Bang, bang, bang, bang, bang, bang, bang—
Standing at the door of the room, Owen listened as the rhythmic gunfire continued. The shooter showed no signs of stopping.
Owen was calculating. By now, at least three minutes had passed since the first shots. For all that time, a single assault rifle had been firing. Logically, that meant only one shooter—but no one could be certain.
That uncertainty was dangerous. Owen only had a Walther P99 and a standard-issue Glock 17, while the shooter had an automatic weapon—and possibly backup.
If Owen charged in blindly and there were multiple shooters, he'd be outgunned and outnumbered. Best case, he'd fail. Worst case, he'd be leaving the room under a flag.
He didn't even have a bulletproof vest—everything had happened so suddenly. Realistically, the smart move would be to wait and call for backup. At least wait for the SWAT team. But every second he waited meant more people dying downstairs.
Owen wrestled with himself.
Finally, he decided—he had to act.
If he stood there waiting, he was no better than the officer he'd just knocked out—paralyzed by fear. Besides, it would take at least ten minutes for SWAT to arrive. In that time, the shooter could slaughter everyone in the plaza.
Owen took a deep breath. He'd wait for the exact moment the shooter changed magazines. That would be his window to strike—and hopefully stay alive doing it.
One second.
Two seconds.
Three seconds…
Time crawled. Owen checked the status of both pistols again.
Urban close-quarters combat was always dangerous. So many unknowns. Usually, there was no time to react—whoever shot first, won. There was little room to miss in tight spaces.
He had no idea if there were others in the room. No idea if there were hostages. No idea where they were positioned.
Owen breathed deep again. Taking out the shooter was top priority. He had run through every possibility in his head. The moment he heard a reload, he would break in. Bullet time—if the shooter used a hostage, then curve the shot…
So many scenarios, all racing through his mind in just a few seconds.
Then—silence. He heard the telltale click of a magazine being removed.
Now!
Owen sprang from behind the corner, fired a shot at the door lock as he ran, then kicked the lock zone with full force. It was his planned two-step entry: gunshot plus brute force.
The kick did its job—the lock blasted inward, leaving a gaping hole. In theory, the door should've swung open. But in reality, the hole was there and the door didn't budge.
Shit—
Owen slammed into the door, nearly smashing his nose. Then he realized what had happened: through the hole where the lock had been, he couldn't see inside the room—it was completely blocked. The bastard had barricaded the door with furniture.
Cursing under his breath, Owen cursed himself for not anticipating this.
Just then, a terrible thought struck him. Without hesitating, he dropped flat to the ground—just as a fresh volley of gunfire tore through the door above him.
Bang bang bang bang bang bang—
Owen scrambled, firing blindly as cover while crawling for safety.
He didn't know if 9mm rounds could penetrate the door, but he did know that staying put was a death sentence.
Debris rained down on him—first wood splinters, then plaster dust.
The shooter inside was no amateur. He quickly figured out that Owen had moved to the side and began firing through the wall, sweeping in a straight line.
The hotel walls weren't made to stop bullets. The assault rifle's rounds ripped through like paper, leaving a neat row of holes across the drywall.
Owen's only stroke of luck was that he'd dropped to the floor immediately. The shots were all aimed at torso height—he was filthy and shaken, but unharmed.
Once he cleared the corner, the gunfire stopped. The shooter was likely trying to assess if the person outside was still alive. Owen didn't fire back, holding perfectly still.
Silence returned.
After ten or so seconds, the shooter, probably thinking Owen was dead, resumed firing—this time back toward the plaza.
Crouched behind the corner, Owen checked himself—no wounds. He stood and ran. There was no way through that door now. And with only handguns, he couldn't breach through walls like the shooter could.
He needed another plan.
Behind him, the killing began again.
In the shooter's scope, two women in business suits collapsed, blood blossoming from their torsos. A man who tried to help was gunned down next. The shooter then began scanning for new targets.
But this time, there weren't any easy ones. Everyone had scattered or taken cover. Windows, steps, awnings—every vantage point was now empty or blocked.
The chaos had settled. People were learning: the shots were coming from across the street, probably from that high-rise. While they still didn't know the exact floor, they did know where not to be.
Jim lowered his eye from the scope and looked out.
If he couldn't hit people in the plaza, he had other options. His new targets became the figures behind the glass windows of the office building across the street—curious faces peeking out.
Jim's lips curled into a cold smile. The ones behind that glass—those smug men in private offices—were all senior executives at various financial firms.
They were the true cause of the financial crisis.
Why should we, the ordinary people, pay for their greed?
After the crisis, they still had millions. Tens of millions.
But he… he had nothing.
His money was gone. He never should have listened to that bastard about investing in a fund.
Now he was broke. His house was foreclosed just yesterday.
But that wasn't even the worst part. His wife, Alyssa—who suffered from kidney failure and needed weekly dialysis—had relied on that money.
He'd tried to hide the truth. But the bank contacted her while he was out. She found out everything.
And then she killed herself.
When Jim came home and found her in the bathtub, the water red, wrists slit—his world crumbled.
He had once been one of the best snipers in the military, but after being wounded in action, he was forced to retire. Life afterward had been nothing but despair.
Wall Street's leeches and this financial crisis hadn't just stolen his pension. They'd destroyed his family.
He had waited, thinking the country might act. But no—just finger-pointing, politicians blaming corporations and vice versa. No one took responsibility.
The poor were expected to foot the bill.
Protests? Useless. The cops were on Wall Street's payroll.
Jim had lost everything. Now, maybe only the rifle in his hands could deliver justice.
He would take these greedy bastards down with him.
He even gave his mission a name:
Operation: Invasion of Wall Street.
And with that, he pulled the trigger again.
------------------
Enjoying the story? Support the author and get early access to chapters by joining my Patre@n!
Find me at: patre@n*com/Mutter
You can read each novel for $5 or get them all for just $15.
Fairy Tail: Igneel's Eldest Son (Chapter 256)
I Am Thalos, Odin's Older Brother (Chapter 336)
Reborn in America's Anti-Terror Unit (Chapter 542)
Solomon in Marvel (Chapter 924)
Becoming the Wealthiest Tycoon on the Planet (Chapter 1284)
Surgical Fruit in the American Comics Universe (Chapter 1289)
American Detective: From TV Rookie to Seasoned Cop (Chapter 1316)
American TV Writer (Chapter 1402)
I Am Hades, The Supreme GOD of the Underworld! (Chapter 570)
Reborn as Humanity's Emperor Across the Multiverse (Chapter 660)
[+50 Power Stones = +1 Extra Chapter]
[+5 Reviews = +1 Extra Chapter]