Within the mid-deck of the Canglong, everyone left on the ship had gathered.
Quentin White stood stiff and uneasy, eyes locked on the sterile surgical room—sealed off behind a sheet of special medical-grade plastic.
Inside were two operating tables, each holding a young girl.
One was Ava, the kidnapped child.
The other was Quentin's daughter, Lana.
Both had already been injected with anesthesia. They lay unconscious, utterly vulnerable.
Beside Ava sat several refrigerated medical containers, each designed for organ transport.
Her kidneys were earmarked for Lana. The rest—corneas, heart, lungs, liver—none of it would go to waste.
Garrett had already uploaded Ava's organ profile to the dark web. He didn't have any current clients who needed those extras—so he sold them.
Sure, a single organ might fetch only a few hundred grand, but in bulk? The profits stacked up.
Quentin stood in the dim, flickering light of the cargo hold, eyes flicking anxiously toward the shadows.
He didn't know when the intruder might strike.
But he prayed—deep down—that the man wouldn't arrive until Ava's kidneys had been harvested.
Once the girl was dead, he could reason with the attacker. He'd offer whatever it took.
Ten million? A hundred million? Whatever price, he'd pay it.
In this world, there's nothing that can't be bought with money.
He took a deep breath and glanced at his four personal bodyguards.
Regret churned in his gut.
Should've brought more men…
TAP. TAP.
The quiet clack of leather shoes on steel echoed through the hold.
Instantly, every last thug spun toward the noise, raising their weapons.
But the light played tricks—shadows and bulkhead reflections—none of them could pinpoint the source.
Then the footsteps stopped.
BANG!
A flash flared in the dark. A single thunderclap from a TTI Pit Viper rang out.
One thug dropped like a puppet with its strings cut—clean shot between the eyes.
"FUCK!"
"FIRE!"
Bullets screamed toward the last known flashpoint.
But Rian was already gone.
As the thugs reloaded, another muzzle flash flared—this time from the side.
Another thug crumpled with a bullet through his temple.
They whirled again, weapons blazing.
CRACK!
Another shot—this one from behind.
The round punched clean through a white thug's medulla, blew through his mouth, and buried itself into the cerebellum of the Black man in front of him.
White-on-Black double kill.
They spun to retaliate again—but this time, Rian stepped straight into the open.
Both hands held Pit Vipers.
And this wasn't just for show.
He wasn't just some dual-wielding John Woo wannabe.
This was Rian. Rian Lee.
He didn't even need to use Gun-Fu. His master-level pistol skill was more than enough.
The twin Pit Vipers barked in perfect harmony.
Each pull of the trigger ended a life.
One shot. One kill. Over and over.
Half a magazine later, the cargo bay floor was painted in blood.
All the hired guns. All of Quentin's private bodyguards.
Gone.
Didn't matter if they were amateurs or ex-military.
When faced with Rian's aim—they all met the same end:
Bullets through the brain.
Inside the sterile surgical room, Garrett and his assistants stared in horror as their entire force was wiped out.
Quentin stood at the door, face pale, blood flecking his expensive suit—his guards' blood.
Rian casually blew the smoke from his barrel.
"LAPD," he said coldly. "You goddamn scum are under arrest."
Silence.
Quentin's mind raced: Since when did the LAPD have monsters like this?!
Garrett's face twisted in disbelief: Bullshit! He's just a cop! Why the hell is he fighting like this for a few grand a month?!
Rian strode forward, one gun pointed at Quentin, the other at Garrett.
Seeing no other choice, Garrett glanced down at the surgical blade beside Ava.
"She's still alive—just let us go and I'll—"
BANG!
The Viper hissed again.
One shot between the eyes.
Garrett's expression froze mid-sentence.
Didn't even let me finish talking… was the last thought on his mind before he slumped, dead.
His assistants looked at each other—then bolted.
Too slow.
BANG! BANG!
More corpses hit the ground.
Quentin's eyes turned bloodshot.
"FUCK! Why'd you kill the doctor?!"
"He was going to save my daughter!"
"You monster!!"
BANG!
Another shot.
Quentin collapsed, hole drilled cleanly through his skull.
Rian looked down at the billionaire's twitching corpse, then spat with disgust.
"I don't eat beef," he muttered.
A cold line—borrowed from a film he vaguely remembered.
With the gunfire faded, Rian stepped into the operating room.
The two girls still lay on their backs—unmoving, but breathing.
Still alive.
He rifled through Garrett's body and found a satellite phone.
Without hesitation, he dialed.
Back at the docks, chaos reigned.
LAPD officers, the Detective Bureau, Coast Guard, and even FBI agents all bickered—each refusing responsibility. International waters meant international consequences.
Nobody wanted to be on the hook.
Then Alicia's phone rang.
A satellite number.
She blinked, then snatched it up. "This is Alicia!"
"Commander. It's Rian."
Her breath caught.
She immediately hit speaker mode.
Everyone fell silent.
"I've secured both kidnapped girls. I'm inside the Canglong, middle deck."
"This place was a den of illegal organ traffickers. All hostiles eliminated."
"Ava and another girl are sedated but stable. Requesting immediate medevac chopper."