In the main hall, Owen looked speechlessly at the man in front of him, who had the same expression as if he'd just swallowed a fly. They had recognized each other instantly.
Owen was annoyed because standing before him was George Walker. Strictly speaking, they were acquaintances, though neither of them probably ever wanted to see the other again in this life. To Owen, Walker was nothing short of a jinx—and Walker felt exactly the same.
Right now, George Walker was staring at Owen with a grimace, an ominous premonition rising in his chest. This guy was his bad-luck charm. Every time he ran into Owen, something bad happened.
The first time, Owen pretended to be a robber and broke his nose. The second time, during the Wall Street attack, this lunatic had grabbed him and jumped out of a building—he had nearly died. The third time, on his return flight from Greece to the U.S., he'd been caught in a hijacking, and this lunatic was somehow on that same plane.
And now?
Walker suddenly tensed. He'd had three encounters with Owen, and each had led to disaster. Now that they were running into each other again, he swallowed nervously and looked around as if something terrible were about to happen.
Owen, on his end, had the same feeling—like a herd of wild horses had just stampeded through his mind. He didn't hold as deep a grudge as Walker did, but even he recognized that every time he ran into Walker, something major went down. This guy was like a harbinger of terrorist attacks. And now they were crossing paths at the White House?
Could it be that White Mask's attack was going to happen today?
"Uh…"
Owen opened his mouth to speak, but Walker abruptly held up his hand to stop him, his expression clearly saying, "Don't talk." He then slowly backed away, pointed to himself, then to the back, then pointed at Owen, and motioned forward.
Owen understood the meaning: You go your way, I go mine…
Fine. Owen shrugged. If Walker didn't want to talk, no reason to press it. Though every meeting between them had involved bad luck, Walker had always come out the worse, and had either passively or actively helped Owen in some way. Owen had intended to at least say hi, but if Walker wasn't interested, so be it.
Owen watched as George Walker continued his tourist-guide act with his group and moved away, then turned to follow the black-suited agent. One thing puzzled him, though—he remembered Walker worked at the Pentagon. Why was he guiding tours at the White House? Then he remembered his girlfriend, Jennifer—she did work at the White House.
...
Meanwhile, high above the skies of Virginia, an AC-130 "Spectre" gunship was heading at full speed toward Washington, D.C.
The AC-130, developed from the C-130 Hercules by Lockheed, was a heavy attack aircraft primarily used for air support and armed reconnaissance. It was equipped with various calibers of weaponry, including 7.62mm machine guns, 20mm M61 rotary cannons, 25mm GAU-12/U cannons, 40mm Bofors, and even 105mm howitzers on certain models.
Inside the cockpit, the two pilots bore grim expressions. They were on a special mission. Though unafraid of death, they silently prayed they wouldn't be discovered.
But God wasn't listening.
Andrews Air Force Base, Southeast of Washington, D.C.
Two F-22 Raptor jets scrambled on emergency orders to intercept. Their afterburners flared red as they streaked toward their target.
It didn't take long. The AC-130's hulking form was easy to spot. The Raptors quickly closed in, flanking the gunship on both sides, positioning themselves at its forward quarters—close enough to see the pilots through the windows.
The radio crackled:
"AC-130, this is the United States Air Force. You are entering restricted airspace. Turn back immediately or we will open fire. Respond now…"
They repeated the warning twice, but the AC-130 kept moving forward. Worse, the Raptors observed its weapon systems deploying. All five guns had been revealed.
"Two, break now!"
The lead pilot pulled hard on the stick. Both jets performed synchronized barrel rolls, evading the gunship's firing arcs and repositioning behind it.
"Command, this is Lead. Target aircraft is unresponsive and has exhibited hostile intent. Requesting engagement authorization."
They wanted to light the thing up—but protocol required clearance.
"Permission granted. Take the shot."
The order was clear. This was Washington, the heart of the United States. No room for error. The base commander didn't hesitate.
Two AIM-120 air-to-air missiles launched with twin bursts of flame. The missiles tore through the sky, slamming into the AC-130 with blinding explosions.
The gunship became a fireball. For the Raptors, shooting down such a slow, heavy aircraft at close range was child's play.
...
At the exact same moment, just a few blocks from the White House, four garbage trucks barreled down the street in single-file formation.
Normally, city garbage trucks ran fixed routes and operated solo—never in groups like this. Onlookers paused, puzzled by the fast-moving convoy. The trucks tore through red lights, smashing into anything in their path. Traffic accidents exploded into chaos. Even police officers on motorcycles trying to catch up were completely ignored.
If Owen were here, he'd have recognized them instantly—these were the stolen garbage trucks. And there weren't just two of them—there were four.
The trucks raced toward the White House. A motorcycle officer finally caught up, pulling alongside the lead truck's cab and shouting through a loudspeaker:
"You there, all garbage trucks—slow down and pull over immediately!"
No response. Suddenly, a gun barrel extended from the driver's window.
RAT-TAT-TAT-TAT-TAT—
The officer was riddled with bullets, his body collapsing in the street as the trucks roared on.
The two blocks around the White House were pedestrian zones. No vehicle was allowed entry without an official White House pass. District and Capitol Police manned the entrances, with FBI agents also stationed nearby.
They had already been alerted by earlier reports from the police—and now stood braced behind makeshift barricades, eyes locked on the oncoming convoy of death.
(End of Chapter)
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