"Vehicles ahead, stop immediately! I order you to halt, or we will open fire!"
Still some distance away, the police commander was already shouting through a loudspeaker. Around him, officers raised an array of firearms—handguns, submachine guns, rifles—taking final aim.
The garbage truck convoy showed no sign of slowing. Seeing his warning ignored, the commander barked, "Fire!"
Gunfire erupted in an instant. Bullets of all calibers rained down on the lead garbage truck, sparks flying from the impact points.
The police commander smirked. These idiots must've watched too many action movies. But then his smirk froze—and quickly turned to disbelief.
Under such intense fire, the driver inside the lead truck should have been riddled like Swiss cheese. But in reality? Not a scratch. Aside from some white marks on the windshield, the truck was completely unharmed.
Fuck—bulletproof glass on a garbage truck?
The commander's heart sank. He reached for his radio to report the situation, but the attackers gave him no chance. The convoy roared forward at high speed, scattering police in all directions. Even the roadblocks and nearby police cars were sent flying like toys.
Screeeech—
Two sharp braking sounds pierced the air. The first and second trucks rammed through the barricades and sped toward the White House. The third and fourth slammed on their brakes, skidding sideways with inertia and positioning themselves across the intersection, leaving only a narrow passage in between.
BOOM—BOOM!
Two explosive charges—hidden near the tires—detonated. All tires blew out, and the trucks' chassis dropped suddenly, embedding into the ground. Their own weight now anchored them firmly.
Immediately after, a series of "dadadadada" rang out as steel panels on the sides of the trucks fell away—revealing mounted M2HB .50 caliber heavy machine guns. The trucks had now become mobile bunkers. The gunners opened fire, and streams of shell casings clattered to the ground like water.
Orange-red tracer rounds streaked through the air.
Against the might of .50 caliber bullets, no cover was sufficient. Trees, cars, riot shields, body armor—everything was torn to pieces. The officers behind them were shredded into bloody pulp. The scene transformed into a vision of hell.
Both mounted machine guns fired in tandem, mowing down waves of police officers. The storm of bullets lasted only moments, but when it stopped, no one remained standing at the checkpoint. Police, agents, and even innocent bystanders lay in heaps. The air was thick with the metallic stench of blood.
Reinforcements soon arrived in squad cars. Their response was quick—less than two minutes from when the gunfire began. But their presence only increased the body count. The M2HBs resumed their thunderous song, obliterating everything in their path. Silence returned once more, death thick in the air.
While these two gun-fortified trucks laid waste to the intersection, the remaining pair made it all the way to the White House gates. Along the way, any officers who had the misfortune to cross their path were mercilessly gunned down. The .50 caliber rounds left behind chaos and destruction—the trucks moving like armored siege engines, crushing all in their wake.
At the White House, Pennsylvania Avenue—famous as the closest public street to the White House and a prime tourist photo spot—was bustling.
Only a low iron fence separated the street from the White House lawn, with the stately white building rising behind the lush greenery. Police officers in uniform and Secret Service agents in suits were scattered across the lawn, their presence somewhat spoiling the scenic view.
Outside the fence, more police in tactical gear formed another layer of security. Though this was the closest anyone could get to the White House, it was also the most heavily guarded area.
Tourists were everywhere. Backpacks, cameras, and idle chatter filled the air. Officers inside and outside the fence were used to the crowds, watching passersby with calm vigilance—alert for the one crazy who might try something stupid.
"Excuse me, Officer. I'm a tourist and unfamiliar with the area. Could you tell me how to get to the Capitol building?"
A young couple, dressed casually with backpacks, approached one checkpoint, pretending to seek directions. They looked every bit the part of ordinary travelers.
The officer with the MP5 began to answer, but something felt wrong. Out of the corner of his eye, he noticed similar scenes playing out at nearby checkpoints—multiple tourists asking for directions simultaneously?
Then came the radio transmission warning of the garbage trucks.
He barely had time to react when a massive explosion tore through the checkpoint. The officer never even got to raise his weapon. The tourists had detonated themselves—human bombs.
From others' perspective, the checkpoint vanished in a fireball, and the couple were reduced to scattered fragments of bloody flesh.
"Human bombs! Fuck—human bombs!"
Someone farther away, spared by distance, cried out in horror. But more explosions followed. Every remaining nearby checkpoint was erased in seconds.
...
Inside the White House grounds, officers behind the fence watched in stunned horror as one outer checkpoint after another was destroyed by suicide bombers. Before they could respond, two monstrous vehicles roared through the gates, flanking the White House entrance and skidding to a halt.
BOOM—BOOM!
Their tires exploded, anchoring them just like the previous pair. Now these two mobile gun platforms faced the White House directly.
In the next moment, the signature roar of the M2HB heavy machine guns rang out. But this time, it wasn't just gunfire—both trucks' rear doors swung open, and masked terrorists leapt out, armed to the teeth, spraying bullets in all directions.
...
At CTU Headquarters, acting on Jack's orders, Jane had assigned a technician to monitor the surveillance feeds near the White House. When the garbage trucks broke through the barriers, the technician was so shocked he could barely function. He frantically called Jane over.
Jane stared at the monitors in disbelief. These people were insane—someone was actually carrying out an armed assault on the White House.
"Jack..."
Jane immediately dialed Jack Bauer. The situation was too critical—it wasn't just an A-level emergency. It was S-level.
(End of Chapter)
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