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Chapter 225 – The Bounty That Went Wrong
🕑 Added 2025-10-23 16:50:32 +0000 UTCA black concierge from the Continental Hotel approached Moonie Fisher and whispered,
> “Manager, there’s an issue in the main lobby.”
He spoke softly — but not softly enough.
Anyone with sharp ears could hear him, because Moonie Fisher hated when people leaned too close.
The staff had learned through painful trial and error exactly how quiet — and how far — one could speak to her without getting turned into fertilizer.
Too quiet, and she couldn’t hear you.
Too close, and… well, the hotel’s plants always needed feeding, and they didn’t care whether the fertilizer smelled like chocolate or milk.
The downside was that nothing stayed secret for long at the Los Angeles Continental.
Any whiff of trouble spread instantly through the grapevine, pulling every curious ear into whatever was happening.
And maybe that was exactly how Moonie Fisher liked it.
Henry, naturally, was one of the “curious fish” caught on the line.
Though not a contract killer — just the clinic’s resident medic — trouble rarely landed directly on him.
Still, after three or four years in this world (minus that one stretch in a basement cell), he’d developed a taste for chaos.
Once upon a time, he’d planned to keep his head down and coast through life like a true salted fish.
Now? If there was drama and he didn’t go take a look — he felt like he was cheating himself.
Even if it was just watching from a distance, munching on metaphorical popcorn, that was still entertainment.
So when Moonie Fisher’s “territory” had an incident, she couldn’t very well pretend not to care.
Her delicate brows arched slightly.
> “What happened?”
> “It’s about the tiger bounty, ma’am,” the concierge said.
> “What about it? Did the money not come through? Or did the tiger die?”
She was already walking briskly toward the lobby.
Several other busybodies fell in line behind her — Henry among them, playing the part of idle curiosity.
As they walked, he leaned toward another familiar face in the crowd, another regular looky-loo.
> “Hey, man. The Continental takes that kind of job now?”
He didn’t spell it out, but he made a little finger-gun gesture to his temple — bang.
The other man chuckled.
> “You never know what rich folks are thinking. If they can pay, and someone’s willing to do it, the hotel doesn’t care what the job is.
> “You could offer a bounty to dance naked on Main Street — as long as it’s over a hundred grand, they’ll post it.”
Right. The Continental wasn’t a moral authority — it was a middleman.
Money defined what was “worthy.”
Henry made a mental note to check the bounty boards later — maybe there’d be some weird side jobs worth taking for easy cash.
Meanwhile, the concierge continued explaining behind Moonie Fisher:
> “The bounty money was fully deposited when the job was posted. Once the contractor completed it, the payment was released as usual.
> “The target was to capture a tiger cub under one year old — alive, any sex. That part went smoothly. The problem is that the client who commissioned the bounty… died.”
> “Died?” Fisher’s voice sharpened. “How?”
> “They say he was in Africa hunting buffalo and got gored. Didn’t make it to the hospital in time — infection.”
…There was no shortage of bizarre deaths among the rich.
It wasn’t shocking anymore.
People assumed the wealthy all died peacefully in bed with grand funerals — but half of them went out in ridiculous ways no one could imagine.
Henry once heard of a family patriarch whose corpse stayed unburied for over a decade because of inheritance disputes.
In any case, the show must go on.
> “What about his family?” Fisher asked. “Just deliver the tiger to them.”
> “They don’t want it,” the concierge said awkwardly. “They’re not cancelling the bounty or reclaiming the money, but they said we can ‘dispose of it however we like.’”
This wasn’t unheard of.
When a client canceled a bounty after the job was done, the Continental never refunded the deposit.
The assassin still got paid.
Moneyed clients or not, those who used the Continental knew what business they were in — life-and-death transactions.
If someone risked their neck to finish a mission and then got told, ‘Sorry, we’re not paying,’ guess who’d end up dead next?
Letting an armed killer go insane wasn’t good for anyone’s health.
So after a few such “incidents,” the Continental learned where its loyalties lay.
Rich or powerful, it didn’t matter — cross the assassins, and you could clean up your own mess.
But in this case, the target wasn’t a person — it was a thing.
A living, breathing thing.
Normally, if the target was an item, the hotel could just toss it into storage or find another buyer.
But this? This was a tiger cub.
You couldn’t exactly lock that in the warehouse.
And keeping it in the hotel? Out of the question.
A tiger, even a baby, was a top predator.
Feeding, housing, and handling it required trained staff, proper space, and a fortune in meat.
California didn’t exactly have strict laws about exotic pets — as long as the animal didn’t maul anyone, the authorities turned a blind eye.
Which meant the options were grim:
lock it in a tiny cage and starve it slowly… or euthanize it outright.
For a moment, Fisher even considered a “certain island nation’s” preferred disposal method — concrete barrel, deep sea.
When she stepped into the lobby, though, that thought evaporated.
A crowd had gathered, chattering and craning for a look at something in the center.
As soon as they saw the hotel manager approach, the crowd parted instinctively.
And there it was — a tiger cub in a cage.
Despite being “young,” it was already larger than most full-grown small dogs — at least two months old, likely heavier than ten kilos.
And like all baby animals, it radiated a strange, irresistible charm.
The moment Fisher locked eyes with it — those wide amber eyes blinking innocently — all thoughts of “concrete and ocean” disappeared.
> “Where’s the one who brought it in?” she asked.
The concierge looked around, then answered awkwardly,
> “Apparently, he took the reward and ran.”
> “What?” Fisher’s tone snapped. “Walt! Who was it? Can we track him?”
> “Seems to have been a poacher from out of town. Heard about the bounty, came to L.A., caught the tiger, got paid, and disappeared.”
Moonie Fisher could only stare at the cub — speechless.
Those round eyes blinked up at her again, as if mocking the entire absurd situation.
She sighed inwardly.
A dead client, a live tiger, and a pile of unclaimed money.
Only at the Continental.
