Washington, CTU Headquarters
Jack Bauer had just returned to his office, massaging his forehead. The pressure had been intense lately. He'd barely made himself a cup of coffee when his phone vibrated. Unknown number—but flagged as White House staff by his security software.
"This is Jack Bauer."
Jack answered the call.
"Director Bauer, hello. This is Daniel Barnes from the White House Office of Foreign Affairs. I just called the DEA, and they told me the team operating in Mexico is actually yours…"
"Yes."
Jack nodded in acknowledgment. Omega's identity was classified, but only externally. He knew who Barnes was—part of President Palmer's staff, overseeing foreign relations. There was no need to hide Omega's mission from him.
"Director Bauer, I need you to immediately order your team to cease all operations and return to the United States. We're in sensitive negotiations with the Mexican government, and your team's actions have nearly undone everything we've worked for..."
Barnes's tone was firm. Jack frowned. He was aware of Omega's mission—he'd even spoken to Becky ten minutes ago.
"Sorry, I can't do that. You're aware of what happened a few days ago. The U.S. has to show strength. You don't want every petty thug thinking they can pull off terror attacks on U.S. soil, do you? Besides, we had an agreement with the President—Mexico falls under our jurisdiction."
"That agreement was contingent on not sparking an international incident! Look at what your team is doing—engaging in open armed conflict with cartel forces on Mexican soil. Turn on the news. What do you think the media will say tomorrow? What will the Mexican government say? We're trying to get their cooperation, and we've already made concessions to make that happen. Your team's actions are burning it all down..."
"Sorry. You don't have the authority to interfere with CTU operations."
Jack wasn't going to argue further. Maybe Barnes had a point—but so did CTU.
"Goddammit, you reckless brute. I'll be recommending to the President that your actions are harming U.S. interests…"
Barnes slammed the phone down in fury. Jack was sick of bureaucrats meddling in field ops. But he hadn't expected it when, ten minutes later, President Palmer himself called.
Mexico, DEA Headquarters
The battle raged on. Owen activated bullet time, dropping three enemies with pinpoint bursts, then picked off a fourth who was about to launch an RPG. The rocket flew off-target and smashed into the building, causing it to shake violently.
A groaning metallic screech followed. A massive shadow plummeted—the helicopter crashed, mangled beyond repair, though it hadn't exploded. Owen assumed Phantom Team had nailed the pilot.
Shepherd and his squad appeared on the second floor, filling gaps in the defense. The rooftop battle must've ended. Owen popped up and fired a short burst, killing a man, then ducked just as an RPG blew apart his previous position.
The window frame was already shattered, reduced to a scorched, jagged hole. Bullet craters marked the walls.
THUMP THUMP THUMP THUMP—
A deafening, mechanical roar echoed across the battlefield. Owen peeked out with one eye and instantly located the source: a pickup had rolled in with a mounted 12.7mm heavy machine gun, now unleashing hell.
Shit. Where the hell did they get that?
Shielding his face from flying debris, Owen shouted, "Swagg!"
Before the echo of his voice faded—crack! A single sniper round turned the gunner's head into a crimson mess. The cannon fell silent. The assistant gunner stepped up—crack! Another headshot. A third man tried—crack! He dropped just like the others.
In seconds, that turret became a kill zone. Swagg had neutralized the threat—but revealed his own position. Two RPGs launched immediately toward his perch.
BOOM BOOM!
The blasts demolished the wall Swagg had occupied, exposing the inner framework. At the same time, Owen darted out and took down the two RPG operators with surgical precision.
BOOM! Another explosion tore open a window on the first floor. The wall beneath the window collapsed, turning it into a makeshift door. Smoke still swirling, gunmen rushed in—only to fall mid-charge in a hail of gunfire.
The battle was savage.
So far, the cartel's elite force had lost significant numbers—especially Dorok's best men. But the DEA had paid dearly too. Defensive advantage or not, Patrick had lost over ten men, and injuries were piling up.
Thanks to coordination between the first and second floors, the fourth wave of attacks had been repelled. This time, instead of launching another assault, the cartel seemed to be regrouping. Owen's team wasn't faring much better—desperately reloading, tending wounds.
"Becky, get in touch with the U.S. base. Have them send reinforcements."
Owen radioed Silly Sweet. He knew by now that Mexican support wouldn't come. The only hope lay with the U.S. Otherwise, no matter how good he was, it wouldn't matter—ammo was running out, and reinforcements weren't arriving fast enough. More and more Sánchez soldiers were surrounding the DEA building.
"I'm sorry, Owen. I actually called them a while ago. They refused. Orders from the top—under no circumstances are they to engage with Mexican forces. Not even to protect American personnel..."
Silly Sweet's reply made Owen even more frustrated. At that moment, an enemy gunned down a DEA agent and tried to exploit the lull. Owen ended him in two shots—leg first, then a bullet to the head before the guy could rise.
"Wait, Owen—Jack wants to speak with you. I'm patching him in…"
Soon, Jack's voice came through the comms.
"Owen, it's me."
"Why can't the base provide support?"
Owen was fuming. He hated political games. Every time something went wrong, it was because of this crap.
"It's complicated. Lots of factors involved. But Owen, you need to pull out. Forget Sánchez—for now."
"But—"
"No buts. That's a direct order from President Palmer. The base will send a special ops team to extract you—but they will not engage. Their only mission is to bring you back to the U.S. safely."
Jack cut him off before Owen could protest further. He had no counterargument. The President had made the call. Disobeying now would mean defying Washington outright.
"Execute the order, Owen."
When Owen didn't reply, Jack repeated the command.
Owen felt like a deserter. He glanced at Patrick and the DEA agents still fighting, still bleeding. These were the men who had stood beside him—now he was about to leave them. He could already imagine their fate. If they were captured, torture would be the best outcome.
For a fleeting moment, Owen considered disobeying. But he couldn't. His Omega team was counting on him. He couldn't drag them all down. And realistically, staying meant dying.
Downstairs, gunfire still erupted—more DEA agents were dropping. Upstairs, the noise had dimmed. A chilling silence took hold.
"Goddammit!"
Bayev kicked a crumbling wall down in frustration. Everyone had heard Jack's order—comms were shared across the whole channel. Whether Omega or Phantom Team, everyone felt the same: like they'd been kicked in the gut.
The White House was making them do the one thing soldiers despised most—abandon their brothers-in-arms.
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