##guyyyyyyyyys come on, should I beg you for stones or what ? ######
After venting some of his fury, Ryan finally felt a temporary sense of relief.
He stored the corpse of Noda Shinseki in his spatial inventory—after all, as an LAPD officer and a DHS undercover, there was no way he'd leave such damning evidence behind for a terrorist like Killian to find.
Once out of the basement, Ryan simply relayed the bank account credentials to Killian and returned to his own room.
Killian, however, didn't immediately verify the account. Instead, he first went down to inspect the basement interrogation room.
Standing in the empty room, he blinked.
"Where's the body?"
"That guy was huge—where could the body have gone?"
Though the basement had many rooms, only one had access to the sewer system, and its hidden entrance was known only to a select few high-level members.
There was no way Ryan could've discovered it—so dumping the body there was impossible.
But the corpse? Nowhere to be found.
Killian scratched his head. His eyes landed on a plastic barrel and several containers of industrial acid and base chemicals.
"Did he dissolve the body completely?"
As a terrorist organization, they had plenty of materials for making people "disappear." That was what these chemicals were for.
"Damn, ruthless and cautious too."
Killian muttered to himself:
"Cunning, calculated, clever, and capable… This little LAPD officer Ryan—those five big shots at Parker Center might just be his warm-up act!"
"He's destined for a top-tier enforcement agency… Maybe even the first Asian-American president!"
"Fuck… After this job, I need to request a transfer out of the States."
"Shit… He's working with me now, but next time we meet, he might just shoot me in the head."
Ryan had left too deep an impression—not because of his skill, but because he was so damn ruthless.
So ruthless, even a terrorist like Killian was scared.
Back in his room, Killian finally logged into the offshore bank account. Seeing the massive amount of money inside, a grin spread across his face.
"Now I've got the money and the manpower. I don't need to take orders from those geezers at HQ anymore."
Personally controlling the organization's wealth made him feel like a true boss for the first time.
And no real boss wants someone above them calling the shots.
"What if… I leaked the freighter coordinates to Ryan? Let him take the credit?"
"Fuck, if I've already got all this money, why even go through with the 'Flame Project'?"
"If we piss off the U.S. government for real, even hiding in Antarctica won't save me!"
"Even Bin Laden, the poster boy of terror, got gunned down by Navy SEALs!"
Killian's thoughts shifted rapidly.
He quickly transferred the money into over a dozen secure offshore accounts he had prepared in advance.
Then, with the idea in mind, he opened his laptop and pulled up the real-time GPS tracker of the freighter. Instead of closing it, he simply minimized the window and left the bank login page open on the screen.
This way, it would look like he had simply been checking on the funds.
Killian called Ryan over for some "leisure time," under the pretense of enjoying a fine cigar together.
"Ryan, this is Cohiba—limited edition, can't be found on the market. Got it through some very special channels. Want a taste?"
He really meant it. This wasn't just any Cohiba—it was a rare edition made exclusively for global elites.
Ryan accepted one, lit it, and began smoking.
A subtle look of appreciation appeared on his face. Though he didn't usually smoke, he had once pretended to be a rich man during an espionage op—cigars were a skill he'd mastered.
About ten minutes later, Killian's phone rang. He excused himself and stepped out to take the call.
Ryan glanced around. No hidden cameras—he was sure of it.
So… what was with the lit-up laptop screen?
He didn't believe, not for a second, that the head of a terrorist cell would be this careless—especially knowing he was an undercover agent.
If he's doing this, he clearly wants me to see something.
Whatever his game is, I'll counter it with raw power!
Confident in his own strength, Ryan walked over and began checking the laptop.
In an instant, he spotted the real-time GPS data.
"Narwhal?" he murmured.
With the ship's name, he could easily track it. Commercial cargo ships' positions were public knowledge, after all.
"Could the secret weapon be on this Narwhal cargo ship?"
He noted the ship's current location—it was sailing in Alaskan waters, heading straight toward Los Angeles.
The route matched what he'd overheard at the Blazing Flame Bar.
Ryan investigated further—the Narwhal had departed from Sakhalin Port in the former Soviet territory, destined for the Port of Los Angeles.
"So the special weapon came from the Arctic Bear?"
When the Soviet Union collapsed, its hidden arsenals were scattered. That chaotic period had flooded the black market with top-tier weapons—some say even nuclear warheads.
If this "special weapon" came from the Soviet era, Ryan had every reason to be excited.