"Brilliant. Absolutely brilliant."
"Shit—Rian's a damn natural-born detective."
"Fuck! That deduction was solid. Just don't ever do it again, Rian!"
The expressions on the three men's faces were... complicated.
They didn't know who Blood Revolver's mysterious backer was.But for the gang to have risen into L.A.'s top ten cartels? Their protector had to be a very big name.
And now this "rookie" officer wanted them to investigate that kind of person?
They weren't some wide-eyed, justice-fueled fresh recruits.
They were survivors—each one a seasoned political player.
There was no shortage of brilliant detectives in the LAPD. The FBI and DEA were filled with elite operators.
But why had these three made it to the top?
Detective David? Because he helped powerful people solve cases that couldn't go public.Samuel and Thomas? They were the kind of loyal subordinates who made their bosses' headaches disappear—quietly.
FBI and DEA might be national agencies, but these men all worked out of Los Angeles.
And in L.A., the right word from the wrong person could end your entire career.
Rian saw the change in their expressions and chuckled silently.
He didn't bother hiding his thoughts this time.
And that was all it took for the three "micro-expression experts" to read his face loud and clear—
Disdain.Pure, unfiltered contempt.
"FUCK! He's looking down on me!""SHIT! Did he just mock me?""SON OF A—this little prick's laughing at us!"
Their egos burned.
"You've made some... questionable deductions," Thomas said coolly. "Clearly, this task force isn't the right place for you. You're dismissed."
"Enjoy your administrative leave," added Samuel with a thin smile.
Even David—who still trusted his gut—chose not to speak in Rian's defense.Better to avoid trouble.
"Go home, Rian," he said. "Rest up."
Rian just shrugged and walked out.
The case? He didn't give a damn how they closed it.
Not his circus, not his cartel.
He didn't return to Bel-Air, though. Instead, he headed back to his own place—Rose Garden Apartments.
He flopped onto the bed.
His White Wolf clone slipped out the window.
Destination: the safehouse that Oliver—the late Blood Revolver boss—had spilled during interrogation.
In the U.S., it wasn't uncommon for small storage facilities to rent out personal lockers.
If you didn't pay your bill on time, the contents could be legally auctioned off.
It had spawned an entire subculture—treasure hunters who bought abandoned units based on a single glance inside.
Sometimes they found junk. Sometimes they hit the jackpot.
There were entire YouTube channels dedicated to this stuff—many of which were pirated and reposted to Chinese platforms where they'd rack up millions of views.
Oliver's "safehouse" was one such storage unit in West Hollywood.
Rian's clone arrived swiftly, made his way past the casual security, and entered Oliver's designated unit using the passcode the man had provided.
He pulled the door shut behind him and flipped the lights on.
A 20-square-meter room came to life.
In the center, under a heavy tarp—was a car.
Behind it? Ten stacked metal crates.
Rian peeled back the tarp.
A red Ferrari 911 gleamed beneath it—a classic model.
His brow furrowed.
A Ferrari 911 was nice—but not top-tier. For a cartel boss, this seemed... mid-range.
If it was meant as an escape vehicle, it was actually a bad choice. Supercars weren't ideal for discreet getaways.
Unless…
"Unless this thing isn't what it seems."
Rian ran his hands over the body, tapped the panels.
The sound was off.
He'd gotten very familiar with this exact model—he and Taylor had once "tested the suspension" on hers.
He knew what a real 911 should sound like when tapped.
With a flick of his wrist, he summoned a SOG S37K tactical knife from his armory—one he'd picked up during a black-market sweep.
He slashed across the paint.
A crimson strip peeled away—revealing the glint of pure, radiant gold beneath.
"Fuck me!"
Rian's jaw dropped.
It was a solid gold Ferrari 911.
"Oliver... I misjudged you. It's not that you couldn't afford a top-tier supercar. You just understood the real value of liquid gold."
With a satisfied grin, Rian waved a hand.
SWOOSH!
The golden Ferrari vanished into his storage space.
Thankfully, clearing out Blood Revolver had triggered another inventory upgrade—otherwise, this beast never would've fit.
Rian clapped his hands and turned to the crates.
If the man drove a pure-gold Ferrari… what the hell's inside these?
One by one, he cracked them open.
Jackpot.
Ten crates in total:
— Six crates filled to the brim with banded bills—$100 million in cash— One crate packed with 100 gold bars, each weighing a full kilo— One crate stocked with M67 fragmentation grenades— One crate containing C4 explosives and digital timers— And the final crate?
A single, pristine HK416, fully outfitted.
Five loaded magazines.
And a small, nondescript USB drive.