Penning Street.
Shop owners watched curiously as heavily armed "soldiers" (that's what they looked like to them) escorted a wet-haired, disheveled youth out of a vehicle and toward a store.
The Italian teen led Owen to the front of one shop. "It's this one!"
The shopkeeper looked nervously at the group of armed men blocking his entrance, just as Owen turned to him.
"This your store?"
The man nodded mechanically.
Owen flashed his credentials. "CTU. Pull up the surveillance footage—I want to take a look~~"
The shopkeeper forced a strained smile, then stammered after a pause, "S-sorry... the camera's been broken for weeks..."
Seeing Owen's stern face, the shopkeeper's heart raced—he feared the man might lose his temper and gun him down. Thankfully, a phone call came through just in time, saving him from a perceived execution.
"Owen, we've found Bernie's identity. The guy's a gardener. Nothing seems suspicious from the records..." Chloe's voice came from the line.
"I'll send the info to your phone…"
"Wait, my phone's almost dead. Fax it over instead. Shopkeeper, what's your fax number?"
Seeing Owen look his way again, the shopkeeper quickly and skillfully rattled off a number. Owen repeated it to Chloe, and soon the fax machine buzzed to life. Moments later, Owen walked over with a long sheet of documents in hand.
Bernie Kahn. British immigrant. Gardener. Owen read line by line—social security number, bank statements, loan records, home address, family, friends... The data team had compiled a comprehensive profile. But as Chloe said, everything looked normal. Twice through, and nothing seemed off.
Owen frowned, irritated. Bernie's info appeared perfectly clean. The promising lead from the credit card had also gone cold due to the lack of surveillance footage. These dead ends always came just when things seemed to be turning around—it was incredibly frustrating.
Just as Owen took a deep breath and prepared to review the file again, the Italian youth beside him suddenly leaned in and said, "I've seen this man before. He was with the credit card's owner..."
"What? What did you say?"
"T-this man... Oh no, don't hit me..."
Apparently, Owen's earlier method of shooting near his feet had traumatized the teen. The moment Owen's face showed a hint of impatience, the boy panicked and tried to retreat.
"Just tell me what you said, and I won't hurt you. Come on…"
Owen steadied his voice like he was coaxing a child.
"I-I said, the man in the photo was with the guy who owned the credit card. I saw them together—he was there when the card was stolen…"
"You're sure?"
"I'm sure!"
"Move out!!!"
The vehicles that had just arrived started up again, now heading straight to the address listed under Bernie's name.
…
Meanwhile, at a villa on the outskirts of Los Angeles, Anthony Berman was standing with a cigarette in his mouth, fumbling through his pockets for a lighter.
After a few seconds, he found it. Click—a flame lit up the tip of his cigarette.
Just as he was about to tuck the lighter back into his pocket, he froze.
Both pockets—empty.
Cash and credit cards—gone.
Anthony patted himself down again. Not only was his cash missing, so was his card. He glanced around. There was no way anyone from Cruel Angel would've stolen from him. So how had his stuff disappeared?
He fell into deep thought, mentally reviewing his day. He clearly remembered having everything in the morning.
As he retraced his steps, he couldn't pinpoint the exact moment, but he was almost certain it was during a midday trip outside.
"Bernie, tell the others to pack up—we're moving."
He knew his own status well. The moment that card was used, the authorities would be on alert. Even if it didn't instantly give away his location, in their line of work, caution was everything.
Bernie replied at once and began instructing the others. No one protested—they were all used to staying cautious and mobile.
Anthony grabbed his coat and walked to the door. Just as he was about to open it, he felt a sudden wave of unease.
In a flash, he shifted to the side, pressing himself flat against the wall.
At that exact moment—pft pft—several suppressed shots punched holes into the wooden door in front of him.
Anthony instantly understood—someone was firing at the door with a silenced handgun.
Sensing the danger, Anthony reached into his coat. But just then, the wooden door was violently kicked inward. Whoever was outside had hit it with such force that it flew off its hinges and into the room.
He had to abandon his attempt to draw his weapon, raising his arms to block the door instead. Spinning in place, he redirected the flying door to the side.
By the time he turned around, someone had stepped into the room.
Anthony recognized him.
It was the Asian man who had helped him plant the bomb at the premiere—Zheng Anshun!
Zheng held a long-barreled silenced handgun and was already raising it to fire. Anthony instinctively reacted, flicking his pure steel Zippo lighter with a silvery flash straight at Zheng's face.
Zheng blocked the improvised projectile with his arm, giving Anthony just enough time to close the distance and kick the gun out of Zheng's hand.
Anthony's foot hit the floor—he didn't stop. He followed up with a spinning move and launched a vicious elbow strike.
It was a lethal technique developed by MI5—most opponents would still be reeling from the first kick, making the follow-up elbow especially effective.
But Zheng Anshun wasn't "most opponents." He blocked it with ease.
Anthony's attack had failed. He quickly retreated, only to realize that Zheng had somehow acquired another gun.
Anthony's heart sank. He reached for his own weapon—but it was gone. Zheng had disarmed him during the scuffle.
Now staring down the barrel of a gun, Anthony stood frozen, pale and defeated. He wanted to flee, but his legs wouldn't move.
At this distance, neither grappling nor escape was possible—Zheng had more than enough time to kill him.
He had been careless~~~
Anthony realized his fate was sealed. The fact that Zheng had fired through the door earlier made it clear—he had no intention of taking prisoners. Just because he'd refused to help with the next attack, Zheng had come to kill him.
As Anthony prepared to surrender in hopes of sparing his life, Zheng suddenly smiled.
He began disassembling the gun right in front of him. In a flurry of motion, it fell apart into its components. Zheng tossed the pieces aside like trash, then crooked a finger at Anthony.
Anthony hadn't felt anger in a long time—spies don't indulge in such luxuries.
But at that moment, rage bubbled up inside him.
Zheng's gesture was clear—he didn't need a gun to beat him.
Anthony stepped back twice. If his opponent was going to be arrogant, he'd take full advantage. He assumed a stance, eyes subtly scanning the room.
Hand-to-hand combat was never his specialty, and Zheng Anshun's skill was clearly exceptional. Giving up a weapon to fight barehanded was a bold and foolish move.
If he saw an opening, Anthony had no problem giving him a bullet.
Just as both of them were squaring off, ready to fight, a window on the far side of the room shattered—and a woman leapt in like a cat.
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