By daybreak, the entire city was in an uproar.
Just the night before, two casino moguls in Las Vegas, men wealthy enough to summon storms and command empires, had been assassinated in their own homes.
The killers who struck their estates did not hold back. They came with sniper rifles, military crossbows, machine guns, and more than a few explosives.
In an instant, the city's business leaders, politicians, and police were all thrown into a state of panic.
The police were scrambling to figure out how to catch what looked less like professional assassins and more like heavily armed terrorists.
Politicians feared the attacks would damage Las Vegas's stability, driving tourists away and crushing tax revenue.
Business magnates were terrified they might be next.
That was especially true for the casino owners.
Las Vegas was the biggest and most famous gambling city in the world, and its entire economy revolved around casinos and tourism. Which meant there was no shortage of casino bosses.
And rich men were always the first to start worrying about their necks.
By morning, several casino owners who had caught wind of the murders had already packed up their families and flown to other cities, or even other countries, on private jets to wait things out.
Even the ones who stayed behind immediately tightened security around themselves.
No one wanted to become the third unlucky bastard in a row.
Back in the converted warehouse, master thief Danny Ocean wore a grim expression.
His old friend Rusty Ryan, the professional grifter and card sharp, had lost his appetite for snacks as well.
More than a dozen people were gathered inside the warehouse.
A middle-aged man with a steel-gray face was shaking so hard the cigar between his fingers trembled.
"You do not understand. The people who hit the Russian and Bank last night were vicious."
"They used machine guns, sniper rifles, military crossbows, even grenades and C4."
"The Russian got blown to pieces by a grenade. Five servants and more than thirty bodyguards died with him."
"Bank was no better. I heard the people protecting that desert estate were all ex-special forces and mercs, and they still lost more than ten men..."
"A friend of mine at the police station says the killers may have been professionals, but their crew only had two or three people."
"I do not buy that. To me, this was a group of armed bandits."
"I also heard the Russian's safe was stolen. It may have held bearer bonds and other valuables worth hundreds of millions."
"And Bank's place reportedly lost jewelry worth just as much."
The middle-aged man was Ruben Tishkoff, another washed-up Vegas casino boss.
The Bellagio had once belonged to him.
Unfortunately, Ruben was a gambler himself. Years ago, Terry Benedict had set him up and cheated him out of hundreds of millions.
In the end, Ruben had no choice but to sell the Bellagio to Terry at a bargain price.
From that day on, the two men were enemies.
So when Danny Ocean approached him and asked him to bankroll a crew for a heist against Terry Benedict, to steal 150 million in cash from the casino vault, Ruben only thought it over briefly before agreeing.
And so, with Danny Ocean as the lead, he assembled a team of eleven specialists, including Ruben Tishkoff himself.
Day and night, they trained in the converted warehouse, preparing to break into Terry Benedict's underground vault during an upcoming holiday and walk away with nearly 150 million in cash.
But while they were grinding through drills and studying the vault's traps, disaster struck.
Las Vegas had just witnessed two violent home invasions and murders of casino magnates whose fortunes easily rivaled Benedict's.
Danny Ocean and everyone else knew what that meant.
Terry Benedict was going to get even more paranoid.
His already brutal security would probably tighten up again.
Stealing 150 million from him was about to get a lot harder.
The warehouse fell into silence.
Meanwhile, Hunter's wounds were healing at a terrifying rate, thanks to his body being nearly five times stronger than that of an ordinary adult male.
By noon the next day, he could barely feel the pain anymore.
Curious, he unwrapped the bandages around his body.
Most of the wounds had already sealed over with soft scabs.
At this rate, he figured he would be back to normal in two or three days at most.
"Not bad."
Hunter glanced at Perkins, who still could not leave the safehouse because of her injuries.
After thinking it over, he said, "Perkins, I am going out to look around and gather some more information."
"If you want to leave too, do not go far. Just stay nearby."
"If you are worried about the wounds, I can take you to the Continental."
There was a Continental Hotel in Las Vegas, though Hunter had never been there.
Perkins knew where it was. She looked at her injuries, then shook her head.
"The wounds are fine. I will stay here for now."
"If you have other things to do, go handle them."
She was not stupid. She clearly did not believe Hunter's excuse from that morning about how he got hurt.
After all, last night she had nearly died because she got careless on the job.
When Hunter rescued her, he had carried her out of the building himself and brought her back to this safehouse.
She had even grabbed at him a few times while still stunned by the sheer strength and stamina he had shown.
She was absolutely certain Hunter had not been injured then.
So whatever happened to him, it had not been from her mission.
It had to be something he did after she fell asleep.
Hunter did not realize Perkins had already guessed a lot of it.
Even if he had known, he would not have cared much.
The woman was greedy and somewhat selfish, but she was not stupid.
And he had, after all, shared plenty of very intimate time with her.
More importantly, he could still help her finish difficult contracts.
With that kind of connection, Hunter was not worried about her making trouble.
"Alright then."
"I left food and water in the fridge for you."
"If there is nothing else, get some more rest. It will help with the healing."
"Okay."
After a few brief words, Hunter left the safehouse.
This time he did not go back to the Bellagio.
He went somewhere else.
Dressed in expensive clothes, he made himself look like a rich young heir.
He picked a decent-looking casino, exchanged a million dollars for chips, and sat down at a table.
He deliberately controlled himself, making sure he did not just win every hand.
And he never stayed in one casino for long. He would usually play for an hour or two, walk away with a few tens of thousands of dollars, and leave.
Day after day, he repeated the routine.
Before long, he had spent three or four days moving through Las Vegas's casinos.
And after hundreds of hands a day, his Gambling skill finally reached max level.
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