Owen slipped on the set of clothes from the car as quickly as possible. They fit surprisingly well.
Seriously? He didn't even know how to react anymore.
"All right. What now?" he asked into the phone.
"Route 7. Just drive. Don't ask questions."
Owen started the engine and pulled onto Highway 7. As he left, a taxi followed closely behind.
Up on the mountaintop, Bernie leaned over his telescope, watching the empty taxi tail Owen. A smirk tugged at his lips.
"Owen, tell your people to back off."
"Oh, come on, after that little strip show you made me do, do you really think any of them are still around?"
"You've got thirty seconds."
"Don't be ridiculous."
"Twenty."
"You literally saw me naked. How the hell do you think I'm still in contact with anyone?"
"Ten."
"Shit!"
Owen slammed the steering wheel in frustration but had no choice. He rolled down the window and stuck out his hand, giving a firm thumbs-down signal.
Behind him, Heartbeat—disguised as a taxi driver—saw the signal and sighed, pulling off onto a side road.
From the observation deck, Bernie finally lowered the telescope, satisfied, and turned away.
Meanwhile, CTU finally clued in to the possibility that Bernie had been watching from the high ground. But by the time they reached the scenic overlook, he was long gone.
Down the road, Heartbeat reported in through his collar mic. "Unit 2 reporting: I lost the target. Owen gave the abort signal."
"Copy. Unit 2, hold position," Tony replied into his radio. Then he picked up another phone. "Chloe, you got a fix on him?"
Inside CTU, Chloe was already at work. "Yes. He's still on Route 7, five kilometers ahead. Maintain your distance."
On her monitor, the satellite feed tracked Owen's car in real time.
CTU had known this would happen. With Conklin's help, Bernie's background had quickly been revealed—he was former MI5. There was no way someone like that would allow themselves to be followed easily. The entire plaza park meeting had been anticipated.
Thanks to CIA cooperation, they now had satellite access—something CTU usually had to request from the NSA. The CIA, on the other hand, had their own birds in the sky.
Owen drove quietly, waiting for Bernie's next instructions. He knew they wouldn't be driving forever.
Sure enough, a new message came through.
"Exit at 15. Head west to Dassault Scenic Area."
Owen followed the instructions, spotting the exit sign and guiding the vehicle off Highway 7.
A few minutes later, Chloe informed the tailing CTU agents: "Target vehicle exited at Exit 15 toward Dassault. He hasn't noticed you."
The field team adjusted their pace. CTU's tactical team was just a minute behind. Heartbeat wasn't far either.
Soon they arrived at Dassault Scenic Area—a local getaway near Los Angeles, popular among families and casual weekenders. Most people gathered near the river at the base of the hill, setting up tents, laying out picnic cloths, or grilling with friends over beers.
"Take the cable car to the summit."
That was Bernie's next instruction.
Owen parked in the lot, bought a ticket, and waited in line. There weren't many people boarding—just a couple with a child and a group of teens.
After the family boarded and departed, Owen handed his ticket to the attendant, who gave him a curious look—lone travelers to the summit were rare these days.
With a creak, the next cable car arrived, turned around at the station, and began its ascent. Owen climbed in.
The design was unusual—apart from a steel frame, almost everything else was made of reinforced glass. Sitting inside felt like floating mid-air.
Owen glanced below—through the transparent floor, the ground was clearly visible. As he was taking in the surroundings, a shadow fell across his line of sight.
He looked up.
Bernie.
The cable car had already left the platform, rising steadily into the air. The higher it climbed, the more expansive the view became. Trees gave way to treetops. From this height, Owen could see birds' nests, hatchlings begging for food.
"All right," Owen said, staring directly at Bernie, "now's the time to tell me what you really want."
He didn't even flinch at the Browning Bernie held. The man had been slippery—constantly changing locations, even forcing him to strip—effectively neutralizing all conventional surveillance techniques.
If Owen hadn't known CTU was using CIA satellite support, he'd think he was out here completely alone.
And Bernie had picked a hell of a place—midair, sealed in a moving glass box. Couldn't get much more private than this.
Bernie's face turned serious. Then he began reciting.
"Steven Owen. Los Angeles native. Former detective with the West Hollywood major crimes unit. Joined CTU after the Zhongchen Tower hostage crisis. Performed admirably in the Keats Island nuclear incident—personally commended by Jack Bauer. Father deceased. Mother and younger sister still reside in Los Angeles. Did I get that right?"
Owen's heart sank.
It wasn't just that Bernie knew his basic file. That, maybe, someone could dig up. But the Keats Island operation? That was classified. Even his mother and Amanda only knew vague details. He never mentioned the nuclear threat.
In an instant, a dozen possibilities raced through his mind—terrorist cells, MI5 leaks, White Mask operatives.
How bad was the U.S. intel leak situation?
Owen's expression turned grim. If Bernie wasn't holding a gun, he would've tried to take him down right then and there.
"Who the hell are you really? MI5?"
Bernie shook his head. "No, no. I left MI5 a long time ago. Don't be so tense. I'm only telling you this to show how much I know about you. Much more than you'd think."
"I don't buy that Cruel Angel had access to Keats Island intel."
Bernie chuckled. "Of course not. They're amateurs. Everything I've told you… came from the Syndicate."
The Syndicate?
The name triggered something in Owen's memory. Across all his years—this life and the one before—there weren't many movies that stuck with him. But that name…
The Syndicate.
Mission: Impossible – Rogue Nation was one of the last films he'd watched in his past life. That name had left an impression.
...
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