Owen worked the lock until the door clicked open. He motioned for Monica to hold back while he entered first, drawing his pistol and sweeping the apartment with his tactical flashlight.
"Clear."
He reappeared at the doorway and gestured for them to come in. Behind him, Monica shoved Alex forward into the room.
Before shutting the door, Owen noticed the wall-mounted hallway lamp. One of the two fixtures in the corridor was already broken, leaving the entire hallway dimly lit by the remaining one.
An idea struck him.
Taking off his jacket, he used it as a cushion to carefully unscrew the working lightbulb. The hallway plunged into darkness.
Wrapping the bulb in his jacket, he gently smashed it against the wall, turning it into shards.
He then retraced his steps, discreetly sprinkling the broken glass along the corridor.
Only after finishing this did he close the door and return inside.
—
Inside the apartment, Monica had handcuffed Alex to the bed frame.
Meanwhile, she had gone into the bathroom to wash off the bloodstains from her face and arms. Even though they had changed clothes, traces of the gunfight still clung to their exposed skin.
After Monica finished, Owen took his turn to clean himself up.
The apartment was a two-bedroom unit. Based on the layout and the shoes neatly arranged by the entrance, it was likely owned by a single man—but the owner had yet to return home.
"What do we do now?" Monica asked.
"I don't know… Do you have anyone we can trust?"
She shook her head. Her personal life was simple—just training, training, and more training. She knew fewer people in the FBI than Owen did.
Owen wasn't sure either. Technically, they should go to the FBI headquarters—but the place was probably crawling with surveillance.
They'd likely be dead before they got within two miles of the building.
Right now, Owen wanted nothing more than to call Bryan Mills for advice.
But they had no phones.
No landline, either.
"You can't escape. Someone will find you sooner or later. Why not just let me go? You two can split the billion—"
BAM.
Before Alex could finish, Monica punched him.
Again.
Owen ignored him and went to check the window. The street below looked normal.
After making sure no one was watching, he pulled the curtains closed.
"Let's check the news."
He grabbed the remote and turned on the TV, keeping the volume at its lowest.
The apartment lights were left minimal—just enough to see, but not enough to draw attention.
If someone looked up from the street, they wouldn't be able to tell the place was occupied.
Every news channel was broadcasting the earlier gunfight.
> "…At least thirty people killed, including multiple FBI SWAT officers…"
> "…This shootout is linked to the billion-dollar bounty placed by cartel kingpin Alex Montel earlier today…"
> "…We can see wounded SWAT officers being loaded into ambulances. Paramedics say some are in critical condition…"
> "…It remains unclear whether Alex Montel was rescued or remains in FBI custody. The agency has refused to comment…"
> "…I was home when it happened—I heard an explosion, then nonstop gunfire! Our windows got blown out…"
> "…Authorities promise to fully investigate this act of defiance against law enforcement…"
Owen flipped through several channels.
The reports didn't provide much useful information.
But at least one thing was clear—
Campbell and the others had been rescued.
No second mercenary team had been sent to wipe them out.
—
Meanwhile, at the crime scene…
FBI Deputy Director Farrell stormed around in frustration.
The entire operation had gone to hell.
Two SWAT officers were dead.
Alex Montel was missing.
And worst of all, the press was all over this disaster.
From beyond the police barricades, reporters were yelling questions at him.
Their shouting made his head pound.
Just then, one of his subordinates rushed up to him.
"Sir! Two blocks away—someone reported a stolen car!"
Farrell's eyes lit up.
"Get Intelligence on it! Pull all nearby traffic cams—NOW!"
—
Inside an FBI operations center…
Intelligence analysts stared at their screens, tracking movements street by street.
"Suspect vehicle spotted on Rook Street… lost visual."
"Reacquired—turning onto Ring Road… lost visual."
"Spotted again on 13th Street…"
Old-town security cameras were unreliable.
Unlike the downtown core, the area had fewer cameras, making it hard to track movement.
Each time the stolen vehicle disappeared from one feed, the analysts had to painstakingly search other nearby cameras to find where it reappeared.
Progress was slow.
—
Inside Farrell's car…
He had just sat down when his phone rang.
The moment he saw the caller ID, he grimaced.
He didn't want to answer.
But in the end, he reluctantly picked up.
The voice on the other end was calm, but cold.
"Our boss is very unhappy with what just happened."
Farrell snapped.
"I DON'T GIVE A DAMN if he's happy or not! I gave you the damn route! Look what you idiots did! Where the hell did you find these so-called 'elite mercenaries'?! They got their asses kicked by SWAT—"
The caller didn't react.
His tone remained unchanged.
"Irrelevant. We need updates. And don't tell me you don't have any."
Farrell gritted his teeth.
He knew what this meant.
"You know the boss's policy."
"If one billion dollars isn't enough to rescue Alex… then that same billion will be used to buy the lives of those responsible."
"Including yours."
"Shit—"
Farrell nearly smashed his phone.
But he knew—these people weren't bluffing.
He had been working with them too long.
He knew exactly how ruthless they were.
Farrell forced himself to calm down.
He grabbed a PDA from his glove compartment.
On its screen—
A digital map.
A flashing blue dot.
"Park Street, No. 17."
"Listen—this time, I want two million. Wire it to—"
Click.
The line went dead.
Farrell slumped against his seat.
They had better succeed this time.
Otherwise, he'd have to flee the country.
His hands trembled as he called his wife.
"Pack our bags. We might have to leave."
—
Back at the safe house…
Monica popped a piece of gum into her mouth.
She chewed lazily, blowing a bubble.
Pop.
She repeated the cycle—chew, blow, pop.
Owen organized their gear.
They had ditched their heavy armor and switched to light Kevlar vests taken from the mercenaries.
His primary weapon remained the SWAT-standard M4A1.
He stored it inside a cloth bag—it wasn't safe to walk around the city with an assault rifle slung over his back.
For his sidearm, he swapped his M1911 for an MK23.
A weapon favored by Special Forces.
The Heckler & Koch MK23 was semi-automatic, .45 ACP, capable of using suppressors and laser sights.
Owen had only seen its civilian version before.
But now, it seemed he had upgraded to military-grade hardware.
_________________________
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