Brian just wanted to get Buddy out of there as fast as possible; he didn't want to spend another second in this godforsaken corner of Vegas. Back at the hotel, he found a few colleagues in the lobby, asked about the situation, then headed upstairs with them.
"Front desk confirmed it," one of them said. "Someone's using fake IDs and impersonating FBI agents."
Brian scanned the area—sure enough, several of his people were missing.
The assassins had already made their move.
No time to waste. Everyone drew their weapons and moved upstairs.
At the top floor, the luxury suites were strictly VIP territory. You couldn't access them directly by elevator; you had to stop one floor below. From there, Buddy had stationed heavily armed guards around the clock. No strangers allowed.
Inside the suite, Buddy lounged against the sofa in pajamas. He looked like hell—too much booze, too many women, and now a hit order hanging over his head. The pressure from Sparazza had backed him into a corner; cooperating with the government was no longer a choice, it was survival.
At least… that's what he thought.
Then his phone rang.
"The FBI tore up the deal!" his lawyer shouted, panic bleeding through the line. "They backed out—Buddy, we're finished!"
"Wait—what?! That's impossible! The agreement's still valid! They can't just—"
"They already did! The moment you're down, they'll wipe the slate clean! No explanation, nothing! We got played! The Mafia won't let this slide—we're dead!"
Buddy froze, his face draining of color. He slumped back into the couch, eyes unfocused.
The Mafia blocked his way forward. The FBI just sealed the way back.
Where was he supposed to go now?
In the corridor outside, bodyguards had already raised their pistols, aiming straight at the elevator doors. The numbers ticked upward, closing in on the top floor.
At the same time, assassins hidden throughout the hotel began converging.
The war was about to erupt.
Luca was still racing toward Las Vegas.
Brian stepped out of the elevator with his team, gun in hand. The corridor looked empty, but no one relaxed. There were multiple elevators to this floor, but further ahead, everything funneled into a single choke point.
Too quiet.
Too clean.
Brian pressed himself against the wall, inching forward, nerves tight. Then he spotted it—a tiny red dot dancing on the chest of the agent ahead of him.
"—!"
Before he could shout, glass shattered.
The next second, his colleague was hit like a freight train. The bullet tore straight through his body, flinging him backward. The wall behind him exploded with a crater from the sheer force.
Brian's eyelids twitched.
"Shit… a Barrett?!"
The team scattered instantly, diving for cover and firing toward the window, but it was useless. The sniper was in a building across the street, far beyond effective retaliation.
In the chaos, one agent after another dropped. Guys who had been joking minutes ago were now lifeless on the floor.
Death hit fast.
And Brian felt it closing in.
He retreated along the wall toward the fire escape, heartbeat hammering. For a split second, one thought flashed through his mind—
If Dove of Peace were here, he'd already have a way out of this.
Suddenly, a pair of hands shot out from the corner, clamped over his mouth, and dragged him into the stairwell.
"Brian—it's me."
The familiar voice made him stop struggling.
He turned.
"Leon?! What are you doing here?"
The moment the words left his mouth, Brian wanted to smack himself. Leon was an assassin—what other reason could he have for being here?
This was about Buddy.
Which meant Dove of Peace was involved too.
Leon stared at him, eyes sharp. "What are you doing here?"
Brian hesitated. How was he supposed to explain this? His goal—protecting Buddy—was the exact opposite of Leon's.
"Come with me," Leon said, low and urgent. "This place is a death trap."
"No—you need to leave. Right now!" Brian shoved him back, panic creeping into his voice. "There are dozens of agents here, and more on the way, plus local police. Once they lock this place down, no assassin is getting out."
"Hurry. Go."
Leon didn't move. "You're not coming?"
"I can't explain right now," Brian said through clenched teeth. "Just trust me—get out first. I'll catch up. And… don't tell Dove about this yet."
Leon's gaze didn't waver. "He already knows you're here. Still not coming?"
Brian went silent.
…Damn it.
With Dove instincts, it wouldn't take long for him to figure everything out.
Brian exhaled, jaw tightening. "Then go. Now. I'll cover you."
A flicker of disappointment crossed Leon's eyes, subtle but unmistakable. He gave a short nod.
"Be careful."
Then he turned and disappeared into the stairwell shadows.
"Tell Dove this," Brian added quietly. "Stay away from the L.A. family for now. They're finished."
"…Got it."
Watching Leon vanish, Brian let out a bitter laugh.
Sorry.
I'm FBI.
But I won't let this drag him down with me.
At worst, Buddy's testimony would cripple the L.A family—it wouldn't touch the old man back East. Not someone like him. He'd have backup plans already in motion.
(TN: Bruh, the source always says Delana family for L.A Crime Family, i search it through and found out it's actually Dragna, but Dragna wasn't even the family name, it just the Boss name)
Still…
After this, there was no going back.
Outside, chaos ruled.
Bodyguards, assassins, FBI agents, local police—everyone collided in a brutal free-for-all. The hallway turned into a slaughterhouse.
Across the street, in a room overlooking the hotel, Arthur—disguised as a janitor—dragged a sniper's corpse aside, calmly taking his place. He set up the Barrett rifle and aimed across the street.
Luca had given him a new job: eliminate bounty hunters.
Half a million per head.
Nice bonus.
Boom.
The rifle roared like artillery. Each shot punched through walls and bodies alike, harvesting lives with brutal efficiency. After dropping several targets, Arthur packed up and slipped out just as reinforcements arrived, leaving the lifeless body behind.
Next stop—the hospital.
He dialed Luca. "Hotel's under control."
"Hospital ready?" Luca's voice came back steady. "Change of plans—we're making this big."
"You pay, we work."
Back at the hotel, the chaos was winding down.
These freelance killers never stood a chance against the layered setup by Sparazza and the FBI. They were just cannon fodder—used to wipe out Buddy's defenses.
By the time the main FBI force swept in, it was already over.
Most assassins were dead. A few escaped.
And Buddy?
An assassin wearing a lifelike mask had slipped inside disguised as one of his own men and injected him with a drug, knocking him out cold. Handpicked by Sparazza, this man had quietly secured the real prize while the others died for nothing.
Right on cue, Brian's superior arrived.
A medical specialist examined Buddy and delivered the scripted line: "Unstable pulse. Severe heart failure. We can't treat him here—he needs immediate surgery."
Perfect cover.
A clean death on an operating table.
Case closed.
The boss nodded, satisfied. "Move him."
Brian rushed over, face streaked with blood, breathing hard. The injuries were minor—but that wasn't what mattered.
"What the hell is going on?!" he demanded.
His boss glanced at him. "You're hurt. Want a medic?"
"I don't care about that! I want the truth!"
"I'm afraid I can't disclose that right now," the man replied calmly. "Head back to New York. You'll get your answers in a few days."
"So many agents just died, and that's it?!" Brian snapped. "Why change the plan last minute? If we'd known, they'd still be alive!"
"I'm sorry for their loss. Go back to New York. We'll talk then."
"New York?" Brian frowned. "Why? I still have work in Los Angeles."
"The undercover assignment is over," his superior said flatly. "You're done with Dove. You can go back to your normal identity. Isn't that what you wanted?"
"Why now?"
"Would you rather stay Mafia?"
"But why now?!"
Brian's anger flared. "You pulled me into this operation knowing you were cutting me loose, didn't you?"
"I have more important matters to deal with," the man said, turning away. "Go back to New York."
And just like that, he left.
Brian stood there, fists clenched, face dark.
Around him, police and agents moved in—evacuating civilians, treating the wounded, cleaning up the aftermath.
He walked out of the hotel slowly, covered in grime and blood.
The sun hit him hard, blazing overhead.
"This city…" he muttered, squinting up at the sky. "…is a joke."
Vegas—supposed to be all lights, luck, and fun—but he felt nothing.
No satisfaction. No pride.
Just… empty.
When was the last time he actually felt good?
The club?
The truckers?
Or just… hanging out with Dove of Peace and the others?
Didn't matter.
All of it felt better than this.
And now, it was gone.
Brian understood it now.
His undercover life was over.
How was he supposed to face them again? Dove's didn't tolerate lies. Didn't forgive betrayal.
Maybe he never should've approached him that way.
Any identity would've worked—anything but an undercover agent.
People like Denham and McClane were different. They were upfront about who they were. No lies, no masks.
That's why they got along.
But Brian?
From the start, he'd been lying.
"…Goodbye, Dove."
He exhaled, long and quiet, then turned toward the hospital.
He couldn't let this go.
He needed answers.
Right now.
Because at this point—
his life was already a mess.
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