Chapter 52: A Grand Scheme of Entrapment

Seeing the confusion on Roan's face, Lydia asked,
“Do you know how many fugitives from other countries the federal government takes in each year?”
Roan truly had no idea—neither in this life nor the previous one had he ever paid attention to such information.
Lydia didn’t expect him to answer; she continued explaining on her own,
“Since thirty years ago, the number of foreign fugitives entering the Federation by legal or illegal means has been rising exponentially each year.
Ordinary murderers don’t concern the NSA; what they care about are those political refugees who arrive with large sums of their own country’s money, converted to dollars as they enter the Federation.”
Hearing this, Roan’s face lit up with realization. He guessed at the truth and asked,
“You kill these political refugees directly and take their money?”
“No, it’s not that simple.”
Lydia rolled her eyes at him. If a senior NSA official were so crude, the FBI would have discovered it long ago, and the NSA itself wouldn’t tolerate such things.
“When my father had just died, there was a huge inheritance tax to pay, and I simply couldn’t afford it at the time.”
Mentioning her father, Lydia’s voice became subdued.
“Just when I was at a loss, someone from the NSA approached me. They said if I completed a task for them, I would receive a large sum of money—enough to pay that damn inheritance tax.”
“You had no choice then, so you agreed, didn’t you?”
“That’s right. I didn’t hesitate and accepted the NSA’s offer.”
Lydia’s expression soured. After her father’s death, the chain of bars he left her, along with her pretty face, seemed to become a curse; many people were watching her like wolves.
“After I agreed, the NSA contact gave me a dossier on a certain man, telling me I had to marry him within a year.
That man became my first husband at twenty-two.
His father was a political refugee who had snuck into the Federation from Western Europe a few years earlier, bringing a fortune. A year ago, the refugee died naturally.”
Hearing this, Roan understood everything.
Most foreign political refugees who flee into the Federation are registered by the FBI, but if they haven’t committed crimes within the country, the FBI is usually indifferent.
A senior NSA official had set their sights on these political refugees who had secretly entered the Federation.
More precisely, on their money.
Killing the political refugees directly wasn’t suitable; the NSA official wanted to quietly swallow the fortune for themselves, without sharing with the FBI or drawing their attention.
So, their gaze shifted to the refugees’ offspring.

The FBI mostly cares about the refugees themselves, rarely concerning themselves with their children or inheritance squabbles.
This gave the NSA officials an opportunity.
What followed was almost inevitable:
Find a girl to marry the refugee’s child, figure out the family’s assets, passwords, company contracts, and so on, then eliminate the second generation.
After the second generation’s death, the girl leaves the family, pretending to leave some money for the relatives, erasing her reputation as a money-grabber.
According to the intelligence gathered by the girl, the NSA official sends people to suppress the second generation’s company and investments, seizing them for themselves.
Throughout, the marriage appears normal; the FBI pays no attention, nor would they bother investigating the wife’s identity.
Some relatives never notice anything amiss, even praising the girl for not fighting over the inheritance, calling her a good woman.
Some do suspect her, but can’t find any evidence, for the NSA sends people to erase all traces.
According to Lydia, the cause of her husband’s death was a new drug developed by the CIA, sourced from India and South Asia, which the forensic pathologists can’t detect.
Thus, a large-scale honeytrap orchestrated by the NSA plays out across the Federation’s states.
Over the years, some FBI agents have noticed something wrong.
But lacking evidence, with the NSA constantly patching holes behind the scenes, the scheme remains unexposed to this day.
Good grief, Roan could only marvel at Lydia’s story.
“So the rumors that you’re losing bars are false, aren’t they?”
Roan’s mouth twitched. Lydia made enough money to pay the inheritance tax with each marriage—what about the remaining three? How much had she made?
And if Lydia, someone working at the grassroots, was so wealthy, what about the NSA higher-ups...
No, he shouldn’t think about it—it would only infuriate him.
“My father’s chain bars, I did sell them, that part’s true.”
Lydia shrugged calmly at Roan’s question.
“I just used all the money to buy real estate. A third of this twenty-two-story building, where the ‘Flame Queen’ bar is located, belongs to me.”
Roan: “......”
Do you need any male employees in this business?
Shaking his head, Roan kicked such thoughts into the trash and asked seriously,
“Aren’t you afraid the NSA higher-ups might kill you girls to cover their tracks?”

“At first, I wasn’t afraid, because the NSA contact who approached me, Daisy, was a woman who used to do these tasks—she was doing very well.
When Daisy got older, she stopped taking on these assignments and became a contact, responsible for recruiting us.
She also brainwashed us, claiming that the political refugees were criminals in their own countries, deceiving their people and amassing wealth through abuse of power, so taking money from their descendants was an act of justice.”
At this point, Lydia’s expression shifted, growing solemn as she looked at Roan.
“But after my last assignment, Daisy disappeared completely. I can’t reach her no matter what I do.
The new contact says Daisy left the Federation and went to South America, but...”
Hearing this, Roan smirked coldly.
“Leaving the Federation is quite likely, but whether she went to South America or heaven is anyone’s guess.”
“I need your help, Roan.”
Seeing Roan’s expression, Lydia’s eyes brightened, and she hurried to his side, pressing close, her tone utterly sincere.
“I’m telling the truth. I really don’t want to die. I can be an FBI witness—I’ll answer anything you ask!”
“Enough, Lydia.”
Ignoring the tempting figure at his side, Roan got up from the bed and walked to the wardrobe. While searching for clothes, he unexpectedly found a pair of handcuffs.
After a brief silence, Roan turned and tore apart the stockings binding Lydia’s hands, replacing them with the handcuffs, then took out his phone to call Lacey.
“Hello?”
“Quick with the games, Roan.”
Mouth full of burger, Lacey spoke indistinctly,
“Did you get nothing out of her? I told you, Lydia’s no ordinary woman. Drop this case—there’s no bonus anyway.”
“No, I’ve got the answer.”
Roan glanced back at Lydia lying on the bed, mouthing pleas for him to untie her legs, his brows furrowed.
“Do you know where Verenis’s family lives?”
This matter was too big for a mere detective like him—time to let the boss shoulder the burden.