Owen finished checking his weapons and was just about to discuss their next move with Monica when he suddenly heard a faint creaking sound.
Someone was outside.
Moving swiftly, he pressed himself against the wall beside the door, pistol at the ready.
Then—
"Ahh!"
A startled yelp came from the hallway.
Owen frowned—something wasn't right.
He yanked open the door, aiming his pistol.
Standing outside was a man in his thirties, balancing on one foot, his other foot lifted awkwardly. Shattered glass sparkled on the floor beneath him.
Owen immediately understood—he had stepped on the broken lightbulb fragments Owen had scattered earlier.
The moment the man saw the gun, he flinched in terror.
Owen took a quick glance at the hallway before grabbing the man by the collar and pulling him inside.
He shut the door.
"You live here?"
"D-Don't kill me! Please, I swear, I didn't see your faces! Take whatever you want, just don't kill me!"
The man immediately covered his eyes with both hands, trembling.
Monica nearly burst out laughing.
Still, Owen quickly searched him—he didn't seem armed, but caution was never a bad thing.
"Relax. We're FBI. We're not going to kill you."
Hearing this, the man stopped begging for his life. But he still didn't lower his hands—instead, he peeked through his fingers, cautiously scanning Owen and Monica.
Then he looked at Alex, handcuffed to the bed.
His eyes widened.
"Wait… are you two the cops from the news?"
Owen shrugged. The guy must have seen footage from the earlier bus shootout. Since they had been on an undercover protection detail, they hadn't worn masks—some grainy footage must have captured their faces.
Monica grinned slightly and offered the man a pack of gum.
He hesitated before taking a piece—clearly not because he wanted it, but because he was too scared to refuse.
Then he turned to Alex.
"So… you're the billion-dollar guy?"
Alex rolled his eyes and said nothing.
The man gave an awkward chuckle.
—
"Got anything to eat?"
Owen asked casually. After two back-to-back gunfights and a whole day of running, he was starving.
"Y-Yeah! There's sandwiches in the fridge! Also, some canned salmon and yogurt. Just bought them yesterday!"
The man instinctively got up to fetch the food, but Owen pushed him back down onto the couch.
Realizing his mistake, the man raised both hands.
"Right, right! You get it. I won't move. I'll just sit here!"
Monica opened the fridge and rummaged through it. She pulled out some bread, sausages, a tin of sardines, and a yogurt cup.
Owen took a piece of bread.
Monica grabbed a carton of milk.
Alex reached for food—but Owen kicked him aside.
"What's your name?"
Owen asked as he chewed. If he was taking over this guy's home and eating his food, he should at least know his name.
"Bellum. Il Bellum."
"Bellum, huh? Not bad." Owen nodded. "You live alone?"
"Yeah… divorced. My ex-wife took my daughter to Australia. I'm alone here."
Owen sighed. "Well, sorry for barging in. We'll be gone soon. I won't tell you my name—"
Bellum made an awkward expression.
"Uh… I actually know who you are. You're Steve Owen, right?"
Owen's expression darkened.
Bellum quickly explained.
"D-Don't be mad! I work in television—news production. After what happened this morning, people started digging into your background. You know how it is in LA—finding info on someone isn't hard…"
He took a deep breath.
"But don't worry—CTU shut it down. I don't know how, but they convinced the station to bury the story about your identity."
Owen exhaled.
So Jack Bauer had been pulling strings behind the scenes again.
That guy had saved his ass multiple times now.
Across the room, Alex smirked.
He had just memorized Owen's full name.
—
"Thanks for dinner."
Owen finished eating and wiped his mouth. He was just about to ask Bellum something else—
When he heard it.
A faint "creak" from the hallway.
The same sound as before.
This time, Monica heard it too.
They locked eyes.
Owen motioned for silence, raising his gun as he moved toward the door.
Alex shifted slightly—
But the cold barrel of Monica's pistol pressed against his temple.
Click.
She cocked the hammer.
Alex had no doubt that if he made a single noise, Monica would pull the trigger without hesitation.
Bellum, understanding the situation, turned up the TV volume, making it sound like the apartment's occupants were just relaxing.
The hallway outside fell silent.
But Owen knew someone was still there.
Hell, they were probably listening at the door right now.
And then—
The lock clicked.
Someone was picking it.
Whoever they were, they were good.
Almost as fast as Owen had been earlier.
A moment later—
The door eased open slightly.
A gun barrel slipped through the gap.
Owen had been worried about a false alarm—what if it was just a random tenant?
But the moment he saw the gun, he knew—there was no mistake.
Owen grabbed the barrel and yanked the person inside.
Pfft! Pfft!
Two silenced shots—center mass.
The attacker collapsed.
Without hesitating, Owen ripped the door open and fired into the hallway.
Clink, clink— empty shells hit the floor.
The second intruder took several bullets and slumped to the ground.
Owen peeked out.
No more movement.
The second guy was dead.
Owen shut the door—but not before firing an extra round into the first guy just to be sure.
The MK23 he had taken from the mercenaries was fully equipped—suppressor, laser sight, and extra magazines.
He had left the laser sight off but kept the suppressor on.
The shots were barely audible.
Inside, Monica was already packing up.
Bellum sat frozen on the couch.
The man who had chewed gum so casually just minutes ago…
Had just executed two men without blinking.
—
How had the enemy found them?
They had chosen this place at random.
They had changed clothes and gear.
Even if there had been tracking devices, they had switched everything.
Yet somehow, the enemy had still found them.
Owen and Monica had the same realization at the same time.
They turned to Bellum.
No—it wasn't him.
They had searched him.
He was who he said he was.
Which left only one possibility.
Their gazes shifted.
To Alex.
The cartel boss flinched.
Owen grabbed him by the collar, ready to punch—
But Alex spoke first.
"Don't hit me! It's the belt. Inside the belt."
Owen ripped off the belt and examined it.
At first, it looked normal.
Then, he snapped open the buckle.
Inside—a tiny tracking chip.
A green light flickered.
It was still active.
"We have two minutes."
Owen smashed the chip under his boot.
Monica checked the window.
"No. One minute."
As if on cue—
Screech!
Several black SUVs skidded to a stop downstairs.
_________________________
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