Outside the White House, the area had already been surrounded by arriving U.S. Marines and National Guard soldiers. The two heavy trucks at the intersection were finally taken out by the National Guard reinforcements. In the end, the two machine gunners inside the trucks chose to die with honor, shouting incomprehensible Arabic slogans as they detonated the bombs inside the vehicles. In their final moments, the two trucks became gigantic grenades, killing and injuring countless soldiers around them.
The two terrorists had smiled as they pulled the detonators—because they had completed their mission: delaying the Marines by a full seven minutes. Originally, the Marines were expected to arrive at the White House perimeter within fifteen minutes of the alert, but due to this delay, they only made it twenty-two minutes later. By then, the White House had already changed hands.
Almost simultaneously with the second wave of National Guard forces, a flood of reporters from major and minor Washington news outlets arrived on the scene. Their broadcast vans practically became an extra barricade in front of the military lines. Eager journalists set up long and short lenses alike, brimming with excitement as though preparing for battle.
The two heavy trucks outside the White House had long been abandoned. All terrorists had retreated into the building. Soldiers encircling the perimeter discovered that the attackers were rigging traps and explosives at every entrance and window. Any attempt to storm the White House would likely end in bloody failure.
"This morning at 11 a.m., a fierce firefight broke out at the White House. A group of terrorists has occupied the building. Casualties remain unconfirmed, and there has been no official statement on the president's status. We believe he may still be inside..."
"This is a breaking report from Honda News. The White House has been confirmed overtaken by terrorists. Capitol Police and Secret Service agents guarding the premises suffered heavy casualties. As you can see, bodies are strewn across the scene. The terrorists have not yet claimed responsibility..."
Every television network had interrupted programming to air live coverage of the siege—yes, even the children's channels. It was an unprecedented national disaster.
A cameraman zoomed in on the lawn to show the fallen agents and officers, while the reporter beside him narrated with a mournful tone. The American public, watching from home, felt a rising wave of grief and dread.
Suddenly, the broadcast zoomed in on the White House rooftop, now stripped bare—no more Stars and Stripes waving in the breeze. Avril, watching from a couch in a suburban D.C. Airbnb, smiled with satisfaction.
Their hideout wasn't anything special—two elderly corpses were carelessly stuffed into the bathroom tub. Avril, Zheng Anshun, and GLAZ lounged in the living room. It was her standard tactic: randomly seize a private residence, kill the owners, and use it as a temporary base. In a few days, they would switch locations again.
Seeing the empty flagpole on TV, Avril turned and said smugly to Zheng Anshun, "Step one is complete…"
…
"Pfft pfft pfft~~"
Owen fired his silenced P229 with clinical precision, dispatching three terrorists at point-blank range. It was the second team he had wiped out. Now that he had a weapon, he no longer needed to sneak around. He welcomed encounters—whenever he crossed paths with enemy squads, he initiated "bullet time," killing them before they even had a chance to react.
In short-range engagements, Owen reigned supreme in both speed and accuracy. After several engagements, not only had he not run out of ammo, he'd actually accumulated more. He had plenty of pistol rounds now—only lacking a rifle.
Feeling his phone buzz in his pocket, Owen ducked into a nearby room. Seeing the caller ID—Jack Bauer—he answered instantly. "What's up, boss?"
But this time, the voice on the other end wasn't Jack's.
"Owen," said President Palmer. "The situation is critical. Jack's unconscious. He took a bullet saving me and lost a lot of blood. I've managed to stop the bleeding and wrap him up, but... I don't think he can hold out much longer…"
"Understood. I'll speed up. Please look after him…"
Just as Owen spoke, he spotted a shadow flicker across the mirror. He immediately hung up, pressed himself against the wall, and waited. One second later, a black figure pushed open the door. As the man stepped inside, Owen lunged, locking an arm around the intruder's neck and slamming him to the ground. His P229 was already pressed against the man's forehead, finger tightening on the trigger.
But at the last second, Owen stopped.
It wasn't a terrorist.
It was that damn walking disaster—George Walker.
"You?" Owen said, blinking.
Walker clearly recognized him too. His terror quickly turned to frustration. Owen could guess what he was thinking but didn't bother addressing it. Instead, he asked, "How did you get here?"
With a gun pointed at his face, Walker didn't dare act out. He answered honestly, "They hijacked the tour group. I ran out in the chaos…"
Owen sighed inwardly. This guy was annoyingly lucky. Still, he frowned. "I thought you worked at the Pentagon. Why are you playing tour guide at the White House?"
That had been bothering him for a while now. Walker's presence at the White House at this exact moment was suspicious, to say the least.
"Alright, alright. Being a part-time White House guide is one of my jobs. Otherwise, how do you think I met Jennifer at the Pentagon?"
That explanation made sense. Jennifer—Owen remembered the pretty white woman—was Walker's fiancée. She'd helped during the airplane hijacking incident, actually. The two really did seem to have a strange fate together.
"What are you planning to do now?" Owen asked.
"I'm going to rescue Jennifer. I don't know where she is, but she must be somewhere in the White House. I have to find her."
"You know where she is?"
"No."
"Then how are you going to rescue her?"
"I don't know. I just… I have to try. Even if I can't save her, I want to be by her side."
Owen stared at Walker, thoughts racing. This guy worked at the Pentagon. His father was a senior military officer. And more importantly—he was trustworthy. Owen was heading for the PEOC to rescue the president and Jack. He needed backup. If Walker was willing to help, it would be a huge boost.
Owen smiled like a big bad wolf. "Walker, I've got a proposal. You help me rescue the President, and I'll help you save Jennifer. How about it?"
(End of Chapter)
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