Inside the White House, Owen was walking beside the man in the black suit, engaging in a bit of idle chatter. His goal was to inspect the modifications made by the engineering companies, hoping to uncover any clues in the process.
They were walking along when a sudden explosion outside shook the ground, followed by several more blasts in quick succession. The man in the black suit ran to the window, and Owen followed, both crouching to observe.
Fuck. This had to be an attack by White Mask. The moment Owen saw the situation outside, he was nearly certain.
Beyond the window, chaos reigned on the street near the lawn. Armed attackers were engaged in a firefight with the White House's security forces. Debris was everywhere. A man with a backpack dashed frantically toward a group of police officers, only to be shot down five or six meters away. A second later—boom—he exploded into a fireball.
Fuck. Suicide bombers.
The blast wave was so intense they could feel it even from inside the White House. They finally understood what had caused the earlier tremors. Judging by the burning wreckage and the scale of destruction, White Mask had spared no expense—they must've prepared a terrifying number of suicide bombers.
"Code red! Code red!"
The man in the black suit kept shouting into the comms at his collar while drawing his weapon and keeping a close eye on the chaos outside.
Moments later, he turned to Owen. "I'm sorry, sir, but you must come with me immediately."
He'd clearly received an order from his superiors. His tone was firm and wary—Owen was being treated as a potential suspect. During an attack on the White House, all outsiders, including members of counterterrorism, were to be detained. It was understandable.
He led Owen through a long corridor. The orders were to gather all non-White House personnel in the west reception hall. Owen had no weapon and was cooperating, which helped ease the man's nerves.
Still, Owen was anxious. He needed to figure out how to convince this guy to let him make a call—he had to get in touch with Jack to find out whether the president was safe.
They followed a curved staircase up to the next floor, where gunfire echoed from a nearby hall. The agent gestured for Owen to stay back while he cautiously crept along the wall toward the sound, peeking around the corner. He let out a sigh of relief.
A squad of about ten Marines were inside, stationed to defend the White House. They were shooting through the windows, clearly providing cover for those fighting on the lawn.
As soon as the agent appeared, several guns snapped in his direction. But seeing his black suit, they quickly redirected their aim back outside.
"Where are you headed?" one of the Marines asked, approaching while the rest continued firing. Owen, realizing it was safe, stepped up from the stairwell.
"I received orders—"
RATATATATA—
The agent had just begun to speak when the doors on the far side of the hall were kicked open. A squad of armed attackers burst in, guns blazing.
The burst of gunfire lasted only seconds. The Marines, focused on the battle outside, were caught completely off-guard. They didn't even have time to turn around before they were gunned down.
Staz led his men into the room and sprayed bullets in every direction. The Marines collapsed one by one. Even the man who had been escorting Owen was hit in the ribs—still alive, but writhing on the floor in pain.
Owen had ducked behind the heavy floor-length curtains in the corner just as the shooting began. Luckily, the White House's luxurious decor worked in his favor—the thick, long curtains nearly touched the ground, concealing him completely.
The agent's screams continued as someone approached. The soft carpet muffled the steps, but Owen could feel them—slow, deliberate footsteps, coming closer.
Scattered gunfire rang out from other rooms. The terrorists weren't leaving any survivors. Anyone still breathing was executed.
Not far away, the wounded agent was muttering something. His voice trembled with pain and fear. As the footsteps drew near, he gasped out with all his strength, "No... please don't kill me... please..."
RATATATATA—
His pleas meant nothing. Without hesitation, the approaching terrorist delivered a final burst.
Silence returned.
Owen stayed completely still, barely breathing. The gunman had passed frighteningly close to him. He heard the sounds of the attackers cleaning up—dragging corpses into a pile.
Finally, after what felt like an eternity, they left. Owen waited another ten seconds before silently emerging from behind the curtain. His heart had been pounding the whole time, terrified they would see his shoes sticking out—but luck, or perhaps God, had been on his side.
The gunfight had been swift and one-sided. There had been no time to react. Fortunately, the chaos had helped him remain unnoticed. But now he had a new problem—he was unarmed. He looked back at the bodies. Sure enough, the terrorists had taken everything. Not a single weapon was left behind.
Completely barehanded, Owen scanned the room. His eyes fell on a decorative wall sconce. Though the White House used electric lighting, it still featured ornamental candleholders for aesthetic reasons. The tip was sharp—perfect for defense.
Grabbing it, Owen yanked part of the sconce from the wall. It resembled a short baton. He gave it a few swings. Not bad. At least it was something.
...
On the White House's east wing, first floor, the once bustling building was now eerily silent. After the chaos broke out, everyone had vanished.
A small group moved stealthily down a staircase. The lead man scouted ahead, and the team silently but swiftly moved down the hallway.
This group was escorting the president to the underground safe room. Two Marines with long rifles led the way, followed by security chief Martin, President Palmer, and Jack Bauer. Two more Secret Service agents brought up the rear.
They moved quickly, passing through the corridor and stopping at the entrance to the library. The Marines pushed the doors open, and everyone entered.
Inside, Martin turned a wall-mounted light switch 180 degrees counterclockwise. A bookshelf loaded with books popped open—revealing a hidden door.
An agent pulled the secret door open. Just a few steps inside stood an elevator. The group entered, and the elevator began to descend. The screen showed only one basement level, but it kept going for a long time. It made sense—this was the PEOC, designed to withstand a nuclear blast. It had to be deep, far deeper than a typical basement.
The descent felt like it lasted a century. Finally, with a soft "ding," the elevator stopped and the doors opened. They had arrived.
They resumed their formation and proceeded through the tunnel. At the end stood a massive iron door—clearly built to withstand anything. Beside it was an electronic control panel.
(End of Chapter)
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