"FACKIN' SQUID!"
"Go to hell, asshole!"
"I'll never tell you where my safehouse is!"
Oliver's voice was venom, his glare sharp enough to draw blood. That safehouse wasn't just a hideout—it was his empire's core, a shrine to every dirty dollar he'd ever made dodging bullets and betrayal.
Rian didn't flinch.
He wasn't just LAPD. He was Dragonborn Special Ops—with a dossier of skills most soldiers couldn't even pronounce.
Torture-resistance? Standard.
Advanced interrogation? He'd learned it in the dark halls of China's wartime intelligence bureau, where truth was extracted like poison from a wound.
Pain science?
China was the original professor.
What followed... wasn't for the faint-hearted.
Within minutes, the blood-drenched room echoed with primal screams.
"NOOO! PLEASE! STOP!"
"I'll tell you! I'll tell you everything!"
"My safehouse—it's in Palmdale! Please, just don't do that again!"
Rian didn't need a polygraph. He read truth in Oliver's eyes—the manic flicker of a man broken in body and soul.
Business concluded, Rian got to work.
He swept the compound for loot. Every intact firearm, every mag of ammo—into storage.
He'd need it for future jobs.
Why buy black-market hardware when you could take it wholesale from your enemies?
The Blood Revolver cartel was stacked—full-auto SMGs, mil-spec rifles, premium optics.
He even bagged a few more suppressors. Those were gold.
His last stop was the underground garage.
Five SUVs.
Each one packed with vacuum-sealed, fridge-sized bundles.
2.5 tons of Colombian "flour."
Rian's expression soured.
He was raised on red-flag values. Selling poison wasn't profit—it was betrayal.
Briefly, he considered shipping it to Japan.
Let them rot from the inside.
But most of Japan and South Korea's narcotics were under the Fungi's control. And Rian wasn't about to tango with a syndicate that made the CIA look like mall cops.
No. Not worth it.
He wasn't selling his soul.
"Burn it."
"If the DEA takes it, it'll just end up back on the street."
He hauled out a stack of gasoline drums, doused the cargo like an oil rig caught fire, and struck a match.
FWOOOSH!
Flames leapt like hungry beasts. The white bricks turned black, hissing and shriveling.
His clone—White Wolf—vanished into the smoke, the transformation card dissolving into system memory.
Rian, meanwhile, sat in a nearby café flipping through a magazine like he had all the time in the world.
He didn't realize yet—
This "good deed" was about to unleash hell.
Why had Lin Zexu spent twenty-three days destroying opium at Humen?
Why seawater and lime?
Because you don't burn cocaine in a sealed garage.
That's how you make a chemical bomb.
Minutes after the fire broke out, the garage exploded.
BOOOOM!
A geyser of flame and narcotics dust ripped into the sky.
With Rian gone, his Stealth Card expired. The building was now wide open to the world.
Emergency dispatch lit up like a Christmas tree.
Fire crews raced in. Residents nearby stepped outside—
—and immediately started laughing.
One woman danced in her bathrobe. A man tried to baptize his toaster.
People were too happy.
Wilshire Division received the first toxin alert.
Atmospheric scanners screamed to life.
SUBSTANCE DETECTED: COCAINE
Ford Miller, chief of the Wilshire Fire Department, paled.
"WHAT KIND OF PSYCHO BURNS COCAINE?!"
He slammed the emergency button.
L.A. County Sheriff's Office. LAPD. FEMA. Everyone got the call.
Mayor Omar Lewis was in the middle of his nightly "appointment" when the phone rang.
His secretary burst in, white as a sheet.
"Mr. Mayor! The Blood Revolver base is burning—and it's airborne!"
Oliver's patron.
The man behind the curtain.
"FUCK!"
He leapt from bed, still yanking on his pants.
"That bastard Oliver—he's dragging me down with him!"
Most of Omar's campaign was funded by Oliver's "donations."
And now his golden goose was fried—literally.
But now wasn't the time to panic.
"Activate the emergency plan! Lock down the sector! I don't care what it costs—put that fire OUT!"
If they let this continue, half of L.A. would be high as a kite.
Thirty fire engines. Three helicopters. A seven-figure suppression cost.
By the time the inferno was extinguished, the damage was done.
Hazmat suits went in—
—and came back out vomiting.
The site was a chemical warzone.
Narcotics Division. FBI. DEA.
All went on full alert.
The final report was clear:
The Blood Revolver Cartel had been annihilated.