In the stairwell, Owen was sprinting upward while simultaneously calling Beth, who answered within a second.
"Beth, get your people and get out of the building. Don't use the elevator. Take the stairs. It's dangerous to stay inside—"
If it were anyone else, they'd probably ask why. But Beth trusted Owen unconditionally. If he told her to do something, she'd do it—even if she didn't understand why.
While Beth and her bodyguards rushed downward, Owen was going up.
It had only just occurred to him—if the shooter had barricaded himself inside and was still firing, that meant he never intended to leave alive. That kind of suspect—the kind with a death wish—was the worst.
A suicide bomber? The thought flashed through Owen's mind—but it didn't feel right. He'd read plenty of profiles on extremists like that, even if he hadn't faced them personally. This didn't fit the pattern.
33rd Floor
Owen burst into the room directly above the shooter's with a single heavy kick.
The door flew open. Inside, a man and woman stood naked in front of the window, apparently watching the chaos below. The bed behind them bore all the signs of just-finished sex.
The woman's expression instantly shifted when she saw Owen. She instinctively opened her mouth to scream.
"Shut up!"
Owen pointed his gun at her. The scream caught in her throat and died.
"Please, don't hurt her. All the cash is in the wallet on the nightstand. You can take it all—"
The man stammered nervously, then paused, his expression changing.
Owen stared at him. He looked familiar.
"You!"
"You!"
They both exclaimed at the same time.
Owen remembered now. The guy's name was Walker—George Walker, if he recalled correctly. A politician's kid. Back when Swagger was framed for trying to assassinate the Ethiopian archbishop, Owen had faked a convenience store robbery to delay the bad guys while the satellite locked onto its target.
Walker had been one of the "tourists" in that store. Tried to play hero—almost got himself shot. His girlfriend had spilled his identity trying to save him, and that's what had made Owen remember him.
And now, this couple just happened to be in New York, in a hotel room directly above a mass shooter.
Owen looked at the two of them and felt like he was looking at a pair of cursed magnets. How unlucky did you have to be to stumble into this kind of chaos twice?
George Walker recognized him, too. Of course he did—his father had been a top military official in Indiana. Looking up Owen's identity afterward had been child's play.
Now, seeing Owen here again, George felt like his luck had officially bottomed out. Unlike Owen, who thought they were the cursed ones, George was convinced that Owen was the true curse—every time he showed up, something horrible happened.
Last time, he got robbed and had his nose broken in front of Jennifer. This time? Who knew.
Realizing they were both stark naked, George instinctively stepped in front of Jennifer and glared.
Owen ignored him. He shoved them away from the window and took their place, peering downward.
The plaza was littered with bodies. Blood everywhere. Sirens blared—squad cars were pulling up now. Owen checked his watch: 12 minutes since the first shots. Not bad response time from the NYPD.
Bang bang bang bang bang bang bang—
But the arrival of the police hadn't slowed the shooter at all. The gunfire continued without pause.
Across the street, more windows shattered. More people slumped to the floor behind glass.
Damn it. The bastard had switched targets. Now he was aiming at people inside the opposite building.
Owen leaned out and scanned downward. He couldn't see the muzzle, but one window was shattered—that was the shooter's perch.
Owen looked around. Nothing particularly useful—until he spotted a length of rope sewn into the curtain. He examined it—six-strand, not bad.
Every second counted. Each moment he hesitated meant another person died.
Screw it. Let's try this.
He pulled the rope loose and doubled it over to increase the strength. It was sturdy enough—but too short. He looked around the room for more rope. Nothing.
Then his gaze settled on the couple.
"You—what are you doing?!"
Walker immediately sensed bad news. Owen ignored him. He pulled out a pair of handcuffs and, without a word, locked one of Walker's wrists to the iron balcony rail. Then he tied the rope's end to his other hand.
"Hey! Let me go! What are you doing—"
Owen turned to the girl. "Do you love him?"
"W-what? I—yes!" Jennifer stammered, still covering herself, but quickly nodded.
"Then I suggest you hold on to him."
"What do you mean—'hold on'?"
Before she could finish, Owen wrapped the other end of the rope around his own wrist, stepped onto the railing—and jumped out the window.
"AAAAAAHHHHHHH!"
Walker screamed. The rope yanked his arm forward, dragging him halfway out the window. His other wrist, still cuffed to the railing, strained under the pressure—he felt like his bones were about to snap.
He dangled half-outside the building, on the verge of blacking out—but the pain in his arm kept him conscious. He didn't know if he wanted the cuff to break or hold tighter.
Jennifer screamed too, pulling on George's arm with everything she had. In that moment, she really regretted suggesting they visit New York.
Meanwhile, midair, Owen held one hand on the rope and the other on his pistol, adjusting his balance as he fell.
Then—the rope snapped taut. Owen's motion swung from vertical to horizontal, turning him into a human pendulum.
At the apex of the swing, he spotted the shooter.
A bald white male, stocky, armed with an M4A1 fitted with a scope. He stood just behind the shattered window, fully focused on the carnage below.
Because of the narrow field of view from the scope, he never saw Owen coming.
Crack!
Owen fired just before impact, shattering the tempered glass. At the same time, he released the rope.
He crashed through the window, rolled on the floor to break his fall, and engaged bullet time.
In that instant, his peripheral vision scanned the entire room—just the shooter. No hostages. The only entrance was blocked by stacked furniture.
Time slowed. Owen shouted: "DROP THE GUN!"
There was no suicide vest—but the shooter had two grenades on his chest. In a crowded place, they'd be just as deadly.
The warning didn't faze Jim, the shooter. He spun the rifle toward Owen. He'd been caught off-guard—but he was confident he could still shoot first.
He was wrong.
BANG BANG.
Two rapid shots. Muzzle flashes.
Owen's bullets spun through the air, both drilling into the left side of Jim's head.
Jim's thoughts went blank. He hadn't prepared for this. He had planned to kill himself in the end—but Owen didn't even give him that chance.
------------------
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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)
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