One Week Later. Pomona, California.
Hunter Sun knew better than to think a one-night stand would solve his problems.
Jane Smith might have called it "even," but the agency behind her wouldn't be so forgiving. In the Mr. & Mrs. Smith universe, the Company was ruthless. Failure wasn't an option. If their ace assassin didn't finish the job, they would send another. Or a whole team.
So Hunter made a move.
He left Los Angeles with a purpose, heading straight for his newly purchased property in Pomona.
He didn't bring Tally or Margie. This wasn't a family trip. It was a setup.
He spent $47,000 on a brand new, top-spec Ford F-150 Raptor.
In America, the F-150 wasn't just a truck; it was a religion. For 27 years, it had been the best-selling vehicle in the country. It was rugged, powerful, and versatile—perfect for a farm owner who needed to haul supplies... or bodies.
Hunter loved it. The domestic version was a beast, capable of towing five tons and hauling two tons of cargo. With a few modifications, it could double as a light tank.
"Country roads, take me home..."
Hunter hummed along to John Denver as he drove down the winding roads toward his property. The truck bed was loaded with lumber, nails, and construction materials.
To any observer, he looked like a diligent new landowner renovating his investment.
But beneath the surface, he was preparing a kill box.
Over the last week, Hunter had been shuttling between LA and Pomona. He knew he was being watched.
Every two days, he returned to the city. The LAPD had hauled him in for questioning again. This time, they brought in the heavy hitters from Robbery-Homicide.
They had found something.
The identities of Charlie, Rob, Left Ear, and Lyle had been exposed. They were international thieves. Lyle, the hacker, had vanished—likely fleeing the country to avoid the heat.
The police also had CCTV footage. A motorcycle rider matching Hunter's build and bike model had been spotted near the hospital and Rob's apartment on the night of the murders.
They grilled him hard, showing him the grainy images, trying to bluff a confession.
But Hunter didn't crack. He lawyered up, bringing in the same sleazy defense attorney he had used before.
Without a face, fingerprints, or a murder weapon, the police had nothing. The circumstantial evidence wasn't enough to hold him. He walked out of the station an hour later, free but "restricted" to the state of California.
A restriction he ignored in spirit, if not in letter.
The Farm.
Hunter pulled into the driveway of his 297-acre property. It was secluded, nestled against the foothills of the mountains.
His neighbors were ghost farms—investment properties owned by corporations or wealthy absentees, left fallow to appreciate in value. Overgrown grass waved in the wind. No livestock. No people.
Perfect.
The isolation meant no witnesses.
Hunter stepped out of the truck, his senses on high alert.
His Perception skill was tingling. He could feel eyes on him.
Some belonged to the undercover LAPD officers parked a mile down the road. They were sloppy, easily spotted.
But there were others. Deeper in the shadows. Eyes he couldn't pinpoint.
Jane? Or a cleanup crew from her agency?
Hunter didn't care. He wanted them here.
He unloaded the lumber, whistling a cheerful tune. He was building renovations on the barn, yes. But he was also reinforcing the structures, setting up firing lanes, and planting "surprises" in the tall grass.
He was turning the farm into a fortress.
Hunter Sun was tired of being the prey. It was time to be the hunter.
He wiped the sweat from his brow and looked toward the tree line, a cold smile touching his lips.
"Come on in," he whispered to the invisible watchers. "The door is open."
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