Owen's statement raised no suspicions, and Nina immediately instructed Neymar to use the internal system to search for information on these individuals. But as expected, nothing turned up.
With the secrecy surrounding the Mission Impossible Squad and their past achievements, it was likely that their records didn't even exist in any system—perhaps only a paper file, locked away in a secret underground vault.
Owen kept rubbing the silicone mask in his hands. This thing was incredibly realistic, advanced enough to be considered cutting-edge technology for this era. He was convinced that the one impersonating Allen was Ethan Hunt. Back when Ethan had disguised himself, Owen had been close—yet he hadn't noticed a thing.
Then, he remembered something from the car chase—the way the traffic lights had been manipulated. There might be a lead there.
He immediately went to find Chloe. This was a job for a professional, and great minds think alike—Chloe had already noticed the same thing and was investigating.
On her screen, various data sets flickered by. Owen couldn't understand them, so Chloe explained, "Traffic control systems operate differently from regular networks. To manipulate them, a hacker must physically connect to a specific node. There are fourteen network nodes that control traffic signals in that area. I'm checking them one by one…"
Owen felt they were on the right track and waited quietly behind her.
Meanwhile, Nina was on the phone. She had just finished giving Jack Bauer a detailed report of everything that had transpired. Only Jack had the authority to file a formal request with the CIA for assistance, which would allow them to access IMF's classified personnel records.
"That's strange…"
Chloe's expression suddenly turned troubled. Owen leaned in. "What's wrong?"
"I've checked every node. Nothing. They covered their tracks well. If I conduct a deep forensic analysis, I might find something, but it could take days…"
That was too long. If it took days to uncover anything, it would be meaningless.
Then, a lightbulb went off in Owen's mind.
"What about yesterday? Try checking yesterday's logs. There was a traffic light malfunction in the East District—maybe there's a connection between the two incidents…"
Owen still remembered last night's massive traffic jam in Los Angeles. The malfunction in the East District had caused a gridlock that spread citywide, indirectly delaying the synchronized detonation of Cruel Angel's bomb attack with the one in Boston. Two consecutive days of traffic light malfunctions? That can't be a coincidence.
"You're right…"
Owen's words seemed to open a new door for Chloe. Her fingers danced across the keyboard, and moments later, she exclaimed excitedly, "Found it!"
She pointed at a series of codes on her screen and began explaining, but Owen couldn't understand a thing. Even though he had been a programmer in his past life, this was way beyond his expertise.
Chloe realized she had gotten carried away, so she rephrased: "To put it simply, this proves someone hacked into the system without authorization."
"Then how do we find them?"
"Watch this—I'll check the nearby surveillance feeds… Oh! Got him."
Owen leaned in and saw the surveillance footage—a bald Black man wearing sunglasses walking past the camera.
The commotion drew other CTU agents over. Nina had already been monitoring the progress. The moment they had a lead, she clapped her hands and began giving orders.
"Neymar, Isha—cross-check other security feeds. I want his movements tracked. Everyone, get to work—I need to know where they're hiding!"
Meanwhile, Owen and the field team instinctively started gearing up.
In the armory, the team silently strapped on bulletproof vests, flashbangs, pistols, spare magazines—piece by piece, their weapons were locked and loaded. The tactical squad had also assembled, ready to deploy at a moment's notice.
Twenty minutes later, a clear female voice rang out:
"Found them! 55 kilometers southwest of the city, near a tributary of the Los Angeles River—a white house."
"Move out!"
Tony, fully geared, gave the order, and the tactical team and field agents immediately boarded their vehicles, speeding toward the target location.
Riverside—Inside an Old House
Salim sat on a chair, a black hood over his head. Someone unlocked his handcuffs, then ripped off the hood.
The sudden blaze of sunlight made him squint.
After a moment, his eyes adjusted, and he saw two men standing in front of him—one was a young white man, the other a burly Black man.
"Who are you? Why did you bring me here?" Salim asked, testing the waters.
The white man spoke, his voice calm and precise:
"Salim Abu Aziz—leader of the Red Front. You orchestrated the Boston café bombing and the Lisbon 727 attack. Am I correct?"
Reciting his crimes so effortlessly made Salim uneasy, but he kept his composure.
"Knowing these things isn't hard. Who are you really? CTU? CIA? If you think playing mind games will work on me, you're wasting your time."
The white man suddenly laughed, wagging his finger.
"No, no, no. You're mistaken. We are not with the U.S. government. In fact… we're your friends."
Salim narrowed his eyes. "Who exactly are you?"
"Patience. In fact, we already have a connection. You see, last night, your men tried to kill Jack Bauer—but they got the wrong guy. And do you know why they made that mistake? Because Bauer had already been injured in one of our previous attacks."
Salim's eyes widened.
"You're with Cruel Angel?"
"Bingo."
"HAHAHA~~"
Salim suddenly burst into laughter. "If you think bringing in some low-level thugs will fool me, you're wasting your breath. I've never had any contact with Cruel Angel. Even if you were really them, it still has nothing to do with me."
The white man smiled, completely unbothered.
"That's understandable. You have doubts about our identity—that's normal. But soon, I'll prove it to you.
For now… let's talk business."
"Business? What business?"
"Alright, I'll be direct. We know you possess four Soviet air-launched SS-22 warheads. That kind of firepower is exactly what we need.
We want to buy one from you. In exchange, you'll receive $20 million—and the friendship of Cruel Angel."
"HAHAHAHA~~ So this was all just a setup to make me reveal the warheads' location? Dream on! I'll never tell you!"
Salim laughed maniacally, but the white man remained calm.
"I see you still don't trust my identity. That's fine.
Now, let me prove it. Bring him out."
At his command, the Black man left the room. A moment later, he dragged someone in.
The man was alive, but his mouth was taped shut, and he looked half-dead.
Salim's laughter vanished. His eyes widened in shock.
Because the man on the ground was—
Jack Bauer.
"You recognize him, don't you?" the white man said. "Now, let me prove my identity."
He pulled out a gun and aimed it at Jack.
Jack struggled violently, his eyes filled with terror, muffled screams escaping from behind the tape.
"Bang! Bang! Bang! Bang! Bang! Bang! Bang! Bang! Bang!"
Nine shots.
No hesitation. No mercy.
Jack Bauer's twitching body went still—a corpse.
Salim collapsed to the floor, blood pooling around him, staining his hands.
The warmth, the stench, the reality of it all—it was undeniable.
Moments later, Salim's trembling voice broke the silence.
"…Alright. I believe you."
_________________________
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