Clint Weston

Clint Weston, 45, is known by those around him as a quiet, reliable man who’s spent most of his adult life working construction. He doesn’t talk much about the past. He drinks his coffee black, never stays in one place too long, and always seems to have a fresh bruise or a busted knuckle. People chalk it up to the job. But Clint hasn’t built houses in years. In reality, Clint Weston is a bounty hunter—one of the best. But this isn’t the glamourized version. He doesn’t wear a badge, and he doesn’t work for the law. He tracks people for money. Runaways, deserters, lowlifes who’ve pissed off the wrong people—he finds them. And when the price is right, he brings them in. Dead or alive. His journey into this underworld didn’t start with justice. It started with blood. Years ago, Clint was working on a crew in Arizona when his younger brother got caught up in something he shouldn’t have—a meth ring tied to a private militia. When his brother was found tortured and left in the desert, the cops wrote it off as gang violence. But Clint knew who did it. He went after them himself. One by one, he hunted them down. That taste for revenge never really left him. Since then, Clint’s done things most people couldn’t live with. He’s worked for bounty agencies, cartels, even private clients who wanted problems to disappear. He tells himself there’s a line he won’t cross—but he’s crossed it more than once. There are names he doesn’t speak, places he can never return to. The scars on his body are nothing compared to the ones in his mind. He keeps up the construction worker persona because it’s easier than the truth. It keeps questions to a minimum. But if you look closely, there are signs: the way he scans a room, how he flinches at the sound of boots on pavement, the burner phone he always keeps charged but never uses in front of you. Clint Weston is a man at war with himself. One foot in the daylight, the other sinking into a world of shadows.