Gun-Fu—combined with the x-ray precision of the Detection Card—was just unfair.
Every time Rian pulled the trigger, a cartel thug dropped.One bullet. One kill.
At this range, wielding a .50 caliber Desert Eagle, his shots tore through flesh like a reaper through ripe wheat.
And Rian? He didn't feel the slightest shred of guilt.
To him, drug dealers—and certain foreign traffickers—weren't human.
Calling them animals would be an insult to animals.
Within sixty seconds, the entire third-floor guard detail was gone.
The next wave, storming up from the second floor, screeched to a halt as the hallway came into view.
Blood. Brains. Viscera.Splattered across the walls and floor tiles in a chaotic mosaic of red and white.
Even seasoned criminals faltered.
"God Almighty... they were slaughtered!"
"It's the devil! The devil's come to punish us!"
"I—I'm not going up there!"
"Call for backup! SWAT—call SWAT now!"
Panic rippled through their ranks.
Each .50 cal round cracked skulls like overripe melons.Just witnessing it drained their will to fight.
They fell back.No one dared step onto the third floor.
Meanwhile, on the second floor, inside a reinforced office, the Blood Revolver cartel's leadership gathered in a crisis meeting.
Topic of the hour: the three-ton shipment dumped at sea by the DEA.
Oliver Jones, the cartel's kingpin, wasn't buying coincidence.He smelled a rat.
A Mexican immigrant who'd clawed his way to power through dirty deals, Oliver had the backing of a powerful patron.That connection let him build Blood Revolver into a West Coast narcotics empire.
But every empire had a price.
Each year, Oliver paid tribute to the man behind the curtain.Refusing wasn't an option.
Compact and wiry, a scar cutting through one eye, Oliver radiated menace with every glance.
Now, that deadly gaze swept across his four lieutenants:
No. 2: Brook Johnson
No. 3: Harrison Taylor
No. 4: Hailey Perry
No. 6: Jason Thomas
Kassim, No. 5, was already dead—thanks to Rian.Oliver had sent men after the killer.
Now the rest stood here, shouting their innocence.
That's when a grunt burst in, face drained of color.
"BOSS! Bad news!"
"The entire third floor—wiped out!"
Silence slammed over the room.
Everyone jolted to their feet.
The vault on the third floor…
It wasn't just money. It was everything—gold, cash, diamonds.A lifetime of dirty work, stored in real assets.No banks. No accounts to freeze.
"FUCK!" Brook exploded, yanking a gold-plated M1911 from his back. "The DEA's here?!"
"SHIT!" snarled Hailey Perry. "It's an inside job. Someone tipped them off—probably knew we were closing in on the mole. They sicced the feds on us!"
She was infamous.A sultry, venomous femme fatale known for blowing a man's brains out right at climax.
Jason Thomas—the real mole—joined the cursing, but inside, his heart was racing.
Why didn't they tell me about a raid?
I haven't even traced Oliver's patron yet!
It had taken him three years to infiltrate this far.He was DEA, deep undercover.And now it was spiraling out of control.
But Oliver wasn't convinced it was the feds.
He'd seen real DEA raids.Loud. Tactical. Dozens of boots on the ground.
This?Ten men.Gone.Silently.
"Call everyone," Oliver growled. "Bring them all up."
"This ain't the DEA. It's a rival crew. They're here to wipe us out and take our turf."
The call went out.
Dozens of cartel gunmen from the first and second floors stormed toward the third.
Up above, Rian watched their movement through walls—thanks to the Detection Card's full-body x-ray overlay.
Twenty-plus armed men.Seven or eight clustered at the third-floor stairwell.
Rian's lips curled in a cold smirk.
"Tch. All bunched up like that?"
"No way I'm not using a rocket."
He summoned an M72 LAW rocket launcher from his inventory.
Slid in a round.Shouldered the tube.Aimed.
WHOOSH!
The warhead screamed down the corridor and smashed into the far wall.
BOOOOM!
The explosion tore through the narrow stairwell.
Scorching flame.Razor-hot shrapnel.Bone-cracking shockwave.
The cartel thugs at the corner were vaporized.Three disintegrated into red mist.Five more screamed as metal shredded their limbs, twitching in their own blood.
Further down the stairwell, men caught the fireball head-on.They flew backward—coughing blood mid-air before slamming into steel railings and tile.
This wasn't a shootout.
This was obliteration.
The M72 rocket launcher was designed to stop armored vehicles.
Used here?
Overkill.Glorious overkill.
And just like that…Half the cartel's backup was gone.