Seeing the caller ID on his phone, Hunter could not help but raise an eyebrow. It was Diana, his nominal handler. She was a cold, difficult woman backed by a highly secretive organization.
Hunter wasn't sure what had gotten into her lately. Ever since he completed a backdoor deal with her faction in New York, she had been acting wildly out of character. Over the past month, this usually aloof woman had proactively invited him out four times.
Only one of those meetings involved an actual assassination contract. The other three were simply casual dinners and conversation.
If it were any other woman, Hunter wouldn't doubt his own charm. But he knew Diana's background and her icy, arrogant nature. She had thoroughly investigated his chaotic private life and was well aware of his multiple lovers.
Historically, she had never been interested in him. In fact, she seemed mildly disgusted by his lifestyle. Hunter was well aware of her disdain, so he rarely contacted her unless strictly necessary. To him, she was just a useful tool for acquiring intel and highly paid jobs.
So, when Diana suddenly started asking him out without mentioning contracts, Hunter knew something was wrong. He absolutely refused to believe she didn't have an ulterior motive.
"Are they trying to get something out of me?" he wondered silently as he answered the call.
"Hello," he answered flatly.
"It's me, Diana," her crisp voice came through the speaker.
"I know. Do you have another contract for me?" Hunter asked directly. "It's Christmas Eve, Diana. If it's work, either pass it to someone else or call me back in a few days."
Hunter wasn't an official member of her organization, so he didn't care about offending her. Besides, she had never exactly been warm to him. If he didn't appreciate her physical beauty and the lucrative perks her faction provided, he wouldn't bother talking to her at all.
Diana could feel his absolute lack of interest. It frustrated her immensely. Her superiors had been breathing down her neck, demanding she secure a sample of his DNA.
She had been looking for an opening, but her recent attempts had only made Hunter more guarded. She had completely failed to cultivate a trusting relationship with the elite assassin. At this rate, stealing a vial of his blood for the ICA seemed entirely impossible.
But she had her orders, and she had to try.
"Mr. Sun, do you have time to meet?" she asked, softening her tone. "I have an incredibly difficult assignment. You are the only top-tier assassin capable of pulling it off."
"Pass," Hunter replied instantly.
He could hear the rare note of submission in her voice, but he didn't care. It was Christmas Eve. He had no intention of wandering around the city when he had his lovers and friends gathering at the farm.
It wasn't that he particularly cared for Western holidays. It was simply a perfect excuse to bring his inner circle together for a lively celebration.
Diana recognized the unwavering finality in his voice. She fell silent for a moment before letting out a heavy sigh.
"Very well. I will contact you in a few days," she conceded. "Sorry to intrude. Merry Christmas."
Hunter hung up the phone and let out a soft sneer. He had been piecing together clues about Diana's mysterious backers for a while now.
Initially, he suspected she worked for Syndicate International. Syndicate was a powerful, century-old pharmaceutical conglomerate operating out of Europe.
Rumor had it that during the collapse of the Soviet Union, Syndicate poached a massive team of elite geneticists and cloning experts from the falling empire. They aggressively pivoted from traditional chemistry to advanced biological engineering.
Over the last decade, Syndicate had evolved into a terrifying multinational powerhouse. Their breakthroughs in biopharmaceuticals and genetic engineering made entire nations jealous.
More chillingly, any rival corporation or intelligence agency that tried to steal their research inevitably suffered catastrophic accidents. Their enemies constantly ended up as minor obituaries in the morning papers.
After enough bodies piled up, the underworld recognized Syndicate's handiwork. They were an untouchable porcupine, and soon, nobody dared to cross them.
But as Hunter spent more time with Diana, he ruled Syndicate out.
He knew Syndicate had its own private military. They had absorbed the darkest black-tech from the Soviet Agent Program and could supposedly mass-produce genetically engineered clone soldiers.
If Diana worked for Syndicate, they wouldn't need to recruit a freelance hitman, no matter how terrifying his combat skills were.
Therefore, Hunter strongly suspected Diana belonged to the ICA, the International Contract Agency.
Based on the intel he gathered through the Continental Hotel's network, the ICA was a global broker for elite assassins and mercenaries.
The organization had a long history, though not quite as ancient as the Continental. It originally started in the UK with the backing of British intelligence before eventually going rogue.
Today, the ICA's influence stretched across Europe, Australia, Southeast Asia, and Africa. Because their assassination business overlapped heavily with the Continental's territory, the two titans frequently clashed.
Fortunately, neither side wanted an all-out war. Such massive underworld factions were already closely monitored by world governments. A bloody internal conflict would only allow the authorities to sweep in and destroy them both.
This delicate balance of power was exactly why a top-tier freelancer like Hunter was being aggressively courted by both sides.
"Diana keeps initiating contact. It must be related to those politician blackmail files I sold them in New York," Hunter mused to himself.
"Her faction probably reaped a massive profit from that intel, and now they realize how valuable I am."
Hunter couldn't be entirely sure if his guess was correct, but it didn't matter. Over the past six months, he had ruthlessly played the underworld against itself, amassing billions of dollars in wealth.
It was time to take a few days off, relax, and actually enjoy the fruits of his labor.
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