Tampico, Mexico. The Gulf Coast.
The sun hung high over the shimmering waters of the Gulf of Mexico. Hunter lay comfortably on the deck of a rented yacht, letting Perkins take charge of the "festivities." She was still riding the high of the easy money from their recent job, her mood significantly improved by the seven-figure deposit in her offshore account.
Hunter squinted against the glare, his hand lazily tracing her spine.
"So," he murmured. "The payment cleared?"
Perkins glared at him, breathless and flushed.
"Can you... not talk business... right now?" she huffed. "You're ruining... the mood."
Despite her complaint, she was undeniably pleased. The mission in Arizona had been a windfall. Hunter had done all the heavy lifting, eliminating the convoy and the air support, while she essentially just pushed a button and collected the check. It was the easiest money she'd ever made.
However, the aftermath had been hotter than expected.
Five days ago, Hunter had shot down a US military transport aircraft on American soil. The Department of Defense had clamped down on the news instantly, preventing a media circus, but the response on the ground had been swift and terrifying.
Within an hour of the crash, the roads around McNeil were swarming with police. By the time they hit the backroads, National Guard convoys and Black Hawk helicopters were already sweeping the area.
Hunter and Perkins had barely slipped through the net, crossing the border into Mexico through an illegal smuggling route. They decided to lay low south of the border until the heat died down.
Since they were stuck in Mexico anyway, Hunter decided to turn it into a vacation. And since he was paying, Perkins didn't object.
They traveled south, sightseeing and indulging in the local chaos, until they reached Tampico the previous night. It was a beautiful port city with great beaches and rich seafood.
This morning, Hunter had rented a yacht.
Back in Los Angeles, during his downtime, Hunter had been aggressively leveling up his [Driving]skill. He had taken lessons for helicopters and boats. While he wasn't ready to captain a supertanker, a small pleasure craft like this 40-footer was child's play.
A little extra cash under the table convinced the rental agency to overlook his "forgotten" license. He piloted the boat twenty nautical miles offshore, far away from prying eyes, where they could relax in absolute privacy.
Or so they thought.
Suddenly, Perkins stopped moving. Her body went rigid.
Hunter sensed the shift instantly. He opened his eyes.
"What is it?"
Perkins sat up, shielding her eyes and staring out at the horizon.
"Hey," she said, her voice dropping to a dangerous low. "I think we've got company."
Hunter sat up, wrapping an arm around her waist as he followed her gaze.
About a nautical mile out, two speedboats were cutting through the waves, heading directly for them on an intercept course.
Hunter's enhanced vision locked onto the boats instantly.
Each vessel carried a driver and two passengers. The passengers were armed with assault rifles and looked distinctly unfriendly. Local cartel enforcers or pirates, looking for tourists to rob or kidnap.
"Looks like your beauty attracts more than just me," Hunter quipped.
He patted Perkins on the back, signaling the end of their break.
"Cover up."
Perkins sighed, clearly annoyed at the interruption, and grabbed her bikini from the deck chair.
Hunter didn't bother with clothes just yet. He reached into a storage locker and pulled out a long, black case. He flipped the latches and assembled the weapon inside.
It wasn't the massive McMillan TAC-50—he had stowed that away in his [Inventory] to avoid drawing attention while traveling. Instead, he pulled out a Remington M700 PSS.
Ever since they crossed into Mexico, trouble had clung to them like a bad smell. Maybe it was the lawlessness of the region, or maybe a handsome Asian man and a stunning Western woman traveling alone just screamed "easy targets."
On their first day in Mexico, a group of thugs had tried to corner them. Hunter hadn't even let Perkins draw her knife. He had dismantled them with his bare hands, handing out one-way tickets to the afterlife.
Over the last five days, the body count had risen steadily. Hunter had dispatched over twenty low-level gangsters, muggers, and cartel soldiers who had made the mistake of eyeing Perkins or their car.
He thought renting a yacht would buy them some peace. Apparently not.
"Probably spotted us at the marina," Hunter muttered. "Saw the cash, saw the girl, thought it was an easy score."
He slapped a magazine into the Remington and worked the bolt.
The speedboats were now less than a mile out.
Hunter lay prone on the deck, the rifle stock pressed against his shoulder. With his [Shooting: Level Max] passive, he didn't even need to calculate the wind or the swell of the ocean. He just looked through the scope, and the point of impact was a certainty.
Bang.
The shot cracked across the water.
A kilometer away, the engine of the lead speedboat exploded as the .308 round punched through the cowling and shattered the block. The boat lurched and died in the water.
Hunter adjusted his aim instantly.
Bang.
The second speedboat suffered the same fate. Its engine smoked and sputtered into silence.
Perkins walked over, now dressed in her bikini, holding two glasses of red wine. She handed one to Hunter with a smirk.
"Nice shooting, Tex."
"Thanks."
Hunter took a sip, then set the glass down. He wasn't done.
Bang. Bang. Bang.
Three more shots rang out.
On the stranded boats, three of the pirates dropped, dead before they hit the deck. The remaining gunmen panicked, diving into the ocean in a desperate attempt to escape the invisible sniper.
Hunter watched them bobbing in the water for a moment, waiting to see if they would resurface near the boats. When they didn't, he shifted his aim to the fuel tanks of the drifting vessels.
Bang.
A fireball erupted on the water as the first boat's fuel tank ignited.
Hunter stood up, the rifle dangling from one hand, and looked out at the burning wreckage against the endless blue of the Gulf.
The violence was routine now. Boring, even.
His mind drifted away from the pirates and the blood. He looked south, toward the Caribbean.
It's time, he thought. Time to find Mia Toretto.
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