Three days later.
After spending another seventy-two hours "vacationing" in Mexico, Hunter Sun decided it was time to move on. He had successfully maximized Perkins' dependency and obedience levels—she was now thoroughly addicted to the lifestyle, money, and intimacy he provided.
Satisfied with his work, he bid her farewell and booked a flight to the Bahamas.
Perkins, for her part, was heading back to the States. She had contacted her handlers at the assassin organization and confirmed she wasn't burned. With her cover intact and a hefty sum in her bank account, she returned to her life of high-end lethality, living like a wealthy socialite until the next contract came in.
Hunter, however, had a different objective: finding Dominic Toretto and Mia.
He didn't know their exact location yet—whether they were hiding in the Dominican Republic or sticking to the shadows in Panama—but he needed a starting point. And before he dove into the hunt for the Toretto crew, he had a personal side quest to complete.
The Treasure of the Caribbean.
Months ago, after raiding the home of the corrupt DEA agent Norman Stansfield in Los Angeles, Hunter had found more than just cash and drugs. He had recovered several hand-drawn maps that looked suspiciously like treasure charts.
The maps were marked with circles and vague annotations. Stansfield hadn't left a clear "X marks the spot," but the fragmented notes pointed to a specific obsession: a private aircraft that had crashed into the sea years ago.
It was clear that whatever was on that plane was valuable enough to make Stansfield—a man already worth millions in dirty money—obsessed with finding it.
Hunter wasn't hurting for cash anymore, but nobody says no to more wealth. Besides, the idea of a treasure hunt appealed to his sense of adventure.
Merida International Airport, Mexico.
Hunter boarded a flight from the capital of the Yucatán state, heading straight for Nassau, the capital of the Bahamas.
A few hours later, the plane touched down.
"Finally," Hunter exhaled as he stepped out of the terminal, taking a deep breath of the humid, salty air.
The Bahamas. An archipelago in the Atlantic, sitting just off the coast of Florida and Cuba.
Historically, it was the final staging ground for migrants trying to reach the US. In the modern underworld, as Hunter knew all too well, it was a critical waypoint for Latin American cartels moving product north via sea and air.
But centuries ago, this was the heart of the Golden Age of Piracy.
Legends whispered of pirate captains burying their plunder on these scattered islands. It was a chaotic frontier where navies and privateers clashed, sending countless ships—and their holds full of gold and gems—to the bottom of the ocean.
Stansfield's treasure was likely real.
As Hunter walked out of the airport, he was immediately swarmed by taxi drivers.
"Sir! Ride with me!"
"Best driver in Nassau, right here!"
"I know all the spots, boss! Girls, casinos, beaches!"
English was the official language here, so the hustle was loud and clear.
Hunter scanned the crowd and pointed to the youngest driver in the pack.
"You said you know all the fun spots?"
"Yes, sir! Absolutely!" The young man beamed. He could tell by Hunter's clothes and demeanor that this Asian tourist was walking money.
"Alright. You're hired."
"Right this way, sir!"
The other drivers dispersed with grumbles of disappointment. One of them tried to "accidentally" bump into Hunter, his fingers dipping into Hunter's pocket.
Hunter felt the hand but didn't react. He kept his valuables in his [Inventory], so the pickpocket found nothing but lint. Since the thief didn't cut his clothes, Hunter let it slide.
He followed his chosen driver to a beat-up Toyota taxi that looked like it had rolled off the assembly line in the early 80s.
Hunter climbed into the back seat without complaint. He reached into his pocket (accessing his Inventory) and pulled out a pack of cigarettes and a lighter.
He lit one up, took a drag, and leaned forward.
"So, kid. I'm a travel writer. I'm here looking for inspiration for my next book."
"Oh? A writer?"
"Yeah. I'm thinking of doing a treasure hunt theme. Pirate legends, buried gold, that sort of thing. Can you tell me where the best local legends are? Or where the 'pirate atmosphere' is strongest?"
This was the cover story Hunter had prepared. If the driver knew nothing, he'd hit the local library or government archives.
But the driver's eyes lit up.
"A writer! That's amazing. I've been working these streets since I was fourteen, sir. I know this island inside out."
He glanced in the rearview mirror.
"If you want pirates, you need to go to Paradise Island."
"Paradise Island?"
"Yes, sir. It's just off the coast of Nassau. You can take a ferry in fifteen minutes, or I can drive you across the bridge. It used to be a pirate stronghold back in the day. They say Blackbeard himself used to hide out there."
The driver grew animated.
"Now it's got the Atlantis resort, huge water parks, and the most beautiful girls in the Bahamas. But there are still old ruins on the far side of the island. They say pirates used to store their loot in the caves there. It's restricted now—dangerous terrain—so tourists don't go there much. But for a writer? Perfect."
Hunter smiled. He hadn't expected a lead this quickly.
He had planned to stay in the Bahamas for a week, searching methodically. But a random taxi driver had just narrowed his search radius significantly.
"Sounds perfect," Hunter said. "Take me to Paradise Island. And find me a good hotel while you're at it."
He reached into his pocket again and pulled out a crisp $100 bill—Benjamin Franklin looking very out of place in the worn interior of the taxi.
"Here."
He tossed the bill to the driver.
In the Bahamas, the local dollar was pegged 1:1 to the USD, but on the street, greenbacks were king. A hundred US dollars was a fortune for a short ride.
The driver grabbed the bill, his eyes widening.
"Thank you, sir! You won't regret this! I'll get you there in no time!"
The old Toyota revved to life, and the driver began a non-stop stream of compliments and local trivia as they sped toward the bridge.
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