomb in his car. In Hunter's book, that forfeited his right to see the sunrise.
Hunter's finger tightened on the trigger.
The crosshairs settled on the center of Rob's back, right between the shoulder blades.
Boom.
The suppressed shot was a dull cough in the night, swallowed by the city noise.
Four hundred meters away, glass shattered.
The bullet punched through the window and slammed into Handsome Rob's chest, coring through his heart.
Rob jerked violently, collapsing forward onto the woman beneath him.
Through the scope, Hunter watched the aftermath. The woman shoved Rob off her, confused at first, then screaming as she saw the blood pooling on the white sheets.
Panic. Chaos.
"Target down," Hunter whispered.
He dismantled the rifle in seconds, storing it back in his Inventory. He picked up the brass casing—no loose ends this time.
Handsome Rob had taken his last ride.
Hunter stood up and vanished into the darkness. One down. One to go.
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