At the White House gates, several masked terrorists dashed across the lawn, leaping over scattered bodies until they reached the guard post. After a few quick operations, the heavy barricade retracted, and a vehicle slowly rolled in, stopping in front of the entrance. More masked figures emerged from the car, beginning to unload equipment.
Inside the White House, with the entrance guards neutralized, the terrorists split into squads and began a systematic room-to-room sweep. The Secret Service had deployed several hundred agents throughout the White House—most had fallen in the earlier clashes, but a handful were still hiding, and they posed a real threat. Staz had no intention of letting them linger.
Gunfire erupted sporadically in various directions, indicating agents being discovered and taken out. The Secret Service agents were well-trained, but these terrorists were no amateurs either—they were mercenaries, every one of them.
The White Masks were known for their high standards in recruitment. This time, they had chosen nothing but outlaws with professional skills and no regard for laws or morality.
Mercenaries—soldiers of fortune who even Death seemed to avoid. They lived on the edge, answering only to money. Ninety percent of these militants were ex-military from various countries, many of them former special forces. Their leader, Staz, was a retired Delta Force operative.
Throughout the White House, more and more agents were being discovered. The enemy held a clear advantage in both numbers and firepower—and they weren't taking prisoners. Every time an agent was exposed, he was immediately gunned down.
Elsewhere, Owen crouched in the shadows beside a fireplace, waiting silently for a nearby squad of terrorists to move on. Just moments earlier, he had watched from just meters away as they executed another hiding agent. That agent managed to take one enemy down before being shot himself.
Once the squad left, Owen crept over. Just as he expected, the weapons had all been stripped. The enemy didn't care about their fallen comrades—they left the bodies where they lay. Owen knelt down and gently closed the dead agent's eyes.
Now walking down a deserted hallway, with distant gunfire echoing faintly, Owen moved quietly with only a broken candlestick as his weapon. Earlier, President Palmer had mentioned that the PEOC was beneath the East Wing library—so much for the rumors from WikiLeaks about a west-side underground location. In fact, Owen now suspected that those "leaks" were intentional disinformation planted by the Secret Service.
The more he thought about it, the more it made sense. He let out a wry chuckle. Since joining CTU over a year ago, he'd encountered more crises than he could count. What most people would consider a catastrophic event had become just another day for him.
…
Surveillance Room
On-screen, the monitors cycled through scenes of carnage—terrorists clashing with remaining agents, killing them one by one as they were discovered.
A terrorist at the control console was constantly updating field teams via radio, guiding them to hidden agents. With access to the security cameras, they essentially had eyes throughout the White House.
Suddenly, the man's ear twitched. He thought he heard something.
He didn't assume it was nothing—these were hardened veterans. When they'd stormed the room earlier, they had blown the door open, so now the entrance was just open air.
Tensing, he reached for the pistol at his hip, straining to listen.
But in a blur, a shadow lunged in from the doorway and slammed him against the wall.
Owen struck quickly, one hand clamped tightly over the man's mouth while the other, wielding the sharp end of the broken candlestick, plunged into the man's chest—over and over, each thrust clean and efficient.
The terrorist stared in disbelief as the metal point pierced his chest again and again. The pain was overwhelming, and his strength drained rapidly until he slumped lifelessly against the wall, sliding down to the floor.
Owen tossed aside the bloodied candlestick and drew the enemy's sidearm from its quick-draw holster. He checked the Glock's chamber, then tucked it into the back of his waistband. Next, he stripped the man's tactical vest, taking all the ammo and the radio as well.
Finally. After all this time, he was armed again.
He had been steadily moving toward the East Wing, but without a weapon, it had been a difficult journey. The enemy was thorough—after every engagement, they swept the battlefield clean. He hadn't had the chance to take anything until now.
Owen picked up the radio. "Jenny, I'm in the surveillance room. Any way to hijack the system?"
"No, Owen," Jenny replied immediately. "That's not possible. The White House operates on an isolated network. It's air-gapped from the outside—no way to hack it remotely. You'll have to disable it from inside."
"Got it. I'll try someone else."
Trusting Jenny's assessment, Owen made another call.
"Carol, I'm in the surveillance room. Is there any way to shut down the cameras?"
Carol, a senior consultant with the Secret Service—practically a deputy director—answered. With Martin having betrayed them and killed the actual deputy, she was now the highest-ranking agent with intimate knowledge of White House security. President Palmer had already confirmed she could be trusted completely.
"To shut down the system, you need a password," she said. "Only Martin had that… Wait—no. The President has a master override. It's a separate code. If you use that, no one can bring the cameras back online."
Perfect.
Owen immediately called Jack—President Palmer answered.
"Mr. President, I'm trying to disable the internal surveillance system. I need your password."
No questions asked. The President trusted him without hesitation and recited a complex alphanumeric code. Owen keyed it in, confirmed the override, and locked down the system.
Every screen in the White House's three surveillance centers simultaneously froze. The system now showed: LOCKED BY PRESIDENTIAL OVERRIDE.
Staz's men quickly reported the blackout. Staz relayed the info to Martin, who then rattled off his own password—but no matter how many times they tried, it was rejected.
"Fuck. He shut us down from inside the PEOC…"
Martin never suspected someone on the outside was responsible. He naturally assumed it was the President himself from within the secure room.
Which made things easier for Owen.
He adjusted the Glock at his side, checked the two spare magazines, and felt just barely prepared. With deliberate calm, he disappeared silently down the corridor—hunting once more.
(End of Chapter)
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