Did Cruel Angel just turn on each other?
The question hovered in everyone's mind.
Owen examined Anthony's corpse—his chest caved in at the heart, ribs crushed. Multiple other fractures covered his body, but not a single gunshot wound.
The cause of death matched exactly how the underground arms dealer Viper had died.
Then there were the others in the back room. Their deaths varied—throats slit, heads blown open, bones broken. Most had barely fired a shot, with magazines still half-full. Clearly, the assailants had acted with lightning speed.
Benjamin was coordinating the collection of weapons, hoping for usable fingerprints or forensic evidence. He walked over to Owen. "Anything useful so far?"
Owen shook his head. "Just that the man and woman were incredibly skilled—in both firearms and hand-to-hand combat. The man's from South Korea's 707th Special Mission Group. The woman… we still don't know."
Benjamin nodded thoughtfully, and Owen continued, "They were confident enough to believe the two of them could eliminate everyone inside. Otherwise, why would they have left two people outside on lookout duty if there were four in total? Also, get the body outside sent to CTU and CIA for cross-checking."
After handing off the crime scene to the FBI, Owen returned to CTU alone. As he walked into the building, he ran right into Tony in the lobby. Perfect timing. Owen gave a full report of what had happened.
Cruel Angel infighting?
The CTU team frowned. It wasn't that simple. And the woman—who was she? A flood of new questions hit them all at once.
Soon after, CTU received data from the FBI. The UDP shooter killed by his own people had been identified: Miele Fuchenko, a retired operative from Ukraine's Golden Eagle special forces.
The rest were simpler—mostly U.S. citizens with no significant backgrounds.
Owen's gut told him the two groups weren't working together.
Fingerprint data from the collected weapons had also been transmitted. Chloe was assigning people to run comparisons through internal systems. CTU had access to the entire U.S. criminal database and could even tap into NSA and CIA archives. It would be a massive task.
Owen stared at the screen for a while—fingerprints cycling rapidly across the monitor, but no matches appeared.
He knew this could take minutes, or days.
The doorway darkened—Heartbeat had returned from field duty. Owen tossed him a bottle of water. Heartbeat twisted the cap open and chugged half of it.
"Any luck?"
Heartbeat shook his head and downed the rest. Owen didn't press further.
Since Tony's reward announcement, CTU had been flooded with calls. The data team had assigned two people just to manage the phones.
Owen assumed this would be another tip-off call, but the agent who answered went stiff after a few words and passed the phone to Chloe with a serious expression.
Chloe took it, confused. "Hello, who is this?"
"I'm Conklin with CIA Special Activities Division. Put someone in charge on the line."
Chloe glanced at the agent who handed her the phone. He nodded—CIA HQ number confirmed. Chloe replied, "I'm Chloe with CTU's Intelligence Division. You can speak with me."
(CTU's internal teams were officially referred to externally as Intelligence and Operations divisions. Chloe's title was accurate.)
A pause. Then: "Your recent search on our database triggered a tier-three security alert. I want to know where you got that fingerprint."
Tony and Owen were nearby, listening. Chloe glanced at Tony. He nodded after a moment of thought.
Chloe answered, "The fingerprints came from weapons found at a shooting scene. Some suspects are dead, others escaped. We suspect the group is connected to the premiere bombing yesterday in Los Angeles."
A silence followed. Then: "Was one of them a woman?"
Chloe looked at Owen. He nodded.
"Yes."
"Is she dead or did she get away?"
"She escaped. Do you know who she is?" Owen replied.
Another pause. Then the voice said, firm and clipped: "I'm requesting to join the investigation."
"On what grounds?" Chloe asked.
A moment of hesitation. Then: "The woman you're investigating is a CIA defector. Top-tier threat level. I think that says enough."
Tony cut in, his voice firm. "Fine. But you'll provide us with full intel on her and the others."
"Who are you?"
"Tony Almeida. Director of CTU Los Angeles."
There was a short pause. Then:
"I'll be in L.A. within the hour."
The line went dead. No formal agreement, but Tony knew—they had a deal.
...
Somewhere in Los Angeles
A dusty old pickup screeched to a halt in front of a two-story wooden house. Clouds of dust settled as Avril and Zheng Anshun jumped out, followed by Alfred hauling his M249 from the truck bed.
They entered the house—completely empty. Avril frowned and headed straight upstairs.
Just as she reached the top, faint female screams echoed from the attic. Her eyes went cold, and she sprinted up the remaining steps two at a time.
The attic door was wide open. Inside, a man was hunched over a woman, pulling at her clothes.
"Hahahaha~~~"
"Ahh—Let go! Please—!"
Even an idiot could tell what the man was doing.
Rage flashed in Avril's eyes. She grabbed the man by the hair and yanked him off, dragging him backward by the scalp.
The man screamed obscenities as he was thrown out of the room. "F***! You crazy b***h! Let go of me! I'll kill you—!"
She dragged him all the way to the corner and flung him aside.
"Hammer," she said his name like a sentence, each word sharp and deliberate. "I. Told. You. Not. To. Touch. Her."
Nearby, her brother Alfred glared down at the brute.
The man known as Hammer rubbed his bald spot where she'd torn out a clump of hair, eyes blazing.
"You f***ing whore! You hit me?!"
He charged at her again, but she immediately kicked him in the knee. He collapsed face-first with a snarl of pain.
If he'd been at the earlier shootout, he would've recognized her kicks—they were the same ones that dropped the Cruel Angel fighters earlier. Except now, she held back. One more kick and his shin would've snapped in two.
Alfred tackled him to the ground, thick arms like tree trunks coiling around Hammer's neck.
"You scum! You dare touch my sister?! I'll kill you—!"
He squeezed with terrifying strength. Hammer's face turned crimson, his throat emitting guttural gasps. At first he struggled, but soon he was flailing, then tapping the floor in panic.
Tap tap tap tap—
The international signal for surrender.
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