The corpse in front of Owen lay sprawled grotesquely, its arm twisted in an angle that defied human anatomy—clearly broken. He examined the other bodies and quickly reached a chilling conclusion: they had all been beaten to death. No firearms. No blades. Just raw, unarmed brutality.
He glanced at Heartbeat. The man was a seasoned close-combat specialist. Together, they turned over Viper's body. Preserving forensic integrity was no longer a priority—they needed answers.
And the answers were even more disturbing.
Viper's neck had been snapped, limp and unsupported. His sternum was caved in, the ribs—designed to protect vital organs—had been shattered by sheer force.
When Owen and Heartbeat stepped out of the villa, both their faces were dark with grim realization.
Whoever had done this was not just skilled—they were lethal.
Viper and his crew had been armed. And yet none of them had even drawn their weapons. The attacker had killed them all barehanded. Fast. Precise. And without hesitation.
Owen could only think of two possibilities: either the killer was a supremely confident martial expert, or a complete psychopath—one willing to charge into gunmen unarmed, and still win.
As the forensic team took over the scene, Owen and Heartbeat returned to CTU, their lead once again cut short.
Meanwhile, progress back at headquarters had stalled.
The manhunt for the bomb maker had yielded no results—the list of potential suspects was simply too long. Progress was slow, and morale was fraying.
In the data support unit, Chloe was pouring over the footage again for the thousandth time, hoping for a miracle.
"Any luck?" Owen asked, handing her a cup of coffee. Everyone on the team had been working nonstop for over 16 hours, and it showed in their faces.
"Not much," Chloe replied wearily. "Their counter-surveillance was too good. We still don't have a complete image. If we really can't match anything, we'll have to release what we've got to the public—see if anyone recognizes them. But that'll spook them. Once they know we're onto them, it'll be ten times harder to catch them."
It was a last resort, a high-stakes gamble.
The current partial reconstructions lacked critical facial features—especially the eyes. But someone familiar with them might still identify them from the image.
Of course, so could the suspects themselves—giving them a chance to escape, and giving rival agencies a chance to swoop in.
Owen reviewed the clearest images again and suddenly noticed something odd.
"This guy—where did he get that donut?"
He pointed at a still frame. The suspect was holding a glazed donut.
Chloe frowned. "Stan! Amy! Check the footage from when he entered the venue. Was he already holding it?"
Minutes later, Amy confirmed: "He had it when he walked in."
The entire team now traced the footage backward, monitoring nearby streets and storefronts.
Finally, they narrowed it down.
"Cross-check all the stores on this street. If he bought that donut nearby, the store's CCTV might have caught his face."
It was an obvious step—but one they'd missed in the initial rush.
Amy looked sheepish. "We didn't pull that block's store footage…"
"Damn it."
Owen didn't waste time venting. He grabbed the field team and headed back to the location.
There were about a dozen stores on that street. Each field agent was assigned several.
Not long after, bingo—one store's security footage showed the suspect clearly, purchasing donuts and paying at the counter.
They finally had a full image.
The footage was rushed back to CTU. The data team got to work.
The tactical units were already on standby. They just needed a match—an address, a target—and they would move in.
But time passed.
And still—no match.
Owen eventually wandered over to Chloe again. She looked frustrated.
"We're hitting a wall. These two… they're not in any U.S. database. Nothing from DHS, the FBI, immigration… It's like they don't exist. We've sent everything to the CIA. With the way these guys move, I doubt they're amateurs. If anyone has intel, it's them."
Owen gave a silent nod. Nothing more he could do now but wait.
Half an hour dragged by like an eternity.
Then—ring—Chloe's desk phone rang.
Everyone froze.
She answered. Listened. Her expression shifted.
When she hung up, she turned to Tony and gave a small nod. "We've got them."
All eyes turned to the central monitor as the projector lit up, displaying high-resolution photos and complete dossiers of the two suspects.
Chloe stood and began the briefing.
"The Asian male is Jung An-soon, South Korean. Former captain of Alpha Company, 707th Special Mission Battalion. He retired from active duty two years ago and dropped off the grid. This bombing is the first time he's resurfaced publicly."
Chloe paused—knowing most people in the room wouldn't recognize the name.
"The 707th Battalion is South Korea's elite special operations unit—part of their Army Special Warfare Command. They specialize in anti-terrorism and covert operations. Only active-duty special forces soldiers are eligible, and their training is modeled after units like SEAL Team Six."
"There are about 300 operatives divided into six companies. Alpha and Bravo are dedicated anti-terror teams. Jung An-soon led Alpha Company."
Now it made sense. His flawless surveillance evasion, his ruthless combat—he wasn't just skilled. He was trained for exactly this kind of mission.
The screen shifted to the second man.
"The white male is Anthony Berman, Eastern European. But CIA intel confirms he's actually a former MI6 agent stationed in the region. Now presumed to have defected."
A stunned silence filled the room.
Tony crossed his arms, jaw tight. "How the hell does a South Korean spec-ops captain end up working with a rogue British spy?"
No one had an answer.
But the implications were heavy.
This wasn't just a terror attack anymore.
This was international espionage.
And CTU wasn't the only agency involved now.
This would require full coordination with the FBI and CIA. No more turf wars—things just got serious.
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