Hunter took Parker's praise in stride.
He knew the old man wasn't exaggerating.
Dom's entire fleet was maintained and modified right here in Parker's garage.
Take Dom's legendary 1970 Dodge Charger R/T, for example. Decades ago, that car might have cost a few grand. But based on the invoices and whispers Hunter had picked up around the shop, Dom had poured over two million dollars into that single vehicle over the years.
In the back of the shop, Dom kept four distinct setup kits for the Charger alone.
One for pure horsepower (drag racing). One for balanced performance (street racing). One for reinforced durability (heists/combat). And one purely for evasion, complete with military-grade towing gear.
That didn't even count the endless supply of fake license plates and the rotating paint schemes.
It was obvious. Some mods were for racing. Some were for highway robbery.
Every time a "mission specific" mod was needed, Parker would handle it personally with his most trusted crew members. The "hush money" they received was substantial.
But Hunter was a transmigrator with a System. A few grand was pocket change compared to his ultimate potential.
So, he cut through the sales pitch.
"Parker, you still haven't told me what the job is."
Parker, who had been hyping up the future, choked mid-sentence. He drove in silence for a moment, a bit deflated that his pep talk hadn't worked.
"Modifications," Parker finally admitted, his tone sobering. "But it's a big job."
"The client needs three cars modified. They have extremely high performance requirements."
"Out of everyone in my crew, only Vincent and you have the skills to pull it off."
"But Vincent's wife is pregnant. He's got cold feet. He doesn't want to touch this one."
Parker's implication was subtle but clear.
This wasn't a standard illegal street racer mod. This was something heavier.
Vincent backed out because it was too risky. That meant these cars weren't for racing. They were likely being prepped for something similar to what Dom's crew did—high-stakes criminal activity.
Hunter understood immediately. But did he care?
No.
To a transmigrator, the chaos of America was just background noise.
His only priority was money. Money meant skill upgrades. Skill upgrades meant Attribute Points and Inventory Space.
Survival first. Morality later.
Parker drove them around in circles for a while—standard countersurveillance—before pulling up to a secluded bar.
Hunter glanced at the location. It was in the middle of nowhere. How does this place even stay in business?
Inside, the vibe was low-key. Despite it being night, only seven or eight people were there, scattered in small groups, drinking quietly.
Hunter scanned the room. All white men. No black patrons.
He had a gun in his Inventory, so he wasn't terrified, but he stayed alert. In LA, racial tensions weren't as explosive as in Texas, but finding a "Whites Only" dive bar wasn't exactly rare either.
Better safe than sorry.
"Paul, two whiskeys. On the rocks," Parker ordered, sliding onto a stool. He was clearly a regular.
The bartender—a middle-aged white man who might have been the owner—nodded at Parker.
His gaze lingered on Hunter for a moment, sharp and assessing.
Hunter frowned. The bartender looked familiar, but he couldn't place the face immediately.
The man turned away to grab the bottle, and the moment passed.
Soon, two glasses of whiskey slid across the bar.
Along with the drinks came a folded slip of paper and a key.
Parker pocketed the key smoothly. He unfolded the paper, read it once, then flicked his lighter and burned it in the ashtray.
Hunter was curious about the contents, but Parker said nothing. They finished their drinks in silence.
"Let's go."
Parker slapped cash on the counter and led Hunter out.
California law strictly prohibited drunk driving, but with limited police resources and a cultural cavalier attitude toward alcohol, unless you hit a checkpoint or crashed, you were usually fine.
Parker, free-spirited as ever, didn't hesitate to get behind the wheel after a whiskey.
Another series of winding turns later, they arrived at a warehouse.
"We're here."
Parker unlocked the door with the key from the bar and flipped the lights on.
Hunter stepped inside. The warehouse was roughly 3,000 square feet.
Parked in the center were three vehicles.
The first was a Buick GL8, a mid-to-large MPV (minivan).
The second was a Chevrolet Suburban, the massive SUV iconic for being the vehicle of choice for government agents and secret service in movies.
Hunter's eyes lit up. He loved big SUVs. In both his past and present life, the Suburban was his dream daily driver.
The third was a Volkswagen Passat, the best-selling German sedan in the US.
Hunter glanced at the Passat briefly before losing interest.
He walked a circle around the trio.
"Parker, all three need mods?"
"Yeah."
"What kind?"
"Today is just orientation," Parker said. "I'm showing you the location."
"The client has a lot of demands. High horsepower. Reinforced armor. Extreme reliability—absolutely no stalling or ignition failures allowed during critical moments."
"I'll deliver the parts over the next three days."
"The timeline is tight. It's just you."
"You don't need to come to the shop for the next week. You have seven days to finish the mods. Someone will come to inspect the goods personally when you're done."
Hunter's suspicion was confirmed. Dangerous modifications.
High horsepower? Reinforced armor? "Critical moments"?
"Probably smuggling, gang warfare, or getaway cars for a robbery," Hunter deduced.
But it wasn't his business.
He nodded and asked the only question that mattered.
"What's the pay?"
"Fifteen thousand dollars. Five grand per car."
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