"Intruder eliminated."
The moment the bullet tore through John Smith's chest, Hunter felt his own heart hammer a furious rhythm against his ribs.
It wasn't adrenaline. It wasn't the thrill of killing a major canon character or the anticipation of "inheriting" the newly widowed Mrs. Smith.
It was the system.
In the split second that John Smith died, Hunter received the notification. His [Shooting Mastery], one of the first skills he had unlocked in this world, had finally broken through from Level 5 to Level Max.
He now possessed two maxed-out skills: [Reproduction] and [Shooting].
Just like his other maxed skill, [Shooting] came with a game-changing passive ability: Infinite Precision. As long as he could see the target, his accuracy was absolute.
With his enhanced biology, Hunter's naked eye could already resolve details clearly at five hundred meters. But when paired with the 16x high-precision optic of the McMillan TAC-50, his effective range was now terrifying. He was confident he could put a round on target from over three thousand meters away.
Crack.
The rifle's report was sharp, but in the vast emptiness of the badlands, it was swallowed quickly by the wind.
Down in the valley, Perkins was glued to her binoculars. She watched the convoy of armored Humvees rolling unsuspecting toward her trap.
"They're entering the kill zone!" she shouted over the comms, her voice tight with excitement.
She had completely ignored the gunshot from the ridge. To her, John Smith was just some random tourist or lost local who had stumbled into the wrong place at the wrong time. Hunter had likely double-tapped him to tie up loose ends. She didn't care. Her eyes were on the prize—the multi-million dollar bounty.
Hunter calmed his racing heart, forcibly suppressing the euphoria of the skill upgrade. He shifted his aim, traversing the scope from John's corpse to the convoy.
The kill zone was nearly two kilometers away—about 1,800 meters in a straight line. Perkins had planted the explosives far from their position to avoid alerting the elite escort detail. She had done her homework.
"Detonating," Perkins announced.
She didn't wait for a confirmation. She slammed her thumb down on the remote trigger.
BOOM!
The explosion was massive. Even from this distance, the shockwave rolled over the ridge, kicking up a wall of dust and gravel. Hunter winced slightly as the sound pressure hit him, but he didn't flinch. He kept his eyes open, ignoring the debris raining down on his camouflage.
"Dust is clearing," Hunter muttered.
He scanned the chaos through the 16x scope. The explosion had done its job, but not completely.
Through the swirling sand, he spotted movement. Several figures, bloodied but alive, were stumbling out of the wreckage, dragging a man between them.
The target. Benjamin Diaz.
Hunter exhaled, his crosshairs settling on the center mass of the man being dragged.
He squeezed the trigger.
Thump.
The TAC-50 bucked against his shoulder.
Six seconds later—the flight time for a .50 BMG round at 1,800 meters—a spray of red mist erupted from the target's chest.
Benjamin Diaz collapsed, dead before he hit the ground.
The two operators dragging him froze, shouting orders that Hunter couldn't hear. They looked around frantically, trying to locate the shooter.
Hunter worked the bolt, chambering another round.
Thump.
Another operator dropped, his body armor useless against the anti-materiel round.
Thump.
Hunter fired again. The recoil was negligible against his enhanced strength. He didn't bother with headshots; at this range, a center-mass hit with a .50 cal was instant death.
Thump.
The fourth shot dropped the last survivor just as the dust settled completely.
Hunter scanned the kill zone for another ten seconds. Nothing moved.
"Your bombs need work," Hunter said flatly over the comms. "I had to clean up the trash."
Down in the shed, Perkins bristled. Even though she was about to get paid, Hunter's casual arrogance was infuriating.
"Screw you," she muttered.
She grabbed the FIM-92 Stinger, shouldered it, and aimed at the smoking wreckage.
Whoosh.
The missile leaped from the tube, trailing white smoke. It slammed into the remains of the convoy a few seconds later, obliterating the vehicles and ensuring that if anyone had survived Hunter's sniping, they were definitely dead now.
Hunter smirked and prepared to pack up.
But then, a low thrumming sound caught his ear. It was coming from the southeast.
He looked up. A military transport aircraft—likely a C-130 or similar variant—was banking toward their position. The side door was open, and he could see a gunner manning a minigun.
"Hostiles!" Perkins screamed. "We need to move! That's air support!"
"Calm down," Hunter said.
He didn't pack up. Instead, he raised the rangefinder.
2,500 meters.
The aircraft was moving, but it was on a steady intercept course.
Hunter lay back down behind the rifle. He adjusted the scope for the extreme range, calculating the lead for the moving target.
Two and a half clicks. Level Max. Let's see what you can do.
He tracked the cockpit glass.
"Hunter, what the hell are you doing?" Perkins yelled. "Run!"
Hunter ignored her. He led the target. He breathed out.
Thump.
The rifle fired.
Hunter didn't move. He started counting in his head.
One... two... three...
The bullet arced through the sky, a tiny piece of metal traversing a mile and a half of desert air.
...ten... eleven...
In the distance, the aircraft suddenly lurched violently. The pilot slumped forward onto the yoke.
The plane dipped, entered a spin, and then plummeted.
BOOM.
A massive fireball erupted on the horizon as the aircraft slammed into the desert floor three kilometers away. Thick black smoke began to pillar into the sky.
Hunter stood up, dusting the sand off his fatigues. He disassembled the rifle and placed it back in the case with practiced ease.
"Let's go," he said to a stunned Perkins. "Reinforcements will be here soon. We need to vanish."
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