*Bang!*
A single gunshot rang out.
By the time Locke and Gwen arrived last at their designated hunting zone, George was already laughing heartily. He strode forward a few steps, dangling a headless rabbit by its hind legs toward Hank. "Haha! First blood!"
As he spoke, George cast a pointed glance toward Locke, who was just killing the engine and dismounting the motorcycle.
See? This time, I'm definitely not going home empty-handed.
Locke smiled. "Impressive, Mr. Stacy."
At home, it was George; outside, it was "Mr. Stacy." Locke was always the picture of politeness.
Gwen took off her helmet, smoothing her hair. She looked at the bloody, headless rabbit in George's hand and frowned. "Dad, the poor bunny. We came here to hunt boars, and you definitely snuck up on that poor little thing. I don't think that's very nice."
George opened his mouth, speechless.
Hank lowered his head, trying to hide a smirk. Erin busied herself loading rounds into her handgun, clearly trying to distract herself.
'Nice one!' Locke thought to himself. He then smiled at George. "Mr. Stacy, I think you did a fantastic job. Truly."
George stared at Locke in stony silence.
The next second... *Thwack.*
George dropped the mangled rabbit to the ground. With a sharp *clack-clack*, he pumped his Remington 870 and turned away. "Where are the boars?"
He was going to kill every single boar he saw.
Hank watched George's murderously determined back and couldn't help but chuckle. This was a stage every father with a daughter had to go through.
'Thank god I have a son.'
Even if that son was a deadbeat with a bit of a drug problem, he was still a boy. Boys you can just yell at—or worse—but they don't leave. Daughters, once they find a boyfriend, belong to the boyfriend's family.
Wait. Hank glanced at Erin. Foster daughter or not, she was still a daughter.
Erin looked up, her expression slightly confused as she met Hank's gaze. "Are we not hunting?"
Hank snapped back to reality and followed George. "Let's go!"
Locke hoisted the backpack from the bike, gripping his Remington 700 in one hand and taking Gwen's hand with the other, following the trio ahead.
George and Hank led the way. Erin followed. Locke and Gwen brought up the rear.
There was no need for Locke to scout, even though he could hear the breathing of a boar in a hollow about a hundred meters to their left. He didn't say a word. This was his first hunt; showing off wasn't bad, but it didn't fit the "scientific setting."
Besides, keeping a low profile was always Locke's motto.
However... when it came time to choose between continuing up the mountain or pushing straight ahead, Locke and Gwen parted ways with the others.
Being low-profile didn't mean playing the pig to eat the tiger. Locke never liked that trope. Behind his motto of Be low-profile in person, there was a second half: Be high-profile in action!
He was carrying a Remington 700—a sniper rifle. Not a shotgun. Following two guys with shotguns and a girl with a Desert Eagle to fight boars at close range? He'd barely have his scope adjusted before the three of them turned the place into a war zone. Especially George; as a top marksman from the NYPD, the man could probably fire a pump-action shotgun like a semi-auto.
However, Hank looked up at Locke and Gwen as they began to climb a small plateau to set up a nest to their right. He whispered to George, feeling a bit uneasy, "That future son-in..."
*Zing!* George's eyes snapped toward his old friend.
Hank froze and corrected himself. "How's Locke's marksmanship?"
He didn't want the kid shooting something other than a boar by mistake.
"Don't worry," George said flatly. "His shooting is probably on par with ours. If he hadn't shown me his precision with a sniper rifle before, do you think I'd let him carry one?"
Especially setting up a nest right above them. What if the kid had a momentary lapse in judgment and decided Gwen needed a "nicer" father?
Wait! George suddenly paused.
Actually, it was a good thing Gwen came along. If Gwen weren't there and that wild boar was up there alone with a sniper rifle... George shook his head quickly.
No, he had to admit, the kid was quite refined and polite. He wasn't like that Peerless Assassin—vicious, inhuman, a total outlaw.
'Damn it. One day I'll bring you to justice.'
The Peerless Assassin had seemingly vanished over the last few months, which made George restless. It was like he'd lost his purpose; he spent his days in the office flipping through the meager files on the assassin over and over.
Just then... *Static.*
The walkie-talkies on George, Hank, and Erin's belts crackled. It was Gwen.
Gwen held the radio in one hand and binoculars in the other. "Dad, at your ten o'clock, about three hundred meters out, there's a boar rooting in the dirt."
George snapped out of his thoughts, a small smile appearing. As expected, a daughter truly cares for her father. If it were just Locke up there, he probably wouldn't have said a word and just taken the shot.
But...
Gwen's next sentence was: "Dad, don't move. Let Locke take the shot."
George: "..."
Gwen pulled out her headphones, put them on, and looked at Locke. "Go for it, Locke!"
Even from his distance, Locke could feel the sharp, "I'm going to turn you into Swiss cheese" glare radiating from George's eyes.
But looking at Gwen's expectant face—hoping for him to show off and get the first kill—Locke shrugged.
Position. Aim.
*Bang!*
Locke's shoulder moved slightly as he absorbed the recoil. The moment he pulled the trigger, a flash of flame erupted from the muzzle. The bullet tore through the air and slammed into the head of the boar rooting in the dirt.
The boar had sensed something and looked up. The next second, the Winchester round punched through the right side of its skull like it was soft tofu, exited through the left, and buried itself in the ground.
The boar collapsed with a heavy *thud*.
"Yes! Amazing!" Gwen cheered through the binoculars. She grabbed the radio. "Dad, it's down! Dad, it's down!"
Hank and Erin exchanged looks.
George was silent for a moment before replying, "Your dad is still standing."
Gwen paused, then gave an embarrassed giggle. "Dad, I meant the boar is down. Locke hit it."
A moment later, the trio reached the fallen animal. Hank knelt, examining the entry wound. He looked at George. "This is what you call 'decent' marksmanship?"
The boar's head wasn't even badly mangled. Even the bullet head embedded in the dirt was relatively intact. A clean in and out.
This wasn't just "decent." This was a marksman. A natural-born sniper.
Hank looked at George curiously. "You haven't made him disappear yet... is it because you're planning to recruit him into the NYPD Tactical Unit?"
'The only reason I haven't made him disappear is because Helen won't let me,' George answered in his head. Instead, he looked at Hank. "A few days ago, Yale called my house. They were asking if Gwen was interested in attending."
Hank frowned. "Are you bragging that your daughter can get into Yale?"
George shook his head. "No. I'm saying Locke's grades are so good that he could go to Yale too, if he wanted."
Hank understood. And then... he felt the sting of envy. "You lucky bastard."
"Lucky?" George's mouth twitched. He wished Locke was a deadbeat or a drug addict; at least then Helen would let him kick the kid out.
But this wild boar was too damn polite. He had a thing for bourbon, but alcohol was better than drugs. Besides, how much could a little drinking cost?
Wait. With that kid's wealth, even if he did have a drug habit, he could afford it for a long time.
Rich. Polite. Top-tier grades. He'd probably go to college with Gwen and graduate with her. This was a nightmare.
Honestly, George felt that if there were even a shred of evidence linking Locke to the Peerless Assassin, like Homeland Security suggested, he'd never let him near Gwen. But clearly, that was just a wild theory.
George stood up, marked the coordinates of the kill, and then turned to his radio. "Nice shot," he said tonelessly.
Gwen beamed and looked at Locke. "You're the best."
Locke smiled back. He could see how genuinely happy she was for him. In that case...
Locke stood, swapped the magazine, and folded the bipod. He pointed ahead. "Let's go. We'll head over there."
He could sense a lot more boar activity in that direction. It seemed to be a small clearing—a gathering spot.
"Be careful."
"I will."
Locke helped Gwen along the upper ridge while George, Hank, and Erin stayed below. They moved intermittently, with Locke providing cover as the others bagged a few lone boars. Finally, they reached another plateau and set up the rifle again.
After circling around, a family of seven or eight boars of various sizes appeared in their sights, wallowing in a mud bath near a small pond.
A light breeze blew, carrying the scents of the forest toward them.
As Locke laid down and got into position, his eyebrows suddenly shot up.