Tsunami Defense Systems' weapons were famous for being high-end and smart.
Take the Giant in Arthur's hands, for example—its targeting system was fully integrated.
Inside the square scope, details like temperature, wind speed, range, and ballistic calculations appeared neatly above the reticle, in a spot that didn't block his view but was easy to read.
In a way, this rifle was practically a miniature terminal.
The tradeoff for all those advanced features was that the magazine needed recharging.
Arthur pressed the release on the side slot. A panel slid open, ejecting the massive yellow magazine.
Rebecca held out the ammo box, but Arthur only took a single round. It was a show of confidence—and respect for the father.
He deserved a clean end.
Arthur steadied his breathing and leveled the muzzle.
The Giant's system locked on, calculations scrolling across the scope as he fine-tuned his aim.
The rifle could charge electromagnetically, and Arthur put that feature to use.
His blue eyes fixed on the man. Exhaling slowly, he heard the electromagnetic modules close on either side with a sharp, electric hum.
Before his heart beat again, he pulled the trigger.
A tungsten flechette fired. Seconds later, a heavy thud echoed from the distance.
Arthur didn't check the body. He just sent Regina a message and walked away.
The real mission still lay ahead. Ending the life of a father who had fought so hard to restrain himself was nothing to take pride in.
...
According to Regina's intel, the human trafficker Bowey had slipped her surveillance and fled south, hiding in Colorado Ranch, Santo Domingo.
The corporations sold it as a "paradise town within the city," but in truth it was falling apart—more like a rundown biodome than an Eden.
The NCPD rarely showed up there. 6th Street ran the place.
They were war junkies, their heads filled with false glory pumped in by politicians and corpos. If New United States had won the war back then, maybe they'd have been celebrated. But New United States lost, leaving them abandoned deep in enemy territory.
And even if they had won… would they really have been heroes? Or would their own government have sold them out anyway, to keep the peace with old enemies? Who could say?
Arthur's beat-up car rattled south on the highway, constantly overtaken by faster traffic.
Under his gambler's hat, his eyes looked calm as a lake—but the storm brewing inside was ready to break.
Ever since giving that father peace, his anger had been rising.
Rebecca was silent too. Normally a nonstop chatterbox, she just cleaned her gun quietly, staring out the window as the scenery rushed by.
...
Colorado Ranch was wide, open land—reason enough for the NCPD to stay away.
Rows of small houses stretched across the area, none taller than two stories.
In the basement of one, a boy huddled in the corner.
Seventeen years old, but stunted and frail, his greasy hair stuck in clumps across his forehead.
His father had locked him down here for three days. The only food had been a small bag of pet feed tossed down on the first day. Nothing since.
It was strange. His father had always beaten him, but he was rarely home—so the pain had never dragged on like this.
It had started a few days earlier, when his father suddenly dragged him into the car, parked in some remote spot, and waited. Nothing happened.
After answering a call, the man flew into a rage, beating him savagely before dumping him into the basement.
The day before, his father had come again. Not with food—but with a kick that broke his leg.
The boy looked at the twisted limb, bone splinter jutting through torn flesh, and shrank back in fear.
Hunger and pain tore at him, but still, he prayed his father wouldn't return. Dying quietly here almost seemed better.
...
Upstairs, in a room near the back door, a greasy fat man in a blue T-shirt sat slumped on the floor.
Oil stains and grime smeared his clothes. Empty instant meal boxes and syringes lay scattered around him.
Wiping his hand on his shirt, he picked up a syringe from the floor and drove it into his forearm.
"Damn it."
Muttering, he tossed it aside, grabbed another, and stabbed himself again like a man possessed.
"Damn it, damn it..."
Foaming at the mouth, he looked like a rabid dog, jamming more needles into his arms.
"Fuck!"
He hurled one away and howled.
"Damn Regina. Damn Watson District.
And that bastard kid..."
Cursing, he staggered toward the basement hatch covered by wooden planks.
The mound of flesh heaved itself upright like a slab of meat, shuffling in that direction.
"It's your fault, you little bastard. All your fault!"
...
Arthur and Rebecca shut the car doors and advanced toward the house.
No wasted words. A quick sweep of the yard showed no traps. They kicked the door in.
The grotesque, deformed figure was right there.
He was bent awkwardly, struggling to lift something.
At the noise behind him, he stiffly tried to turn, but his neck wouldn't bend. With effort, he finally twisted around.
Arthur compared him to the description. It was the man.
"You… you must be Regina's people. Damn it, why come after me?"
Bowey didn't recognize Arthur. Too many customers to remember—especially someone who had changed so much.
"You're all trash!"
He charged forward like a stampede.
Arthur and Rebecca fired instantly. Bullets ripped into him, and Bowey staggered, clutching at his gut.
"Heh… I remember now. I got a new Subdermal Armor."
His eyes lit up again, sharp and wolfish, locking onto them.
"You two… die!"
The bloated figure charged like a pig, but Arthur's expression never changed.
He calmly lowered the barrel, aimed at Bowey's right knee, and fired.
Bang. Bang. Bang!
Three rounds tore into the same spot above his knee. The third had already broken through the armored layer, but Arthur kept firing until the joint gave way.
This bastard didn't deserve an easy death.
Bowey's knees had barely supported him before. With his weight thrown forward, Arthur's bullets dropped him to the ground, his leg shattering in pieces.
"You remember me now?"
Arthur shook his head with disgust.
"Forget it. Better you don't. Makes me sick."
He reloaded, slipping rounds into the revolver's cylinder.
Planting his boot on the squealing pig's chest, he spoke coldly.
"Guess how many bullets that pig brain of yours can handle?"
The threat cut through the haze. Terror spread across Bowey's face.
"Spare me! Even without me, the kids will die anyway! Spare—"
A gunshot silenced him. Stars burst in his vision as he flailed at Arthur's legs.
Arthur pulled back with contempt.
"Looks like I'll have to take out your hands first, so you can count properly."
He fired again, blasting through Bowey's arms.
The man collapsed in despair, hands limp at his sides. Arthur nodded in satisfaction.
"Second."
"Third."
This time, the bullet punched through his forehead, splattering pale fluid across his bloated face.
But he didn't die. His body went rigid, mouth opening and closing like a suffocating fish.
Of course—he'd reinforced his skull. Plenty of dirty money had paid for that.
"Fourth."
Arthur's aim slipped. The bullet bored through Bowey's eye.
"My bad. Guess I got careless.
Where will the next one land? Even I don't know."
Watching Bowey piss himself in terror, Arthur shrugged in disgust and fired two more rounds into the gaping hole in his forehead.
...
(70 Chapters Ahead)
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