The Bartender serves a group of six military brats enjoying a few scant hours away from Maxwell. He’s used to this clientele, though he’d prefer they wear more appropriate attire than their fatigues. He relaxes the dress code, knowing they’ll make up for their lack of etiquette with their wallets. The hours pass, and he’s eventually forced to cut them off once they become rowdier and more unruly. Kids these days seemed to be possessed by foul spirits, he muses to himself.
Once cut off, the group stumbles out of the bar. They loiter as one of them calls an Uber. They pack themselves like sardines in the back of a minivan. They joke, jeer, and laugh, drowning out the hum of the Hunter’s motorcycle tailgaiting them. They don’t react the shattering of the back window in time. The Hunter’s uzi sprays bullets, killing three of them instantly. The minivan’s driver swerves in an instant, and the Hunter veers off and away.
Security footage, once reviewed, would reveal the motorcycle and its rider vanishing into thin air just seconds after the attack. Just as it had the week before.1