Hunter got out of the car and followed Dominic.
Instead of going inside, they walked around to the back.
A short distance behind the house, Dominic stopped in an open patch of ground.
Hunter moved closer and finally saw that behind Dominic's house lay a basement entrance.
This kind of basement is very common in America.
Most buildings in the states are required to have their own cellar.
The reason is simple: the country borders both the Pacific and the Atlantic.
That geography spawns an unusual share of tornadoes, typhoons, and hurricanes.
Tornadoes in particular threaten America's mostly wooden private homes.
A basement offers solid shelter when a twister strikes.
Los Angeles doesn't see twisters as often as some central states.
But they can still form without warning, so many families who build in the suburbs put up a code-compliant storm cellar.
The lock on Dominic's basement door had clearly been forced.
Reading Hunter's mind, he said, "They pried it open during the search a couple of days ago."
Dominic hadn't had time to fit a new lock; he bent down and opened the basement hatch.
Then he climbed down a wooden ladder.
Hunter followed right behind him.
The basement was small—about two and a half meters deep, four by four in length and width.
It looked plain: apart from the wall where the ladder leaned,
each of the other three walls held a few metal shelves.
On them sat canned food, emergency rations, first-aid kits, and jugs of water.
In the corner beside the ladder, a plywood cubicle
hid a toilet for when nature called during a lock-in.
Dominic hit the light switch and, once Hunter was down, pulled the hatch shut.
"Come here."
He slid one shelf aside, revealing brickwork behind.
With practiced ease he pressed one particular block.
A section of wall slid back, exposing a tiny recess
no more than a meter square and half a meter deep—
a very secret little arms cache.
Hunter's eyes lit up at once.
Dominic's collection wasn't large, but the quality was top-shelf.
Two M9s—Beretta 92Fs—
a Colt Python revolver, a pair of Remington M870 shotguns,
an M70 assault rifle, and a few grenades,
plus a high-precision crossbow half the length of a rifle, fitted with an infrared scope.
Hunter's gaze lingered on the M70 and the crossbow
before he turned to Dominic. "Dom, lend me that bow for a few days."
He had already ID'd the weapon:
sniper laika crossbow, one of the most powerful military-grade crossbows on earth.
Built by Arrow Dynamics for special-ops teams working in the wild,
its punch exceeds that of some short-range sniper rifles.
A bolt from it can punch through elephant hide and shatter bone.
Effective range is 180 m, max about 300 m,
but its raw power and near-total silence make it preferable to a rifle in many situations.
Hunter's Shooting skill had reached Lv4.
When it levelled up, his mind absorbed know-how on SMGs, assault rifles, shotguns, sniper rifles—
and, conveniently, bows and crossbows as well.
With this Sniper Laika he figured he'd be deadly after a few minutes' handling.
Dominic looked surprised; he assumed Hunter was in some kind of trouble if he needed hardware.
He wasn't as hot-headed as he looked. Though a notorious California highway bandit,
in all their years of heists he and his crew had only ever hijacked cargo,
at worst knocking a driver out or giving him a few bruises.
They had never put anyone in hospital, let alone a grave.
So while, like many Americans, he kept weapons at home—some of them illegal—
there weren't many, and he rarely touched them.
"Like it? It's yours."
The Sniper Laika had been a gift from a partner a few years back.
This thing isn't cheap—you can't get it for less than fifty or sixty thousand us dollars.
After Dominic got it, he only took it out once, years ago, when he and his buddies went on a hunting vacation.
He prefers old-school shotguns to a high-precision crossbow like this.
So ever since, the bow had stayed locked in Dominic's basement, never used again.
Seeing how much Hunter liked it, he simply gave it to him.
"…Great!"
Hunter knew the value of the sniper laika crossbow, but he didn't stand on ceremony with Dominic.
Steve's villa is no safe zone; storming in alone to rescue someone is no easy task.
After thinking it over, he took two grenades as well.
"For self-defense."
Dominic finally showed emotion; he didn't stop Hunter from taking the grenades.
But he looked at him gravely and asked, "What kind of trouble are you in?"
"Is it dangerous?"
Hunter shook his head. "A friend of mine crossed some gangsters—might be a bit of hassle."
"Not really dangerous, just buying myself some insurance."
Only then did Dominic's expression ease.
His best fighter, Vince, was only a notch below him.
Yet Vince had been dropped by Hunter in a few punches, or so they said.
Vince's buddies had fared no better when they went looking for trouble; Hunter handled them just as easily.
So Dominic felt confident in his skills and assumed it was only a minor scrape.
He nodded, helped Hunter pack the sniper laika crossbow into its case,
and threw in the few dozen bolts he had left, quiver and all.
Hunter didn't linger; he said goodbye and drove off.
He still had gear to gather before another night visit to Steve's villa—
and, if possible, to spring Slate, who he suspected had been captured…
----------------------------------
I've already uploaded over 40 new chapters on Patreon!
If you're enjoying the story and want to read ahead, feel free to check it out.
Your support truly means a lot to me!
patreon.com/Kazenova223
Thank you so much for being here!
And if you're having fun with the story, don't forget to drop a Power Stone for me!