Four days later. McNeil, on the US-Mexico Border.
The desert sun beat down mercilessly on the arid landscape. Hunter, dressed in breathable desert camo, looked over at Perkins. She was clad in her signature form-fitting black leather, an outfit that accentuated every curve of her body but seemed like a death sentence in this climate.
"Aren't you roasting in that?" Hunter asked, genuinely curious.
Perkins shot him a withering look through her sunglasses and slapped the hood of the Jeep Wrangler.
"Get in."
Hunter grabbed two cases—one large, one massive—and tossed them into the back before climbing into the rear seat himself.
"Jesus," he muttered. The blast of the Wrangler's air conditioning hit him instantly, washing away the heat of a morning spent waiting in the sun.
As Perkins gunned the engine and steered them away from the city limits, Hunter leaned forward.
"You told me you wouldn't give me the mission details until we hit the border," he said. "Well, we're in McNeil. It's time to talk. I'm not going into a live fire zone blind."
Perkins didn't answer immediately. She reached over to the passenger seat, grabbed a manila envelope, and tossed it into the back.
Hunter caught it mid-air and tore it open.
"The target is a man named Benjamin Diaz," Perkins said, her eyes on the dusty road. "Codename: 'The Tank.' He's an arms dealer who was supposedly working as an asset for the Department of Defense."
"Asset?" Hunter scanned the document. Two sheets of paper. No photos.
"He was selling hardware to the cartels in Mexico," Perkins continued. "The Mexican authorities picked him up and locked him down. But Washington applied pressure. The Mexican government folded and agreed to a quiet extradition today."
"So, the job?"
"Kill him before he enters US custody."
Hunter frowned as he read the intel.
The US had already sent a convoy into Mexico to retrieve him. They would be transporting Diaz across the border by road. Once they were about ten kilometers inside US territory, a DoD helicopter would pick him up for the final leg.
Because the operation was politically sensitive, the air support was minimal—just one chopper. However, the ground convoy escorting Diaz consisted of elite Special Forces operators.
Going head-to-head with a Tier 1 extraction team wasn't a walk in the park.
But as Hunter visualized the scenario—the desert, the convoy, the prisoner transfer—a realization clicked.
Wait a minute, he thought. This setup...
This was the catalyst event from Mr. & Mrs. Smith. This was the exact mission where Jane and John Smith were unknowingly hired to kill the same target, leading to their first confrontation and the collapse of their marriage.
"Why is this your contract?" Hunter asked aloud. "And why did you call me? Jane works for your agency. She's just as capable, isn't she?"
Perkins scoffed, glancing at him in the rearview mirror.
"Please."
The answer was simple economics. This contract paid well because the difficulty was extreme. If Perkins brought Jane in, they would split the fee 50/50.
But Hunter? Hunter was "cheap." His payment was physical, not financial. Perkins got to keep the entire bounty and enjoy the payment process. It was a win-win.
"Besides," Perkins added, her tone turning gossip-heavy, "Jane isn't doing so hot right now. The Continental tried to recruit her, but she's tied to her current agency, and they aren't happy. She failed that hit on you multiple times. And then her client ended up dead."
Perkins shot Hunter a knowing look. She knew exactly who had killed Jane's client.
"Rumor has it her bosses are losing patience. She's on thin ice."
Hunter listened without comment. It seemed his existence had already derailed the canon timeline significantly for the Smiths.
Twenty minutes later, the Wrangler rolled to a stop at the base of a rocky ridge.
Perkins drove the vehicle into a depression, unloaded her gear, and threw a desert camo net over the Jeep to hide it from aerial surveillance.
"Hey, stud," she called out, kicking a heavy crate on the ground. "Since you have the stamina of a horse, you can carry the heavy stuff."
Hunter nodded. He hoisted his own two cases with one hand, then walked over and effortlessly lifted the crate Perkins had indicated.
Heavy, he noted. At least sixty pounds.
He was curious about the contents, but Perkins was already moving. She shouldered a massive rucksack and grabbed two smaller hard cases, leading the way up the slope.
It took ten minutes of hiking to reach the summit.
Below them, nestled in a small valley, sat a dilapidated, rusted tin shed.
Perkins grinned when she saw it. She immediately lugged her gear down toward the structure.
Hunter paused at the ridge, staring at the shed. It was unmistakable. This was the exact location where Jane Smith had set up her sniper nest in the movie.
"Narrative causality," Hunter muttered to himself. "The world is forcing the plot points."
He shook off the thought and followed her down. He placed his rifle case on the ridge for later, then carried the heavy crate down to the shed where Perkins was setting up.
"What's in the box?" Hunter asked as he set it down.
"Insurance."
Perkins popped the latches and flipped the lid. Inside lay a launch tube and a gripstock.
"FIM-92 Stinger," she said, her eyes gleaming with destructive glee. "Anti-air capability. If things go south, or the chopper gets too close, I'm taking it out of the sky."
Hunter raised an eyebrow. A Stinger missile was a significant escalation from a simple sniper hit, but he didn't object.
"I'm going to dig in on the ridge," Hunter said. "I'll try to take the target out with the rifle from range. If I miss, or if they flush me out, you're the hammer."
Perkins nodded. She knew his capabilities—the Continental was buzzing about his 1,400-yard kill at the airport. She trusted him to take the shot.
Hunter left her to rig her explosives and returned to the ridge.
He opened his case and assembled the McMillan TAC-50. The heavy barrel clicked into place. He checked the scope, adjusted for the heat shimmer, and pulled his boonie hat low over his eyes.
He settled into the dirt, blending into the desert, and waited for the show to begin.
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