Alex lay on the ground, barely conscious. His face was covered in blood, his nose broken from Owen's repeated blows. Meanwhile, Owen pulled ASH out of the passenger seat and placed her next to Campbell. She was still alive, but the extent of her injuries remained unknown—she still hadn't woken up.
Campbell's wound was still bleeding, but with Heartbeat applying pressure, he wasn't in immediate danger of dying. Monica had already contacted 911—the fight had lasted over ten minutes, and people nearby had certainly called the police earlier. Patrol cars and ambulances were already on their way.
"You need to leave immediately. Listen to me—don't contact anyone. No one."
Heartbeat had figured it out even before the battle had ended.
"There's a mole. Our route was top secret—only the top levels of the FBI knew about it. These guys were waiting here in advance, and they even had firepower set up in the second-floor vantage points. That means they got intel beforehand…"
He didn't finish his sentence, but everyone understood the implication. The mole wasn't among them, but it had to be someone in the FBI or the police. After all, only the FBI knew the route, and their transport vehicles had been provided by the police. A tracking device could've been installed.
Owen kicked Alex in the side, forcing him to get up. The man was in terrible shape, still dazed from the beating.
Owen and Monica searched several black-masked corpses. The attackers were a mix of Black and White men. None carried anything that could identify them, and their weapons weren't uniform.
This only confirmed it further—these were mercenaries.
"Go. Now. I'll take care of them."
Heartbeat urged them again. There was no time to hesitate. Owen decided to listen.
After quickly restocking their gear, he and Monica took Alex and left.
Their location had been compromised, and another wave of mercenaries could arrive at any moment. In their current state, they wouldn't survive another ambush.
As for ASH, Heartbeat, and Campbell—ironically, Owen and Monica leaving actually made them safer. The mercenaries' target was Alex.
Without him here, the likelihood of them being executed dropped significantly.
Their best hope was that the police arrived first.
But Owen wasn't sure if Campbell could hold out that long.
And deep down, he had a bad feeling.
—
Two blocks away, CRASH!
Owen smashed a car window with his rifle butt.
The alarm blared loudly.
After some quick wiring, the alarm shut off. Owen ripped open the dashboard panel, found the wiring harness, and hotwired the engine.
"Get in."
Monica shoved Alex into the backseat, and Owen sped off in a stolen Peugeot.
Years of dealing with cars—modding, repairing, stealing—had made this second nature to him.
—
As night fell, Owen drove through the streets of Los Angeles.
The FBI official in charge of the operation was Farrell.
Owen had heard of him—Walter McCall's right-hand man, effectively the number two in the LA FBI division.
But was Farrell the traitor?
Or was it someone under him?
Or worse—was McCall himself compromised?
He didn't know who to trust.
Heartbeat was right. Right now, no one was safe.
Emotionally, Owen wanted to trust West Hollywood PD.
George, the old detective, had always been reliable. But he was critically wounded.
Carlos and Karl? Also trustworthy.
But if Owen contacted them, he'd only be putting them in danger.
And CTU?
Absolutely the least trustworthy.
In the history of "24," that agency was riddled with moles.
Even now, Nina Myers was not to be trusted.
In the original story, she had betrayed Jack Bauer for money and had even gone after his family.
With a billion-dollar bounty at stake, she'd sell Owen out in an instant.
Worse, she controlled CTU's data division.
Jack and Chloe? Trustworthy.
But there was no way to contact them without going through Nina.
If he contacted CTU, she would find out.
Which left only one person—Bryan Mills.
Owen decided to find a phone and reach out to Bryan.
—
Earlier, they had ditched all their gear.
Now, they were wearing plain clothes taken from the mercenaries' vehicles.
They had discarded their heavy body armor and all their electronic devices.
Owen knew how easily modern tech could be used to track them.
Any compromised FBI agent could trace their phones if they were still using them.
Alex, however, wasn't an issue.
Before transport, the FBI had already dressed him in plain clothes for security reasons.
With his hands cuffed, he looked just like an ordinary civilian.
—
There was actually an FBI safe house nearby.
In their original contingency plan, if they were attacked, they were supposed to hide there to resupply and recover.
ASH's PDA contained the location and entry codes.
But in this situation?
No way in hell.
Owen remembered how the Angel of Death had always chosen meeting places at random for security.
It was a smart move.
He'd do the same.
After making several detours to ensure they weren't being followed, he drove into a narrow alley.
Unlike the bright, busy city center, this area felt like another world.
It was part of the old district— narrow streets, three-story brick buildings, and construction zones.
A perfect hiding spot.
Even if something went wrong, the complex layout would make escape easier.
Owen parked the car in the shadows of an alley.
After checking their surroundings, he removed the license plates.
If the police discovered a stolen car near the crime scene, they'd immediately suspect it was theirs.
Now, it would take far longer to trace the vehicle.
—
As night deepened, streetlights flickered on.
Owen and Monica walked toward a residential building.
Most apartments had lights on, but one on the third floor was completely dark.
A perfect hideout.
The building was old— no elevators, poor lighting.
Only two dim wall lamps per floor, some of which were already broken.
Carefully, they climbed the stairs.
Luck was on their side—they didn't encounter anyone.
Most residents were having dinner at this hour.
Reaching the door, Owen peeked through the gap.
Pitch black inside.
He pressed his ear against the door.
No sound.
Satisfied, he reached out—
—and plucked a hairpin from Monica's head.
"Hey!"
She shot him a glare.
She might be a tomboy, but she still carried hairpins.
Owen picked the lock in seconds.
He had learned this trick in school—
Back then, he often sneaked out at night, only to find himself locked out by his mom.
Rather than sleep in the garage, he had taught himself to pick locks.
And now?
That little skill was keeping him alive.
_________________________
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