Rian's special trait—Eagle Eye—gave him a vision as sharp as a hawk's.
He tailed the kidnappers' speedboat from a distance, close enough to track them, but far enough that they never even sensed his presence.
Out here on international waters, near the vast shipping lanes of Los Angeles—the second-largest city in the States—container ships and oil tankers dotted the horizon like floating fortresses. Many hailed from Asia and anchored in the open sea, waiting to offload or clear customs before entering port.
With so many vessels crowding the waters, unless you had hard intel on the specific ship, it was nearly impossible to comb through them all.
What's more, on the high seas, each vessel was essentially foreign soil. Most were registered in flag-of-convenience nations. If the Coast Guard dared board one without cause, they'd risk protests—or worse, diplomatic backlash.
Which meant: Rian was on his own.
But he wasn't bothered. This was no military fortress. No deep-cover black site. Not the damn White House. Just another floating den for a gang of organ smugglers.
When night fell, the kidnappers' boat docked against a massive container ship named the Canglong.
It was a titan of a vessel—399.9 meters long, 61 meters wide, with a max displacement of 220,000 tons. A true superfreighter, forged by Samsung Heavy Industries.
Rian set his yacht's autopilot to return to port, stashed his equipment in his dimensional storage, then slipped on a wetsuit and dove into the ink-black sea.
DING — Skill Active: Swimming L3 – Expert!
Even submerged in the abyss, with nothing but black void beneath him, Rian showed no fear. He swam ten meters below the surface, arrowing through the water like a torpedo toward the Canglong's anchor chain.
When he reached it, he stashed the wetsuit into storage and scaled the massive chain link by link until he slipped aboard through a hatch near the engine room.
He checked his phone.
Zero signal.
If he wanted to call HQ, he'd need to find a satellite phone—but that could wait until after he wiped these bastards out.
Body armor strapped on. AR-15 across his back. His trusted dual TTI Vipers in hand.
This was a sanctioned operation. The infinite Desert Eagle would have to stay put. But any guns he looted from these criminals were fair game—none of them were legally registered.
Rian had entered near the anchor chain control bay—normally unstaffed unless the anchors were in use. A perfect insertion point.
He activated a Detection Card.
50-meter radius engaged.
Though the Canglong was massive—61 meters wide—the scan gave him a decent slice of the ship.
To nearby tankers or watchers, even a few suppressed shots wouldn't raise alarm.
Within the scan radius, walls and floors became translucent. Dozens of silhouettes appeared, weapons clearly outlined despite the obscured faces.
Rian crept through the engine room in silence.
A crewman in a red jumpsuit, carrying a suppressed Uzi on his back, was inspecting a pressure gauge. He spotted Rian's reflection too late—just a flicker in the glass.
Before he could reach for his weapon, SNAP—Rian twisted his neck with surgical precision.
He looted the Uzi and two spare mags, holstered one of his Vipers, and set the Uzi to semi-auto.
Time to clear the trash.
Around the next corner, a guard was smoking.
PFFT!
One silent shot.
A fart in the wind—then a bullet bent mid-air and nailed the man through the temple. He died without ever realizing what happened.
Rian checked the body. Same suppressed Uzi, two more mags. He took only the ammo.
Two men on patrol ahead.
PFFT!
One bullet curved like a snake, piercing the first man's right eye, exiting through the back of his skull, and continuing into the second man's left eye.
Double kill.
Rian glanced at their rifles—AKs. Too noisy. He left them untouched.
This time, he wouldn't scavenge too much. If support showed up later and found evidence similar to the Blood Revolver case, it'd cause unnecessary suspicion.
No rush.
He wandered the ship like a shadow, erasing small fry with silent efficiency.
But soon, a few patrol units failed to report in.
That triggered an alert.
The security chief of the vessel took notice.
Jack Robinson—a hardened ex-SEAL, now head of security for the Isis Organ Network.
Isis, named after the Egyptian goddess of life.
Their boss?
Garrett Jones—a brilliant French-Jewish surgeon turned kingpin.
Right now, inside a sterile medical suite aboard the Canglong, Garrett was speaking with their latest client:
Quentin White—a billionaire and CEO of Federal Health, one of America's top ten insurance firms.
They stood beside an eight-year-old girl, unconscious and pale on the hospital bed.
"Mr. White," Garrett said smoothly, "we've secured a fully compatible donor. As soon as final checks are done, I'll begin surgery immediately."
The deal was set.
The operation was ready.
They just didn't know death was already stalking their ship.