Lana White was born with congenital kidney disease. Now, at just eight years old, both her kidneys had failed.
Her life depended entirely on dialysis machines. From the day she was diagnosed, her father—Quentin White—had been desperately searching for a matching donor.
But finding organs for children, especially one this young, was exponentially harder than for adults. Even as a billionaire, Quentin had no luck through legal channels.
Then came a whisper in the dark—an offer from the black-market organ trafficking syndicate known as Isis. Without hesitation, Quentin signed the deal.
Now, only a few months later, Isis claimed they had a perfect match. Though Quentin knew the kidneys had likely been harvested through unspeakable means… he boarded the disguised cargo ship, the Canglong, with his daughter anyway.
As surgeon Garrett Jones delivered the final pre-op details, Quentin looked at his frail, sleeping child and couldn't stop the tears from falling.
"I've brought the money. All ten million," he said hoarsely, pointing to the two heavy suitcases stacked in the corner.
A smile curled across Garrett's lips. He dealt only in elite clientele—those with power, wealth, and desperation. The low-tier gangs selling organs for fifty grand a pop? He wouldn't be caught dead dealing with them.
He'd charged Quentin fifteen million, but the cost of procuring a donor for an eight-year-old girl was steep.
Low-tier networks found victims first, then tried to match them to buyers.
Garrett worked in reverse.
He took orders—and then acquired exact matches through any means necessary.
Just buying out the girl's school and hospital staff had cost over three million.
Expensive? Yes. But the payoff was astronomical.
At that moment, security chief Jack Robinson approached and knocked on the infirmary door.
Garrett exchanged a few final words with Quentin and stepped outside.
"What is it?" Garrett asked, frowning.
"Boss, during our scheduled patrol check-ins, a few teams didn't report back," Jack said grimly. "I think someone's on board."
Tension flickered across Garrett's face. They'd just kidnapped Ava. Security should've been airtight.
"Didn't our intel say that girl came from an ordinary family?" he asked.
"No way regular cops have someone this stealthy," Garrett growled. "That kind of man doesn't come cheap."
Jack's brow furrowed. "Could it be Interpol?"
They'd always been on Interpol's radar. It was entirely possible.
"FUCK!" Garrett cursed. "Sound the alarm. I don't care who it is—kill him before the surgery begins."
He stalked off to scrub in. Two child patients meant he'd have to operate personally.
"Understood, Boss!"
Back in the corridors of the Canglong, a low siren began to howl.
Rian only chuckled.
He stripped the suppressor from his empty Uzi, pocketed it, and tossed the spent weapon aside.
Suppressors were valuable and hard to come by. He wasn't going to leave this one behind.
With his AR-15 in hand, Rian moved swiftly toward the surgical bay.
According to his Detection Card, the sterile operating room was located midship, nestled within the cargo holds.
Ahead, a door creaked open.
BANG!
One shot, clean and fast. A guard poked his head out and caught a bullet to the skull.
The AR's report echoed through the steel halls. Rian was exposed now. He didn't care.
In his HUD, red silhouettes began converging on his location.
Three seconds until two targets enter the hallway?
BANG! BANG! BANG!
Preemptive shots. Two more down.
Five enemies lying in ambush five meters ahead?
He still had the crate of grenades from Blood Revolver boss Oliver's safehouse.
He primed an M67 fragmentation grenade—pull pin, hold, time it just right…
THUNK.
The five lurking goons barely had time to glance at the object clinking onto the floor.
Then—
BOOM!!!
A blast of shrapnel and blood. Five enemies, gone in an instant.
The ship's klaxons blared louder, the alarm now piercing and manic.
Rian advanced like a man playing a cheat-enabled round of CS:GO, gunning down enemies with surgical precision.
Meanwhile, Jack listened from the bridge, his face growing darker with every report.
"Where the hell did this guy come from?"
He'd already picked up that it was just one attacker—and he was using nothing but an AR-15.
"LAPD? Since when did police departments have someone like this?"
Unable to wait any longer, Jack summoned his trump card—his elite team.
Ex-Navy SEALs, handpicked and personally trained. Ten men, including himself.
Each carried the gear of a true warfighter:
FAST tactical helmets made of ultra-high-molecular polyethylene—bulletproof against 9mm, with mounts for NVGs and comms ($5,600 apiece).
Panoramic four-lens NVGs—gen-four tech worth $50,000 each.
Custom rifles: 6 SCARs, 3 enhanced M4 carbines, and 1 fully-kitted M249 SAW.
Every operative was packing over ¥1,000,000 in kit.
"Gentlemen," Jack growled. "We've got ourselves a hunter onboard."
"Time to hunt him back."
The rest of the squad grinned like wolves. Cold gleams of bloodlust flashed in their eyes.
They weren't soldiers anymore.
They were predators high on blood and money.