The group of punks stared at the baseball cap man, puzzled by his strange actions. He was typing away on a mini-computer, doing something to the metro's control system.
They exchanged glances, confused and suspicious.
"Hey! What the hell are you doing?" one of them finally shouted.
But the man in the cap remained silent, treating them as if they didn't exist.
Most of them were starting to sense danger, but the fat one was still oblivious.
"Hey, dumbass! I'm talking to you! You deaf?!" he barked arrogantly.
At that moment, the man in the cap finished his last command—his mini-computer successfully hacked into the metro's control system.
Then, as if he had all the time in the world, he turned his head—for the first time, actually acknowledging the group.
They had wasted enough of his time.
With a movement as casual as lighting a cigarette, he pulled out a handgun.
The punks' faces turned pale.
But before they could even scream, a series of gunshots echoed through the carriage.
The thudding of bodies followed.
One after another, they collapsed, lifeless—except for the fat one, who was left for last.
His entire face twisted in fear, body slumping against the seat, legs shaking uncontrollably.
"N-no… please… please don't kill me! I swear to God—please!"
The man in the cap lowered the gun slightly.
BANG. BANG.
Two bullets tore through the fat one's legs, leaving him screaming in agony, his wails mixing with sobs.
Now that the distractions were gone, the man in the cap resumed his work.
From his bag, he pulled out a collapsible metal rod, gave it a twist, and locked it into a horizontal bar, securing it across the metro doors' handrails.
The metro continued moving.
The man worked quickly.
With a few more commands on the mini-computer, the carriage lights flickered, and then—the side doors opened mid-transit.
He unzipped the guitar case.
Inside wasn't a guitar—but an RPG launcher, neatly secured in a custom mold.
It wasn't a standard model—this one had been custom-modified.
The man calmly inserted a special warhead into the launcher, then shouldered the weapon.
Moving to the open door, he rested the RPG on the horizontal bar, taking aim.
The metro sped forward, the city flashing past outside.
Then, as it rounded a bend, Central Avenue came into view.
Three…
Two…
One…
As Caesar Hotel appeared in the crosshairs, the man fired.
The blast from the RPG's backblast vented out the opposite metro door, preventing any pressure buildup.
The warhead ignited, screaming forward at nearly 300 meters per second, straight toward Caesar Hotel.
—
### At the Hotel—Seconds Before Impact
Max Payne was still arguing with the deputy chief when a convoy of Cadillacs arrived.
This was the VIP delegation—the international corporate representatives for the signing.
The moment the cars arrived, the sound of camera shutters filled the air—reporters snapping away.
After a few seconds, the car doors opened.
Bodyguards exited first, forming a protective perimeter.
Then, a man in a suit—clearly the VIP—stepped out.
Instead of heading straight inside, he paused on the steps, turning back to wave at the press, ensuring they got plenty of photos.
Seeing this, the deputy chief lost all interest in Max, brushing him off to greet the VIPs instead.
Bowing slightly, he schmoozed up to them, acting like a servant begging for favor.
Owen rolled his eyes.
He hated people like this—bootlickers.
Annoyed, he turned away—and just in time to see a white smoke trail streaking toward them.
"R-P-G!!!"
Before Owen could react further, a massive explosion erupted right at the Cadillacs.
The VIP vanished, his bodyguards were set ablaze, and the luxury vehicles were reduced to twisted metal.
Flaming debris rained down around the scene.
Owen, having tackled Monica to the ground, shielded her from the blast.
Nearby, Max Payne was thrown off his feet by the shockwave.
"ENEMY ATTACK!"
Shouts filled the air, flashes from news cameras capturing everything.
Owen pushed himself up.
His mind raced.
Was it really an RPG?
At first, he assumed so—but now that he thought about it, something felt off.
He had been hit by an RPG before, back during the Echelon Island mission.
That experience made him research the weapon extensively afterward.
Normally, RPGs had an effective range of 300 meters—and even at that distance, the accuracy dropped to a 2-meter margin of error.
At 900 meters, hitting a specific target was almost impossible.
Moreover, most RPGs were programmed to self-detonate at 700 meters.
Yet this one flew over 900 meters with near-perfect accuracy.
Something about it wasn't normal.
Before he could finish analyzing, Max staggered to his feet, eyes filled with realization.
"THE METRO—IT CAME FROM THE METRO!"
Max shouted, then jumped into his car, flooring the gas.
Owen's radio crackled—Alyssa's voice came through.
"Team A—rendezvous at Vehicle One!"
—
### Back Inside the Metro
The man in the cap acted like nothing had happened.
With calm efficiency, he repacked the RPG into the guitar case, removed the horizontal bar, and shut the metro doors using his mini-computer.
Everything looked as if nothing had ever happened.
Once his work was done, he turned back to the fat thug, who was still whimpering in pain.
The fat man begged, hands shaking.
"I—I didn't see anything! I won't say anything! Please! Please let me live!"
The man in the cap showed zero emotion.
BANG. BANG. BANG.
Without hesitation, he executed the fat thug.
—
### On the Highway—The Chase Begins
Max Payne's car sirens blared, his vehicle weaving through traffic at high speed.
Behind him, a Bearcat G3 armored vehicle followed closely.
As always, Owen was driving.
It didn't matter where he went—people always trusted his driving skills.
Both vehicles raced toward the metro station, tires screeching as they skidded to a stop at the entrance.
Before they could even rush to the platform, a woman's terrified scream echoed from the metro.
When they finally arrived, the train was empty—just a pile of bodies left behind.
Max questioned a shaken survivor, but she had nothing useful to offer—the killer was already gone.
Owen tried to check security cameras, but soon realized—
All the station's surveillance cameras had been "out of order" since yesterday.
The assassin had planned ahead.
With no leads, the trail went cold.
SWAT's job was over—they were a strike team, not investigators.
Forensics and Intelligence would take over now.
Owen drove the Bearcat G3 back toward Caesar Hotel, where things were probably still chaotic.
If his guess was right, the deputy chief was likely dead—he had been too close to the VIP when the RPG hit.
As they approached a red light, Owen slowed down.
Then—
BANG!
A loud impact shook the rear of the armored vehicle.
Owen frowned.
Did someone just rear-end a damn SWAT truck?!
_________________________
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