"Sniper rifle. Definitely."
Hunter stared at the ballistic helt lying on the pavent a few feet away. The 7.62mm round had punched through the outer Kevlar layer but was lodged deep in the composite material. DEA-issue gear didn't ss around.
Hunter's mind raced, analyzing the caliber and the impact.
Who wants dead?
Fear flickered for a second—the visceral reaction to a near-death experience—but it was quickly swallowed by a surge of adrenaline. His heart pounded against his ribs, not in panic, but in excitent.
This was the life he wanted. The danger. The stakes.
But the question remained: Who?
He ran through his list of enemies.
Vince? Dom's old friend. Hunter had broken his limbs, but Vince was a street racer, not a sniper. Hiring a professional hitman? Unlikely. He didn't have the connections or the cash.
Steve? Dead.
Charlie's Crew? Dead.
Lyle? A keyboard warrior. He wouldn't know which end of a rifle to hold.
Stansfield? Hunter frowned. The corrupt DEA agent was still in the wind, but he was likely halfway to xico by now, trying to stay ahead of the FBI. Coming back to LA to snipe a random "chanic" didn't fit his MO.
The Russian Mob? Hunter had dismantled their Boston operation to save Tally, but he had done it under disguise. Plus, he knew from the news that The Equalizer (Robert McCall) had finished the job, wiping out the entire Boston branch shortly after Hunter left. The Russians were gone.
So who was it?
Hunter crouched lower behind the engine block of his Mustang. He knew the ga. This was a residential area. Two gunshots—loud, echoing cracks—would have alerted half the neighborhood. The police would be here in minutes.
The sniper was on a clock. If they couldn't confirm the kill, they had to move.
Hunter decided to wait them out.
Scana Apartnts. Rooftop.
Four hundred ters away, a woman lay prone on the rooftop, her eye pressed to the scope of a high-powered rifle.
She was stunning. Raven hair, sharp features, and a body poured into a tight black leather suit that left little to the imagination.
"Company intel was right for once," she murmured, her voice husky and amused. "The boy is special."
Jane Smith.
One half of the legendary assassination duo from Mr. & Mrs. Smith.
She adjusted the focus, watching the Ford Mustang. The target—Hunter Sun—was smart. He had positioned himself perfectly in her blind spot, using the car's engine block as cover.
She had missed the first shot—a shot that should have been impossible to dodge. He had sensed it.
"Impressive reflexes," Jane whispered, a slow smile spreading across her red lips. "Maybe he really is the one behind the sniper killings."
She knew she couldn't stay. The sirens were already wailing in the distance.
She tapped her earpiece.
"Did you get him, Jane?" a female voice asked urgently.
Jane glanced one last ti at the Mustang. "Negative. Target is highly capable. He dodged a confird kill shot from four hundred ters. He's currently pinned down."
The voice on the other end—Jasmine, her handler—sounded anxious. "Jane, you know the protocol. If you fail the initial strike..."
"Hey, hey, hey," Jane interrupted, dismantling her rifle with practiced ease. "Jasmine, calm down. The client didn't set a ti limit. This contract is mine. Do not reassign it."
She packed the barrel into her discreet gym bag and threw a trench coat over her leather suit, instantly transforming from lethal assassin to stylish urbanite.
"He made my blood boil, Jasmine," Jane purred, a dangerous glint in her eyes. "I haven't felt my heart beat like this in a long ti."
"Give three days. I promise you, I'll put him in the ground."
"And Jasmine? Send everything else you have on him. Every detail."
She cut the connection.
Jane walked to the edge of the roof, looking toward the distant speck of the Mustang.
"The ga has just begun, handso," she whispered.
She turned and vanished into the stairwell, leaving only the scent of expensive perfu and gunpowder in the morning air.
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