Everyone looked at Owen. He was stunned.
Who was this person, and why were they asking for him specifically?
Tony gave him a nod. Owen picked up the conference room phone and pressed the speaker button to connect to Line 2.
"Who is this? I'm Owen."
"My name is Bernie Kahn. I assume you know who I am, or you wouldn't have shown up at my house and gotten into a brawl."
Hearing Bernie's name, Owen's expression sharpened—this was the one that had escaped.
He and the FBI had followed Chloe's lead to Bernie's home, only to stumble into a firefight between two factions. Avril and Zheng Anshun had slipped away right under their noses, and Bernie's body had never been found. Judging by his tone, he'd been there—and had taken the chance to slip away unnoticed.
Everyone in the room, except Conklin, knew who Bernie was. But the CIA man didn't interrupt—he just listened quietly.
"I know who you are. You said you had important information. Is this about Cruel Angel or White Mask?"
"Well, looks like you know more than I thought…"
Owen had been fishing—and to his surprise, Bernie bit. The fact that he knew about White Mask confirmed he was deep in the game.
CTU actually had more intelligence on White Mask than the CIA did. They'd first encountered them during the Keats Island nuclear incident, when the group tried to buy a bomb from Salim—an attempt thwarted by CTU. Later, Owen ran into them again while rescuing Monica in Colombia.
And now they were linked to this bombing.
This group was elusive. CTU had never even captured a single confirmed member.
"You want something. What is it?" Owen asked directly. He knew Bernie wouldn't be offering this info for free.
"Meet me in thirty minutes at Plaza Park. I'll tell you everything. But listen closely—come alone. If you're tailed, I won't show."
The call ended. The room fell into silence. Owen made the decision to go—because of White Mask, yes, but also because of something else that had been nagging at him.
At Bernie's house, he'd been wearing an FBI vest and had never revealed his identity. How had Bernie recognized him?
Unless Bernie already knew he was CTU. That didn't sit well with Owen—it reminded him of when Salim's people tried to take revenge. He had to figure out how they'd identified him. His family's safety could be at stake.
…
Thirty minutes later, Owen arrived at Plaza Park. He sat on a bench at the northwest corner of the fountain, just as Bernie had instructed.
The park was lively—kids playing, people walking dogs. Owen wore a hidden earpiece. Every word he said was transmitted clearly to the monitoring team.
Under his clothes, he wore Kevlar body armor—discreet but effective against most handgun rounds. His Glock 22 was holstered under his arm.
Ten minutes passed. Bernie never appeared. The CTU field agents hidden nearby reported nothing.
Riiing riiing~
A phone rang. Owen looked at his cell—but it wasn't his. After a moment, he found an old phone taped to the back of the bench—clearly planted there earlier.
He glanced around, then answered.
"Head out through the west gate."
As expected, Bernie wasn't showing himself easily. Owen stood, dusted off his pants, and walked at a normal pace toward the west gate.
Tony alerted the agents stationed there. CTU had covered every exit.
At the west gate, everything seemed normal. CTU had two agents in place—one disguised as a young woman sketching, the other posing as a cab driver waiting by the curb.
Owen stopped at the roadside. The phone rang again.
"See that girl sketching?"
Owen glanced subtly. "Yeah."
"Strip in front of her."
What?
He thought he'd misheard, but Bernie repeated:
"Strip. Down to nothing. I know you're armed, wired, probably even tagged."
Owen didn't move—speechless.
Seeing no action, Bernie said, "Ten seconds. Think carefully…"
Owen froze, visibly uncomfortable.
Tony's voice came through the comms: "He must be nearby. If he can see Owen, he's close. Search every possible vantage point. Find him."
Despite the risk of exposing themselves, the agents couldn't find Bernie.
…
On a hilltop scenic platform, Bernie peered through a high-powered telescope at the park below. His lip curled into a mocking smile.
That young woman? That cab driver? They'd fool civilians. But to a seasoned intelligence officer, they were full of holes.
"Three."
"Two."
"One."
"…Fine. I'll strip."
At the last count, Owen gave in. One by one, he began removing his clothes. It was humiliating, yes—but compared to the mission—and especially the safety of his family—it was nothing.
First went the jacket. Then the outer body armor, exposing wires and gadgets beneath. Then came his shirt. His upper body was soon bare.
"You've got a decent build," Bernie's voice joked through the phone. "But we're not done yet. Keep going."
Gritting his teeth, Owen began removing his pants.
By now, he'd drawn attention. At first, people thought it was a street performance. But when he reached for his waistband, the mood shifted.
Some shouted in anger. Some fled. Others gathered, curious to see what would happen.
Calls to the police were made. Others stayed to "enjoy the show."
Owen stopped at his briefs—no further. This was his line. No way was he going all the way.
Tony, watching from the command center, wanted to bury his face in his hands. He could already picture tomorrow's headlines—and the media storm that would follow.
Owen covered his face with both hands. At this point, there was nowhere more appropriate to shield than his pride.
Finally, Bernie's voice came back. "Tsk tsk… truly a sight to behold. No one ever told you that Mickey Mouse and you just don't match?"
Owen wanted to strangle him. But Bernie wasn't finished.
"See that white Chevy Sail to your left? Get in. There's a change of clothes in the passenger seat. If you're shy, go ahead and put them on. Or don't. Up to you."
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