Chapter 49: NSA (Please keep reading!)

"You're still alive—thank God for that."

Hearing no strange noises from the other end of the line, Lacey let out a cold snort.

"Have you started playing games with Lydia yet, or are you already done?"

"That last question is an insult," Roan rolled his eyes. "I'm fine. We'll talk later."

Ending the call, Roan bent down and picked up the pin that had fallen to the floor. He noted the unnatural blue sheen at its tip and laughed.

"You really surprised me tonight, darling. What is this? Some kind of neurotoxin?"

"Fu-k!"

Lydia, slumped on the floor, cursed under her breath. She wiped the liquor from her face, shot Roan a fierce glare, and explained in a flat tone,

"It's not a toxin. It's a compound that can make a person lose consciousness very quickly."

"Just unconscious?"

Roan raised an eyebrow, bent closer to the still-beautiful Lydia—her makeup smeared but charm intact—and smiled.

"Do you think I believe that?"

"Hmph!"

Lydia snorted, lifting her hair to reveal her pale neck. "You can try it on me if you don't believe me."

"Alright."

A glint flashed in Roan's eyes. He lifted his hand and pressed the pin into Lydia's neck.

"F..."

Lydia's eyes went wide at the faint sting, but she'd only uttered a syllable before her gaze rolled back and she collapsed.

Roan reached out to her, feeling for a pulse—her heart was still beating. She was alive.

He nodded. "It really isn't a toxin."

When Lydia insisted the pin wasn't poisonous and bared her own neck, Roan half-believed her. Some people would bet their lives, but Lydia was clearly not that sort. Roan also doubted she was truly an agent—or a spy. Most likely not, though not impossible.

The reason was simple: Lydia had wealth, looks, and a fine figure. Thirty was hardly old.

Her tastes weren’t the world’s most extravagant, but nothing she used was cheap. She lived for pleasure. The "Flame Queen" Bar wasn't the most famous in New York, but in Manhattan, it had a certain renown. A woman like Lydia couldn't be an agent; their first rule is to avoid attention. Lydia's every action, her demeanor, and her seductively beautiful face all ran counter to that.

A spy? Unlikely. The FBI had investigated Lydia before. If she were a spy, they would have found something.

That left one possibility: Lydia could be an assassin, like Roan once was. But her skills were mediocre, and her daily behavior in the bar was more flamboyant than cautious. No real assassin would act that way. Roan, once a killer himself, sensed none of that deadly aura from Lydia.

With those options ruled out, Roan couldn't guess what Lydia really was. But it didn't matter for now—she'd wake up soon enough, and he could ask her directly.

Without hesitation, Roan lifted the unconscious Lydia onto the bed, pulled a few pairs of black stockings from the coat rack and, after folding them several times, bound her hands above her head to the bed frame. He did the same with her feet.

Then Roan left the bedroom and went to the manager's office, searching the desk for anything that might reveal Lydia's true identity.

Minutes later, Lydia slowly came to. She felt her wrists and ankles bound, her heart racing. Twisting slightly, she was relieved to find her clothes still on. Only then did she calm herself.

"Damn it!"

Gritting her teeth, Lydia subtly tried to free her hands from the stockings, swearing to herself that Roan would pay for this. Just then, Roan returned from the office. Lydia quickly stilled, closing her eyes and pretending to still be unconscious.

"No need to pretend, darling."

Roan had no patience for games. He held a pen identical to the one Lydia had previously thrown under the bed, found in the hidden compartment of the desk. Sitting beside her, he twirled the pen and smiled.

"Now that you’re awake, let’s talk. First question—who are you, really?"

"You—"

Lydia's eyes flashed with anger, ready to curse him, but Roan pressed the pen.

A drop of liquid trickled out, landing on Lydia’s cheek. Roan’s tone was gentle, his smile warm.

"No foul language, darling."

"I—"

Seeing the pen inching closer to her mouth, Lydia panicked, instinctively scooting back. But her bound limbs gave her little room. Realizing her predicament, she shouted,

"I'm a senior informant for the NSA!"

"...?"

Roan froze.

NSA—the National Security Agency of the United States, under the Department of Defense, a federal intelligence service.

Seeing Roan’s blank expression, Lydia thought he didn’t believe her and quickly added,

"It’s true! I’m not lying! Call this number—you’ll reach my handler. She can vouch for my identity!"

After a pause, Roan moved the pen away from her face, fixing Lydia with a piercing stare.

"Why is the NSA interested in me?"

"The NSA isn’t interested in you. This is my own private initiative."

With her cover blown, Lydia sighed, letting down her guard.

"I only wanted to use your identity to approach one of your team’s agents—Mona Evans."

Mona Evans, whose father Jawari Evans, was an operations officer for the CIA’s field division. A year ago, a mission he led ended with unexpected casualties. Later investigations found large sums of missing funds related to the mission, leading the CIA to launch a formal inquiry into him.

"And what does that have to do with the NSA?"

Roan was puzzled—even if Mona’s father had embezzled money, that was CIA business, not the NSA’s concern. The CIA had plenty of those cases; one more wouldn’t matter.

"You’re right, it was none of our business—at first."

Lydia nodded, agreeing with Roan. But then she explained that six months ago, while the NSA was monitoring an organized crime syndicate in Los Angeles, they overheard a crime boss mention the name ‘Jacquell John.’

According to available records, Jacquell was one of the soldiers killed in Mona’s father’s failed operation.