A few days ago
Nightfall. Under the dim glow of the streetlights, a car pulled into a suburban neighborhood and stopped on the lawn in front of a house. Billy Lynn turned off the ignition, stepped out, and dragged his exhausted body toward the front door.
Running a business really was more tiring than working for someone else—but Lynn was happy. Today, a payment had finally come through. Three months ago, his small company took on a job upgrading part of the White House's heating system. He was one of six subcontractors assigned to the project.
The work was simple, not technically challenging, but a bit inconvenient during execution—Secret Service agents and soldiers were constantly around, and he wasn't allowed to wander. The White House had only paid a portion up front; the rest would be released after a three-month warranty period. Today marked the deadline, and to their credit, the White House promptly paid in full.
Walking along the path across the lawn, Lynn quickly reached the front door. Warm light spilled from the living room window—his wife and daughter were likely watching TV. Lynn fished out his keys and opened the door.
"Baby, I'm home…"
He announced as usual upon stepping in. But oddly, his daughter didn't run up to greet him like she always did. That was strange. And where was Kiki, the family's dopey dog? Why wasn't it bounding up either?
"Sweetheart? Honey?"
Lynn hung his coat on the entryway hook, briefcase in hand, and walked toward the living room, still calling out.
Weird… no one was answering.
He soon reached the living room. His wife and daughter were both on the sofa. The TV was playing SpongeBob, their daughter's favorite. But instead of watching, both were staring at him—no, not at him, but past him, as if something else had their attention.
"Emma, why didn't you answer Daddy? Jennifer, what's going on?"
Their expressions unsettled him. They looked… off. That's when Lynn realized: they weren't looking at him. They were staring behind him.
His hairs stood on end. Just as he started to turn around, something cold and hard pressed against the back of his head, followed by a chilling female voice.
"If I were you, Mr. Billy Lynn, I wouldn't move."
...
Ten minutes later, Lynn and his family were upstairs in his study. He pointed at a folder on his laptop screen.
"This is it. It's all I have. The White House only had me handle a portion. These are the blueprints for that section…"
"Thank you very much. Please transfer them to this USB."
Avril handed him a flash drive. Shaking, Lynn copied the contents over while his wife and daughter huddled together, terrified, eyes fixed on the armed woman.
"Mama, I'm scared…"
His daughter whimpered. His wife held her closer, shielding her with her own body.
"All… all done. Here, please don't hurt us. I swear—"
Before he could finish, thup—a silenced shot. A sharp pain bloomed in his chest, and then… nothing.
Two more quiet shots followed. Avril reunited the family in death, then ransacked the house, making it look like a robbery gone wrong, and silently vanished into the night.
On the street, Avril stayed in the shadows, avoiding security cameras. Her phone beeped twice—text messages from two numbers.
"Got it. En route to the next house."
She deleted the texts, then pulled up the next address and continued walking.
...
CTU Headquarters
After bringing Pilyanko Bomanov back, he was quickly handed off to a team for interrogation. Half an hour later, Jenny walked into Jack Bauer's office with the results.
"Well?" Jack asked from behind his desk. Owen was on the couch nearby.
"This guy seems clean," Jenny said, shaking her head and handing over the report.
Owen agreed. Bomanov might've been Russian, but he didn't seem connected to White Mask. He was a drunk and a coward—not exactly elite terrorist material.
Honestly, Owen didn't think White Mask would want someone like him. Based on his limited encounters with them, White Mask was a lean, precise organization. Their numbers were small, but their operatives were highly skilled. It was more like a CIA tactical unit, likely because Avril herself had a CIA background.
"What about the garbage trucks?" Jack asked.
Jenny had been busy with the interrogation, but the data team had been working nonstop on tracking the stolen trucks. Given their size, they should've been easy to trace, but so far—nothing.
"They vanished. I think they didn't drive them into the city. They're likely hidden somewhere…"
Both leads had dried up. Owen sat, frowning. Garbage trucks—what could they be used for? Transporting people? Or the Stinger missiles? Neither option felt quite right…
With no solid leads, Owen could only wait on more intel from Nikki. Meanwhile, CTU's field agents were instructed to closely monitor every suspicious person on record in Washington to see if any had contact with White Mask.
CTU maintained its own threat-level classifications and a watchlist of suspicious individuals, which it shared with the Secret Service (USSS).
Anyone suspected of ties to terrorism, or who had made extremist public statements—regardless of how serious—was documented.
If you posted a comment on Facebook or Twitter like, "Just wait, I'll make that senator pay one day," congratulations—you were now on that list. Someone would secretly assess your threat level. If it was just venting with no plan, you'd be tagged low-risk. But if you had a plan, even in early stages, CTU or the USSS would absolutely invite you in for a chat.
CTU was incredibly busy, but the entire afternoon had been dull for Owen. He knew White Mask was planning something—but had no clue what. The helplessness gnawed at him.
And then, as if on cue, the first useful lead came in.
Strangely, it wasn't from CTU, or even NSA.
It came from a regular Washington police officer.
(End of Chapter)
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