After dealing with the car, Owen walked alone along the street. What had begun as an investigation into Makarov's movements had now led to another key figure—Dmitri Pavlovich.
Anything involving nuclear weapons was no trivial matter. Owen immediately relayed this intel to Jack Bauer.
"Fuck!"
A burst of profanity came through the line. Anyone with a brain could guess—if the Core Group was looking for a nuclear weapons expert, they almost certainly had a warhead. This wasn't some back-alley black market deal. There was a reason the world had a nuclear non-proliferation treaty.
"I'll have people monitor the Core Group closely. We need to find out where they got that warhead from. Let's just hope they're not planning to use it against the United States."
Jack said it, but both of them knew hoping Makarov would hold back was like hoping fire wouldn't burn.
Owen thought about telling Jack that Nikki had been captured, but ultimately held back.
Before the mission had even started, they had been warned: if captured or killed, the U.S. government would not acknowledge the operation, their identities, or offer any assistance. They were on their own.
Owen had already made up his mind—he would rescue Nikki himself. If NSA or CIA got involved, it might do more harm than good. Nikki was a senior security advisor with NSA and held a lot of classified knowledge. If she fell into the wrong hands, who's to say the agency wouldn't "clean up" to keep secrets from leaking? Killing was far easier than rescuing. That was a risk Owen couldn't take.
Before hanging up, Jack left him with a final, pointed remark:
"Owen, whatever you're about to do, make sure you survive it. If you walk away, no one will blame you. But if you go forward, be ready for what happens if you fail…"
The call ended. Jack's parting words were half warning, half encouragement. He seemed to know exactly what Owen had in mind. With no backup, trying to break Nikki out would be borderline suicidal. If he failed, he'd end up just like her.
But that didn't matter to Owen. He couldn't be cold, couldn't detach himself emotionally. He wasn't a perfect agent, but he knew what he had to do.
As he walked through the city, he could feel the tension in the air. Unbeknownst to him, a major political figure had just been assassinated. But the signs were clear—military trucks rumbled past him, and then came a commotion up ahead. One of the trucks screeched to a halt at an intersection, and soldiers jumped out, quickly setting up a checkpoint.
Owen immediately knew this was a prelude to martial law. If they started checking IDs and scanning foreigners, he was screwed. People were being ordered off the streets; locals sent home, tourists being interrogated. Soldiers were already questioning shopkeepers, and someone had clearly noticed Owen's foreign face.
He didn't hesitate—slipped into a nearby hotel.
The lobby was a communal area, filled with people chatting, reading, or having drinks. Owen approached the bar casually and ordered a whiskey, pretending to be relaxed. He turned his back to the entrance, using the glass's reflection to monitor who was coming in.
Sure enough, a uniformed officer entered with several soldiers and barked something in Filipino.
The crowd stirred, but the soldiers quickly shouted them into silence. Soldiers began checking people one by one.
Owen blended into the back, unsure what was being said. He leaned toward the hotel receptionist and asked, "I'm a tourist—what's going on? What are they saying?"
The receptionist, trembling, peeked over the desk and whispered back in English:
"They said General Piccolo was just assassinated. They're looking for the killer. All single tourists are being checked…"
The officer in charge scanned the crowd, then pointed toward Owen. A soldier approached.
In broken English, the soldier barked a few questions at him. Owen didn't understand the thick accent but got the gist—they wanted ID. He pulled out a passport labeled "Matt Damon"—fake name, but real passport. It would pass a scan, but if they searched him and found the weapon on his back, it was over.
The soldier glanced at the passport, then asked, "You are alone?"
That one was easy. Owen understood. But he couldn't think of a way to respond without raising suspicion. So, he played dumb—pretending not to understand and stalling for time, all while his hand slowly crept toward his hidden gun.
He was calculating. If this got ugly, he'd start by taking out the officer to create chaos and then try to slip out the back. But the streets outside were on lockdown. Could he even get away?
Taking hostages? Too risky. Probably wouldn't help.
Seconds ticked by. The soldier grew impatient. The receptionist, sensing trouble, leaned over and translated:
"Sir, he's asking if you're alone."
Owen was torn. Say nothing and risk a search? Say the wrong thing and blow his cover?
The soldier asked again. Sweat beaded on Owen's palm as he gripped the pistol.
Then—suddenly—a woman rushed through the door. The moment Owen saw her, his eyes lit up.
The female assassin. Jenny Fox.
Jenny spotted Owen at the same moment. She was in the same bind—military sweep, and single foreigners were being targeted.
A soldier stepped toward her. "You are alone?"
Jenny didn't reply. Instead, she looked at Owen. He looked back. Their eyes locked—and in that instant, a mutual understanding passed between them.
She took two quick steps, and they embraced. A silent but unmistakable answer to the soldiers' question.
From that moment, no one paid them further attention. There were other foreigners to check—some shouting about their rights, others resisting. All of them were beaten and dragged away.
Owen quietly led Jenny to a corner of the lobby and discreetly slipped his handgun into a nearby trash bin.
The soldiers searched him and found nothing. They moved on to Jenny. Owen protested, saying it was inappropriate. After some arguing, the soldiers agreed to only check her bag, then let them go.
(End of Chapter)
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