Los Angeles — A cemetery.
"May the souls of Miss Linda and Miss Amanda find shelter under the Lord's grace in heaven. The kind shall live eternally…"
At the funeral for the stand-ins, a group of mourners in solemn black suits gathered around two caskets—one large, one small—as a priest delivered the final mass.
He quoted a passage from the Bible to honor the lives of the deceased. Owen stood silently, sorrow etched across his face, while Jack Bauer stood beside him, lending quiet support.
After the mass came the eulogies. "Friends" of Linda came forward to speak. Each one offered words of praise, anecdotes from the past, moments of happiness.
American funerals often weren't overly formal. If the deceased had loved music, even cheerful tunes might be played. Sorrow wasn't the only emotion allowed—memories were meant to be celebrated.
It was all well-orchestrated. In reality, not a single person present had ever met Linda or Amanda. They were all actors. In recent days, some of Owen's real friends had reached out to offer condolences, but he'd played along with the grief and avoided inviting anyone. This was Los Angeles—some of those friends actually knew his mother and sister. A single slip could've blown the whole cover.
CTU's setup today was just a trap.
The sweeping crackdowns over the past few days had yielded little. Crime had been shaken up, sure—but actionable intel on Makarov? Next to none. Worse, they'd unintentionally blown the covers of several informants embedded by other agencies. These agents had been forced to reveal themselves or risk being killed in CTU's raids.
CTU could only apologize—collateral damage in an intelligence war. And though those informants were now marked targets for revenge by their former organizations, CTU had no way of knowing if those agents had substitute programs in place. The best CTU could do was cripple those organizations so badly that they wouldn't have the means to retaliate.
"Position 3 reporting: all clear. No snipers spotted."
"Position 1, no anomalies."
"Position 2, all clear."
"Position 4, clear."
As the farewell ceremony played out, Owen was accepting condolences from "friends" while silently listening to updates from his team. The funeral had reached its final stage, but still no trace of Makarov. It was becoming clear—this bait operation had failed.
"Stay strong…"
"Thank you."
"They'll live forever in heaven…"
"Thanks."
Owen replied mechanically, his gaze subtly sweeping the surroundings.
From a psychological standpoint, murderers like Makarov often couldn't resist witnessing the aftermath of their crimes. Watching Owen's pain would have given him immense satisfaction. It was also the perfect chance to kill Owen, to follow up on his message of revenge.
But Makarov didn't show. Maybe he was cautious. Maybe he didn't fit the profile of a typical killer. Either way, he wasn't there. Nor had he sent anyone.
The ceremony ended. The stand-ins' coffins were lowered into the earth. One by one, the "guests" departed until only Owen and Jack remained.
They stood before the headstones for a long time before finally leaving. They approached a black Cadillac parked by the roadside. Jack took the wheel; Owen climbed into the passenger seat. The car pulled away, heading for the Los Angeles CTU division.
Owen's family had lived in L.A., so it made sense for the funeral to take place there. For the past few days, he hadn't stayed in his old home. Publicly, it was said that being there brought back painful memories. In truth, it was a security measure.
Only Tony and Chloe at the L.A. division knew the real story. Everyone else believed Owen's family had truly been killed. Many had expressed their condolences. Owen accepted their sympathy with apparent grief, further selling the deception.
"Hummingbird reporting. Satellite shows no tailing vehicles."
Nikki's voice came through the comms. That basically confirmed the failure of the operation. If Makarov had been in L.A., Owen's journey from the cemetery would've been his best chance to strike. Once inside CTU, Owen would be out of reach.
The bait had failed.
…
Night — Wildcat Bar.
This time, it wasn't CTU. George "Old Man," his close brothers Carlos and Carl had organized a low-key wake for Owen. They didn't know the truth, and they were the ones Owen felt most guilty toward.
After the "incident," many old friends from the West Hollywood precinct had called to check in, especially these three. But Owen couldn't tell them the truth. Too many people knowing would be a disaster. All he could do was feel guilty.
"Brother, I know you're hurting. But what's done is done. You've got to stay strong…"
—Carlos.
"Steve, keep your chin up. They wouldn't want you mourning forever in heaven…"
—George.
"Man, we've been busting down gang fronts the last couple of days, but I'm sorry… I haven't found anything useful. I really am."
—Carl.
"Thank you."
Owen looked at the three men in front of him. He wanted to tell them the truth—desperately—but he restrained himself.
Seeing Owen's grief, the others assumed he was still devastated. George exchanged a glance with Carlos. As if on cue, Carlos lifted his glass.
Alcohol—sometimes the best comfort a brother can offer. If Steve couldn't forget, maybe liquor would help him see his loved ones again, if only in dreams.
Carlos pushed the drinks. Carl quickly caught on. The two of them got Owen well and thoroughly drunk—he was bleary-eyed in no time.
Owen had been extremely disciplined with alcohol in recent years—rarely drunk, at most tipsy. Tonight was no exception. Though intoxicated, he remained conscious. When they offered to take him home, he refused and insisted on calling a cab.
He stumbled alone along the sidewalk. Occasionally, cars passed. George followed from a distance in his car. Carlos and Carl had already been sent home. But George wasn't satisfied—he tailed Owen quietly.
In the dark, Ghost's comm crackled: "George is still following. Could that scare off the target?"
"It won't," Ghost said with certainty. "If Makarov's people are really out there, they won't care about one cop."
Swagg lay prone in a sniper's nest, silently watching. Ghost hid in shadow, true to his name. In a nearby parked car, Monica and Heartbeat were geared up with night vision goggles, ready for anything.
Nothing happened.
Owen staggered his way down the short stretch of street, reached the corner, flagged a cab, and drove away.
This had been another bait op. The moment George had called to arrange a get-together, Jack had signed off on the plan. Owen getting drunk and vulnerable was a perfect scenario—but Makarov still didn't bite.
Another bait, another failure.
(End of Chapter)
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