Ryan and Killian were now sitting side-by-side, arms around each other, drinking and smoking cigars like old friends.
"You don't need to tell me your full plan," Ryan said casually. "Just pass me some intel now and then so I can report back to DHS."
"Make some of it real—unimportant stuff. As for the important intel? Feed me fake ones. I'll pass them along and help your plan from the inside."
Killian's eyes lit up. If Ryan was serious, this would be a huge help to Prometheus.
"So, Officer Ryan, what exactly do you want in return?" Killian asked skeptically.
No way someone like Ryan would offer such help out of sheer bitterness alone—not without some form of payback.
"Helping you isn't without conditions," Ryan said with a grin, gripping Killian's shoulder.
What looked like a friendly gesture to others felt like a clamp of solid steel to Killian. A wave of deadly pressure prickled his skin.
F**k! No wonder they call him the Mad Cop. That killing intent… even our Prometheus psychos can't match it!
Killian quickly realized that Ryan, as a lawman, couldn't easily silence human rights groups or sue-happy billionaire widows.But they could.
And if they didn't help him?
He might just kill us all and bring the fake intel to DHS for extra credit...
So Killian took the hint.
"No problem! You're one of us now. Help us—we help you," he said with a smile.
But inwardly, he planned a test.
If he's really on our side, he won't hesitate. If he's faking—he won't touch her.
That night, Ryan and Killian left Flame Bar together—arms slung like brothers—and drove off in the same direction, albeit in separate vehicles.
Across the street, DHS agents watched the whole thing.
"Director Dylan, Lone Wolf and the target left together, heading the same way!"
In the DHS Los Angeles field office, Dylan stared at the report, dumbfounded.
"F**k... he's already cozy with the target?"
"If I'd sent him in earlier, I wouldn't have lost so many agents!"
Then his private DHS line buzzed.
[Text message from Ryan:]
"Shipment crossed Bering Strait. ETA one week. Target: L.A."
Dylan's jaw dropped.
"Sh*t! He's already feeding us critical intel? He's barely even in!"
"After this op, I'm dragging his ass into DHS, no matter what!"
He immediately ordered his analysts to investigate all cargo vessels arriving in LA within the week.
Meanwhile, Killian had arranged a "safehouse" hotel for Ryan. On the outside, it looked like an average hotel, but inside, it was exclusively for Prometheus operatives.
Each floor had mini armories, and there were hidden tunnels linking to the sewers for quick escapes.
Ryan entered his assigned room—and stopped in his tracks.
Lying on the bed was a woman. Sexy, bound, and gagged. Gorgeous.
One glance, and his memory kicked in.
That's supermodel Carly Crawford—wife of billionaire Quentin... the guy I killed.
The room phone rang. Ryan picked it up.
"Officer Ryan, enjoying your gift?" Killian's voice crackled on the line.
"That's Carly Crawford, wife of Quentin. Bon appétit."
Click.
Ryan instantly understood—this was both a trap and a gift. A test.
He glanced around the room and spotted multiple hidden cameras.
These bastards want to see if I'll take the bait...
He ripped the tape off Carly's mouth. She flinched but didn't scream—she had been pretending to be unconscious.
"Please, I'll pay you. $100,000... no, $1 million! Just don't hurt me!"
Ryan leaned in, towering over her, his voice low and cold.
"Your husband? Quentin? I'm the one who shot him dead."
"You're suing me, right? Trying to drag me to court with your high-powered lawyers?"
Carly's eyes went wide in terror. Her body trembled.
Then Ryan, with a twist of his wrists, snapped the ropes like cooked noodles.