Owen was waiting for the blue-collar worker to unlock the door. The man had found a whole ring of keys in the utility room—over twenty of them. Suddenly, the voice on the radio made Owen's face pale.
Damn it. How did they find them?! But now wasn't the time to dwell on that.
"Move!!"
Owen roared. He couldn't afford to wait for them to fumble with the keys. He drew his pistol and fired multiple shots into the door lock. With a metallic crack, the lock fell apart.
"Ghost, get ready for pickup. They've found us."
"Got it!"
Outside the fence, the quick response team and National Guard troops were fully deployed. Swagger, chewing a grass stem, scanned the White House rooftop through the crosshairs of his M200. Beside him, a National Guard sniper acted as his spotter.
"Go, go, go!"
Owen barked, waving his arm. There was no need to stay quiet anymore—he could already hear enemy footsteps approaching.
The hostages were panicked, but a few shouted orders from Owen brought them back into line. One by one, they entered the trench. Despite being called a trench, it wasn't that narrow. People could pass through while hunched over.
"Remember what I said..."
Owen gave President Palmer one last instruction before pushing him inside. The President neither led the group nor stayed at the rear, instead blending into the middle—part of Owen's plan.
Ratatatata!
Owen's gunfire rang out just after the President disappeared into the tunnel. Enemy silhouettes had appeared at the stairwell. A burst from Owen's MP5 forced them back. While not known for its accuracy, the submachine gun was excellent for suppressive fire.
"Fuck~~!"
Staz cursed. That had to be the bastard who killed Bobby. He wanted to avenge him right now—but the enemy was pinning them down. The frustration nearly made him cough up blood.
Bang bang bang! Bang bang! Bang bang!
Staz's side returned fire, blindly spraying around the corner.
With rifles on one side and a submachine gun on the other, the difference was clear. Plus, Owen was alone. The tide quickly shifted. His magazine ran dry, and the moment he reloaded, Staz's men breached the stairwell and spread out into the corridor.
"Shit, hurry—!"
Owen fired while shouting back. His opponents were all former Delta Force—elite soldiers with sharp shooting skills. He was being forced into a direct firefight. He couldn't keep this up forever.
But what Owen didn't know was that Staz and the others were equally stunned. In just a short time, two of their men had been hit. Even Staz had taken a round to the chest. The guy across from them was a marksman. Had Owen not been using a 9mm pistol and an MP5, they might already be dead.
"He's buying time."
Martin, who hadn't fired a shot, observed coolly. He'd just been informed that the hostages in the second-floor hall had been rescued. There was no doubt it had been the work of the man facing them now.
Martin had worked in the Secret Service for over thirty years, ten of which as Director. He knew the White House better than anyone alive—even more than the President himself.
He quickly realized what Owen's goal must be: the gas room. It had to be the gas room!
"Shit! Snipers, check the lawn—east side, near the gas facility. If you see anyone escaping, shoot to kill!"
Martin shouted into the radio. This was no time to worry about friendly fire. A runaway President was worse than a dead one.
...
In the corridor, Owen kept exchanging fire. He'd hit a few targets but taken some damage too. A bullet grazed his arm, soaking it in blood.
"Walker, go now! If you don't leave now, you won't get the chance!"
The enemy was steadily closing in. Owen yelled at George Walker, who had been a surprisingly helpful companion despite his lack of combat skills.
"No! I'm not leaving! I still have to find Jennifer—you promised me!"
Walker shouted stubbornly.
A hopeless romantic.
"Fine. That door—check what's inside. We need to move…"
Owen knew persuading him wouldn't work. They'd all have to rely on luck now. As for Owen, he still intended to keep his word.
...
On the lawn, the first hostage emerged from the trench and dashed through the door of the gas room, running toward the opening in the fence where soldiers were waving them forward.
Boom!
A section of the iron fence had been blasted open by the quick response team to create a clear escape path.
Then came the second hostage, then the third…
Every person ran like their life depended on it—because it did.
Through his scope, Ghost spotted the first hostage and instantly gave the command: "Open fire!"
Almost before he'd finished speaking, Swagger fired the first shot from his M200.
The bullet spiraled out and, after traveling a considerable distance, struck a sniper on the White House rooftop square in the head.
Compared to Ghost's voice, the gunshot was the real signal that the battle had begun.
Gunfire erupted instantly.
The rooftop snipers, just adjusting their aim toward the gas room under Martin's orders, suddenly found themselves under heavy fire. Bullets clanged off the roof, sending debris flying.
And it wasn't just the quick response team—National Guard soldiers had joined the firefight. Regular troops provided suppressive fire, while their snipers assisted Swagger. One group focused on clearing rooftop shooters; the other monitored every visible window on the White House's east wing.
The first hostage made it to safety. As soon as they passed through the breach, a soldier grabbed them, pulling them behind a shield. Then the second, the third—each rescued the same way.
...
In the basement, Owen's suppression was weakening. He had been relying on volume of fire to keep the enemy at bay, but now he was running low on ammo. And every time he reloaded, they gained ground.
"Owen! Come quick! Look what I found!"
Walker's excited voice came from behind. He must've found a way out. Owen began to fall back, firing as he went.
After a few steps, his last magazine ran dry. He tossed the MP5 aside and bolted.
...
On the lawn, several rooftop snipers had been neutralized. The rest couldn't even raise their heads. But the White House had 132 rooms, and dozens of them faced this direction. They couldn't cover all of them.
Some terrorists slipped through and fired from behind windows. A fleeing hostage was hit, collapsing on the grass. The quick response team was horrified—among the escapees was the President. If he were struck... the consequences were unthinkable.
Ghost quickly directed fire. The National Guard shifted their aim according to Owen's earlier instructions, unloading everything they had into the windows.
Bullets hammered the bulletproof glass, turning it opaque with spiderweb cracks.
The shooter behind one window panicked and moved to another room—only to find the same treatment. Bullets pummeled the glass everywhere. It was total saturation fire.
Then—a streak of white. Someone actually fired an RPG at the escaping hostages.
The moment the launcher's trigger was pulled, the shooter was gunned down. The rocket veered off, blasting a crater into the lawn.
...
Under covering fire, a stumbling Black man in a low-brimmed hat made it to the gap in the fence. A soldier rushed forward to help but was stopped by a quick response operator.
"These two—him and the injured man—are ours. We'll handle it."
Behind the mask, Ghost spoke with quiet authority. The soldier backed away without a word. Monica and Heartbeat rushed in, grabbing Jack Bauer and the injured man with the hat, escorting them to safety.
"Cowboy, package received."
With Ghost's confirmation, the weight on Owen's chest lifted. He followed Walker through the door—and was greeted by a sight that made his eyes light up.
(End of Chapter)
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