"Bang!"
While he was sleeping soundly, a sudden, urgent knocking at the door startled Hunter.
More accurately, it should be called a pounding on the door.
Hunter, who was in the middle of a dream, was immediately startled awake by the sound.
He subconsciously reached out, and a handgun immediately appeared in his hand.
Gripping the gun tightly, Hunter quickly jumped out of bed.
The place he rented was in a run-down, out-of-the-way corner of Los Angeles.
It was never truly safe—brawls and gang shoot-outs were common.
He had been in this parallel world for a little over a month.
Hunter had slowly grown used to his new life.
Yet the tangled web of race and immigration in Los Angeles—indeed, in all of America—still felt like a nightmare he had to arm himself against.
After all, earlier immigrants had paid for these lessons in blood.
Bang!
The pounding on the door grew fiercer. Hunter had only just woken up
but the unknown threat snapped him instantly alert.
He didn't know who was outside, but the tone of that hammering told him they hadn't come in peace.
A habitual sleeper in the raw, he yanked on a pair of boxers
then, pistol in hand, crept behind the sofa and crouched.
The apartment was tiny—barely four hundred square feet.
Aside from the separate kitchen and bathroom, living room and bedroom melted into one another without any barrier.
Bang!
Another brutal hit; after a dozen more
his flimsy wooden door began to buckle.
One of the hinge screws popped clean out; it wouldn't last much longer.
Eyes locked on the entrance, Hunter flicked off the safety.
In America, if someone breaks in
you can shoot them dead without legal consequence.
That's why you never wander uninvited into lavish estates
or large farms and ranches.
The owners are within their rights
to gun you down on the spot
and face no penalty whatsoever.
Bang!
With a final crash the door gave way.
Hunter saw a boot kick it open and three men—white and Latino, all in their thirties—storm inside.
When he recognized one of them, he lowered his pistol.
The man was Slant; he'd stood beside Vince the first time Vince came looking for trouble.
So these three were Vince's buddies—
and probably Dominic's men.
Because of Mia, Hunter didn't want to make an outright enemy of Dominic.
Even after realizing this world ran deeper than the fast & furious storyline
he still preferred not to break completely with Dominic.
If Vince hadn't come after him again and again
he would have settled for a simple lesson instead of putting Vince in hospital.
But the man clung like a plaster.
Before Dominic could retaliate for Vince
his hangers-on had jumped the gun.
Even Hunter's temper had its limit.
"Screw this—nonstop harassment.
Flaring with rage, he rose from behind the sofa.
Slant and the others flinched at the sudden apparition
but their leader quickly recognized Hunter.
"That's the punk who crippled Vince—break his arms and legs!" he roared.
Dominic was a famed street racer in Los Angeles, even across California
running countless illegal races and leading highway heists.
Over the years he'd hit more than a dozen trucks hauling high-end electronics.
His crew alone fielded a dozen tuned cars.
Vince's group was only part of the pack.
Hunter had tried to avoid war, but repeated provocations
would anger a saint.
He snatched a standalone sofa—forty or fifty pounds—and hurled it at one intruder.
With strength far beyond an average man, the sofa felt weightless in his hands.
To Slant's crew, however, it was a cannonball.
Bang!
A Latino bruiser never expected the lean frame to explode with such force.
He'd been Hunter's first target, metal bat in hand.
Before he could react, the sofa
shot across the five-meter gap and slammed into him.
"Agh!
He crashed down, arm bending at a sickening angle—clearly broken.
"Bort!
Slant roared, seeing his friend fall, and lunged at Hunter, fist aimed at his face.
Meanwhile the third man
yanked a folding knife from his back pocket
and rushed in, blade flashing.
Slant had visited Vince in hospital;
the two were close, and Vince had warned him Hunter boxed.
Still, Slant brought two buddies, sure they could avenge Vince together.
He knew he wasn't as reckless as Vince
but all three were seasoned street-brawlers.
And it was three against one.
Yet within seconds of breaking in
they'd lost a man.
Hunter had meant to spar a little
so after downing the bat-wielder
he pulled his punches and tangled with Slant.
But when he spotted the third man's knife
his expression froze; power flooded his fists.
Two punches dazed Slant; Hunter booted him toward the knifeman.
The thug yanked his blade back to avoid stabbing his friend.
Hunter vaulted forward and kicked.
"Agh!
The man flew two meters, crashed into the fridge.
Without pause
Hunter closed in and punched Slant in the face.
Another howl, then all three lay sprawled…
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