Fast and Furious: I Control Everything Chapter 164 164: The Sniper's Greeting

Dawn. Stella's Apartnt.

Hunter woke with the first light of day. He slipped out of bed, careful not to wake the woman sleeping beside him.

Stella was out cold. The "punishnt" last night had been... thorough. Hunter had let go of his restraint, testing the limits of his enhanced stamina. Stella, despite her fitness, was wrecked. She wouldn't be waking up until noon, and she certainly wouldn't be walking straight tomorrow.

Hunter walked to the window, staring out at the lightening sky. He summoned a cigarette and lighter from his Inventory. Click.

"Lyle," he murmured, exhaling a plu of smoke.

It had to be the hacker. Lyle was the only one left who knew enough to point the police in Hunter's direction.

But Hunter wasn't worried. The police had nothing. No forensics, no witnesses, no weapon. Just the word of a paranoid criminal.

And Hunter wasn't going to kill Lyle.

First, because he liked the kid. Lyle had taught him valuable coding skills.

Second, because Lyle was harmless. Unlike the bomb-making Left Ear or the gun-toting Handso Rob, Lyle was a keyboard warrior. He posed no physical threat.

Third, Lyle was about to be too busy to talk.

Hunter had planted the seeds during his interrogation. He told the police about the "illegal modifications" Charlie's crew ordered—reinforced chassis, electronic counterasures. The LAPD wasn't stupid. They would investigate. And that investigation would lead straight to Steve, the gold, and the heist.

Lyle would soon be too busy fighting federal charges to worry about Hunter Sun.

Hunter showered quickly and made a simple breakfast. He left a portion in the fridge for Stella with a note, then headed out.

He couldn't leave California, but he could still roam LA. He had skills to grind, XP to earn. With his System, every day was an opportunity to beco a god.

He walked down to the parking lot.

As he approached his Ford Mustang, Hunter paused.

The mory of the dummy bomb was still fresh. He circled the car slowly, his ears straining for the faintest tick of a tir or hum of a circuit.

Nothing.

Satisfied, he unlocked the door and slid into the driver's seat.

Click.

He buckled his seatbelt.

Suddenly, a chill shot down his spine.

It wasn't a sound. It wasn't a sight. It was a primal, screaming instinct. The hairs on his arms stood up. It was the feeling of crosshairs settling on the back of his skull.

Death.

"Shit!"

Hunter didn't think. He reacted.

His arms exploded with 3x Human Strength. He tore the seatbelt buckle straight out of its housing, snapping the tal chanism like a twig.

In the sa motion, he threw himself sideways across the center console, flattening himself onto the passenger seat.

CRACK!

THWACK!

The windshield shattered.

A split second later, a bullet punched through the driver's headrest, coring through the leather exactly where Hunter's chest had been.

It missed him by centiters.

Hunter stared at the hole in the seat, his mind racing.

7.62mm round. High velocity. Sniper rifle.

He stayed low, his brain calculating the trajectory based on the angle of entry and the shattered glass.

40 degrees. Elevation high. 370 ters out. The Scana Apartnt complex. Rooftop.

There was a sniper out there. And they were good.

Hunter didn't panic. He reached up and popped the passenger door open, keeping his head below the dashboard.

He waited. One minute. Two minutes.

Then, he kicked the driver's door open violently.

He launched himself out of the passenger side, rolling onto the asphalt and scrambling behind the engine block for cover.

He was safe for the mont, shielded by the car's body.

But was the shooter still watching?

Hunter reached into his Inventory. He pulled out a heavy-duty DEA ballistic helt—one of the souvenirs from Stansfield's villa.

He put it on the end of a tire iron and slowly raised it above the hood of the car.

Ping!

The helt was ripped from the tire iron, spinning through the air with a new hole drilled through the Kevlar.

"Still there," Hunter growled, his eyes narrowing.

This wasn't the police. This wasn't Charlie's crew—they were dead or in jail.

This was a professional.

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