Pomona Farm. Twilight.
The sky bled from orange to a deep, bruising purple as night finally descended.
Inside the farmhouse, Hunter Sun washed his dinner plate, the water running cold over his hands. He dried them on a rag and sat on the worn leather sofa, staring out into the gathering dark.
"The LAPD surveillance is gone," he noted, his voice barely a whisper. "They cleared out around noon."
"Which means the other guests will be arriving soon."
Hunter had felt the shift. The clumsy, bored eyes of the undercover cops had been replaced by something sharper. Something predatory.
It was exactly what he wanted.
For the last few days, Hunter had been playing a dangerous game. He knew the LAPD suspected him of the hospital murders. Their evidence was circumstantial—grainy footage of a motorcycle, a motive, but no smoking gun.
His lawyer, Scott Lyman—a sleazy but brilliant Irish shark—had shredded their case. Hunter walked free, but the police kept tabs on him, hoping he'd slip up.
But Hunter didn't slip. He led them here, to this isolated kill box. And now that the cops had given up and left, the real threat could move in.
Jane's people.
"Don't disappoint me," Hunter murmured.
He checked his watch. Time for his evening stroll.
Every night after dinner, Hunter walked the perimeter of his property. It was part of his "diligent farmer" routine. It was also the perfect bait.
He stepped out onto the porch, the cool evening air filling his lungs. The crickets were chirping, a peaceful symphony that masked the violence about to unfold.
Hunter walked toward the woodland, his boots crunching on the gravel.
297 acres. To an American farmer, it was a modest plot. To Hunter, it was a kingdom. He had plans for this place. Once the heat died down, he would buy the neighboring ghost farms, expanding his territory into a massive estate. A sanctuary.
But first, he had to take out the trash.
As he walked past the fields of overgrown rye grass, his Danger Sense flared.
Prickle.
It started at the base of his skull and spread down his spine like ice water.
"They're not even trying to hide it," Hunter thought, suppressing a smirk. "Did Jane not tell them? I dodge bullets for breakfast."
He kept walking, his pace steady, relaxed. He didn't look toward the distant hills. He didn't react.
He knew a scope was locked onto him. Probably from a mile out.
"Come on," Hunter mentally urged the shooter. "Take the shot."
The Overlook. 1,400 Meters Away.
"I've got him," the ex-SEAL whispered, his eye pressed to the scope of a .50 caliber sniper rifle. "Center mass. Windage is negligible. He's dead the second I pull this trigger."
He glanced at Jane, who was leaning against a rock, filing her nails.
"Well? Are we doing this?"
Jane shrugged, not even looking up.
"Don't ask me," she said coolly. "I failed the contract. The glory is all yours, boys."
The shooter sneered. "Gladly."
He looked at his partner, the other ex-SEAL, who nodded.
"Green light," the shooter said into his comms. "Taking the shot."
He didn't wait for a response. His finger tightened on the trigger.
BOOM.
The heavy recoil of the anti-materiel rifle kicked into his shoulder. The suppressed report was a dull thud, but the bullet tore through the air at supersonic speed.
Through the scope, he watched the target.
One second, Hunter Sun was walking through the grass.
The next, he crumpled, dropping out of sight instantly.
"Target down," the shooter announced, a triumphant grin spreading across his face. "Clean kill."
Jane stopped filing her nails. She looked toward the farm, her eyes narrowing.
That easy? she thought. No way.
"Don't celebrate yet," Jane warned softly. "I told you... he's different."
But the team was already moving.
"Ebony, move in and confirm the kill," the shooter ordered. "We'll cover you."
Down in the valley, shadows began to detach themselves from the tree line. The hunt was on.
But the hunter wasn't the one lying in the grass.
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