The Farmhouse. 30 Minutes Later.
Thud.
Thud.
Hunter drove the final nails into the wooden fra, testing its stability with a firm shake.
"Perfect," he muttered, hanging the hamr back on the wall.
He turned to the sofa where his two captives, Jane and Perkins, lay motionless.
A smirk tugged at the corner of his mouth.
"Still pretending?"
It had been half an hour since the battle ended. Hunter had carried them back to the secondary farmhouse, a structure he had renovated specifically for this purpose.
He needed answers.
Why was the agency still coming for him? Who hired them?
Hunter prided himself on his caution. When he took out Steve, Stansfield, and Charlie's crew, he wore disguises, used gloves, and scrubbed his digital footprint. Even the LAPD and FBI couldn't pin anything on him.
So how did a private client find him? Where was the leak?
He intended to find out.
He walked toward the sofa. He knew they were awake. Their breathing patterns had changed minutes ago. Their fingers twitched in a rhythmic code against the leather upholstery.
Tap. Tap. Tap-tap.
Morse code.
Hunter's Intelligence of 40 made deciphering it child's play. He had listened to their entire plan.
On my signal. Restrain him. I strike left, you strike center.
"Cute," Hunter thought.
He reached down to pick up Jane.
As soon as his hands touched her shoulders and waist, Jane's eyes snapped open.
"NOW!"
She exploded into action, her hands clamping onto Hunter's wrists with surprising strength, locking his arms in place.
Simultaneously, Perkins—who had miraculously slipped one hand out of her cuffs—leaped from the sofa. She tore off the loose ropes and lunged at Hunter, a hidden ceramic shard in her hand aiming for his throat.
Jane stared into Hunter's eyes, expecting fear. Instead, she saw mockery.
"Too slow," Hunter whispered.
He ignored Jane's grip. As Perkins flew at him, Hunter spun, pivoting on his heel.
WHAM!
A spinning back kick, executed with the force of a hydraulic ram, caught Perkins mid-air.
It hit her directly in the stomach.
Perkins' eyes bulged. Bile and spit flew from her mouth as the impact lifted her off her feet. She flew backward—four, five ters through the air—before smashing into the opposite wall with a sickening crunch.
She slid to the floor, curled into a fetal ball, gasping for air, completely incapacitated.
One kick. That was all it took.
Hunter turned back to Jane, whose face had gone pale.
"Did you really think I didn't hear you?" Hunter scoffed. "Tapping Morse code on the sofa? It was practically shouting."
He looked at the woman who had tried to kill him three tis now.
"I gave you a chance, Jane. I let you go. And this is how you thank ?"
Jane gritted her teeth. Desperate, she tried the only move that had worked before.
She wound up for another headbutt.
But Hunter wasn't falling for it twice.
He snapped his head back, dodging the blow easily. Then, his expression darkened.
"Okay. No more Mr. Nice Guy."
His Strength (38) flared. He flexed his arms, breaking Jane's grip effortlessly. He squeezed her wrists until the bones ground together.
"Argh!"
Jane cried out, her face draining of color as her joints popped.
Hunter released her, but before she could move, his hand shot out and clamped around her throat.
He lifted her off the sofa like a ragdoll.
"Ti for your punishnt."
He dragged her to the wooden fra he had built—a makeshift St. Andrew's Cross. He slamd her against it, securing her wrists and ankles with heavy-duty zip ties and rope.
Then he went for Perkins.
He grabbed the gasping assassin by the neck, hoisting her 5'11" fra into the air, and strapped her to the second cross next to Jane.
Hunter stepped back, admiring his work. Two elite assassins, crucified in his living room.
He walked out the door and returned a mont later carrying two buckets of water, a bundle of firewood, and several rusty iron rods.
He tossed the iron rods onto the floor with a clang.
"Let the interrogation begin."
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