"Get down!!!"
Owen wasn't speaking to himself—he was shouting at the hostages. Not that they needed the reminder; being Americans, they knew exactly how to protect themselves. The moment the gunfire erupted, they hit the floor faster than anyone.
A full-blown shootout broke out in an instant, catching everyone off guard.
Owen dragged his human shield toward the nuclear bomb. In this room, what better cover could there be than something that had been built to withstand extreme conditions?
Bullets pinged and clanged against the nuke's casing, sparks flying. But Owen wasn't worried—Yuri had just explained how indestructible these things were.
James stared at the shattered remains of the detonator, rage burning in his eyes.
"Kill him!!!"
Gunfire erupted again. Owen stayed behind the nuke, unable to move. Bullets ricocheted off its exterior in a constant shower of sparks. He couldn't even risk blind-firing.
Outside, Ethan and Jack Bauer arrived simultaneously, each coming through different routes but reaching the scene at the same time. Their intervention drew some of the enemy fire away from Owen, saving him from being overwhelmed.
Now, a three-way standoff ensued. Owen was pinned inside the room, while James and his men were stuck by the exits, unable to escape.
Owen wanted to capture James alive—he was the highest-ranking Cruel Angel operative they had encountered. If they could interrogate him, he might reveal valuable intelligence.
But that hope was short-lived.
Owen noticed James strapping explosives to his chest. This lunatic was going to blow himself up.
"Shit! Jack! They're going to self-detonate!!!"
Owen yelled. Jack Bauer saw what was happening and immediately shouted orders.
"Engage all targets—except at one and three o'clock. Full assault."
Owen barely had time to register what that meant before he heard an ominous sound outside the window.
A CH-1 Huey helicopter descended from the 11th floor, its approach eerily quiet. Owen had no idea when this beast had arrived.
The Huey was a multi-role helicopter—capable of troop transport, medevac, and electronic surveillance.
But this one had a much simpler function: firepower.
The original cabin doors had been removed and replaced with an M134 Minigun—a monstrous weapon that sent chills down anyone's spine at first glance.
This particular gun had a terrifying nickname: the Vulcan Minigun, the Grim Reaper's Gatling Gun. It was essentially a scaled-down version of the M61 Vulcan cannon, reducing its caliber from 20mm to 7.62mm NATO rounds—standard machine gun ammunition. But unlike a regular machine gun, this beast fired 6,000 rounds per minute.
Shit.
The moment Owen saw it, he knew it was over.
A second later, the Grim Reaper began its massacre.
The six barrels spun under electric power, blue flames flickered from the muzzle, and brass casings rained down like a golden tide.
A deafening roar filled the building. Against 5,000 to 6,000 rounds per minute, no cover stood a chance.
James and his men didn't even have time to scream. Their bodies were shredded into unrecognizable chunks of meat.
Bullets tore through the walls, leaving Owen unsure if any of his allies had been hit by stray fire. All he knew was that if that minigun had targeted his position, not even the nuclear bomb's armor would have saved him.
When the shooting stopped, the echoes of mechanical whirring slowly faded. The hall was unrecognizable—everything had been obliterated. Only the nuke and the hostages' position remained somewhat intact.
As the smoke cleared, there were no wounded. No one had survived.
This was the true power of a weapon of war.
"Whup-whup-whup-whup—"
The sound of more rotor blades filled the air. Like in the movies—where the cops always arrive after the action—the Marine Corps had finally shown up.
CTU tactical agents secured the nuke, while a few others began evacuating the hostages. More soldiers stormed in, quickly taking control of the scene.
In a corner, Jack Bauer was on the phone with the White House.
"Yes, Mr. President. Mission accomplished. All four nuclear bombs have been recovered… No unexpected detonations… The Marines will handle the rest…"
Owen slumped onto the floor, exhausted. Looking around, he suddenly realized—Ethan Hunt was gone.
Owen chuckled to himself. Do all spies have such terrible manners?
With all four nukes secured, their mission was complete. Whatever happened next was no longer his concern.
That afternoon, Owen flew back to Los Angeles.
The moment he stepped off the plane, he could smell the sweetness in the air. There's nothing like California. The West Coast's climate was way better than the East Coast's.
Jack Bauer had given him time off to rest. Owen didn't even stop by CTU—he went straight home.
On the way, he picked up fresh flowers and Amanda's favorite muffins.
After getting out of the taxi, he walked toward his house—only to see two police cars parked outside.
What the hell?
Owen quickened his pace. The flashing lights meant this was active law enforcement activity. Had something happened at his home?
Anxious, he dropped the gifts on the sidewalk and ran toward the house.
As he got closer, he realized something—the cops weren't at his house.
They were at his neighbor McCall's place.
On the front lawn, several officers were talking to Mr. McCall.
As Owen approached, he recognized all of them.
They were his former colleagues from the West Hollywood Police Division—including his old partner, Carl.
"Hey, guys, what's going on here?"
The officers, who had been wearing serious expressions, suddenly grinned when they saw Owen.
"Hey, Steve! We just stopped by your house—your sister answered the door."
"Good to see you, man!"
"How's CTU treating you? You've been all over the news lately…"
They greeted him warmly, and Owen returned the gestures. He had spent years in patrol before moving to major crimes, and he had always had a good relationship with his fellow officers.
"Hey, Mr. McCall."
"Hello, Owen."
After a quick exchange with his neighbor, Owen turned back to the cops.
"What's going on here?"
McCall wasn't the type to attract trouble. He was quiet, reserved, always reading a book on his porch.
Owen respected that. In today's noisy world, it was rare to find someone who truly appreciated a good book. Plus, McCall was always willing to help others—many people in the neighborhood, including Owen's family, had benefited from his kindness.
Carl explained, "We got a call. A male body was found near your house. Arab descent. Killed brutally—throat slit."
Owen frowned. "A slit throat?"
This neighborhood had never seen a murder this violent.
Carl continued, "And guess what the murder weapon was?"
Owen didn't answer, sensing Carl was leading up to something.
Carl smirked. "A credit card."
Owen's stomach tightened. That's a professional kill.
A credit card wasn't just a random weapon—it required skill, training, and precision to use lethally.
Only a professional assassin or someone with military-grade training could pull that off.
Something wasn't right.
_________________________
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