As the boss and his lieutenants, Oliver and the others had been trailing at the back of the assault.
So when the stairwell erupted in flames and fury, all they got was a blistering gust of pressure—hot enough to singe their eyebrows and curl the fine hairs on their faces.
The rest of the cartel grunts?
Not so lucky.
Those not already dead were groaning heaps of mangled flesh and blood, scattered like broken dolls.Even the survivors looked like they'd been shoved through a meat grinder.
"FUCK! That was my rocket!"
Oliver's eyes were bloodshot with fury.
In L.A., getting your hands on military-grade weapons wasn't easy—not unless you had deep-pocketed friends and zero fear of the ATF.Back in Mexico, it would've been different. Half the army danced to the cartel's tune.
But here?
That rocket was rare. Priceless. Vault gear.
And if someone had fired it...
That meant the vault was already compromised.
The realization hit the lieutenants at the same time. Their expressions twisted in rage and disbelief.
Oliver didn't waste time.
He grabbed his gold-plated AK-47, chambered a round, and bellowed:
"MOVE! GET UP THERE, NOW!"
"Anyone who runs—I'll fucking shoot you myself!"
He swept the muzzle across his twitching soldiers.
Decorative or not, that AK still killed just fine.
Faced with a bigger threat than the unknown attacker, the survivors staggered to their feet.
Even injured, they obeyed.
Fear of Oliver outweighed fear of the Devil himself.
Step by step, they limped up the blood-slicked stairs, navigating around severed limbs and twitching bodies.
Watching through the walls, Rian let out a cold chuckle.
He pulled a Claymore anti-personnel mine from his storage space and planted it just inside the vault room.
He angled it outward—toward the door—and rigged a tripwire across the entrance.
One tug on the handle, and—BOOM.
Satisfied, he vanished into the ventilation ducts like a ghost.
Seven cartel goons, the last who could still walk, made their way up.
It took them an entire minute to advance a single meter—paralyzed by dread.They checked every room. Every shadow. Every creak made them jump.
Finally—
"Boss! Third floor's clear!"
One grunt, forehead bandaged, sprinted back with the report.
Oliver scowled.
He's hiding. Waiting.
His gaze drifted to the vault room.
Behind that steel door sat their future—$180 million in cash, plus gold, gems, watches...
Over $200 million.
"FUCK!" Oliver spat.
"MOVE! All of you with me!"
They rushed up.
There it was—the vault door. Closed. Unmarked. Untouched.
Relief swept the group.
Maybe they'd won.Maybe the bastard hadn't gotten far.
They'd lost men, yes. But if the money was safe...
That meant more for the survivors.
Oliver approached.A dark pit gnawed at his gut.
The vault had been breached. The intruder had fired a rocket. He had Claymores.
Why would he leave the vault door shut... unless—
He narrowed his eyes.
No words. Just motion.
He ducked behind the thick edge of the door's wedge and pulled it open himself.
The others crowded forward, breath held.
Then:
"FUCK! It's EMPTY!"
"WHERE'S THE MONEY?!"
"NO—NO, GOD! NOT LIKE THIS!"
Screams. Despair. Rage.
They saw only vacuum.
Not a single bar of gold.Not a single crisp Franklin.
And not one of them noticed the Claymore mine—resting quietly on the floor, trigger pin long gone.
Oliver froze.
Empty?
Impossible. No one could have moved that much weight, that fast.
He stepped away, out of instinct, back toward the edge of the doorway.
And then—
BOOM!
The Claymore detonated.
Hundreds of steel ball bearings exploded outward, every one a supersonic bullet.
Claymores don't just blow things up.
They shred.
Inside the half-cramped vault room, there was nowhere to run.
The steel wall bounced the blast. The floor magnified the shockwave.
There were no screams. Just bodies—cut down in a heartbeat.
Flesh turned to pulp.Muscle turned to mist.Limbs fell like butchered livestock.
When the smoke cleared, there was only one man still breathing.
Oliver.
He'd been partially shielded by the vault door, but not spared.
The shockwave slammed him back into the steel.
CRACK!
Ribs shattered. Lungs bruised.
His gold-plated AK clattered away.
He slid to the floor, coughing blood, head spinning.
It's over, he thought.
Then—a shadow.
He blinked. Focused.
The vent panel had slid open.
A figure dropped into view.
He fumbled for the pistol at his hip—only for his arm to snap backward at the elbow.
CRACK!
Rian's boot crushed bone with surgical force.
"Talk."His voice was ice.
"Where's your real stash?"
This vault was public—a shared cartel fund.
But Rian wanted the private fortune.
And he wouldn't let this roach crawl back to it.
Not alive.