The issue of equipment was minor—what came next was the real deal.
"There's one more thing," Owen said.
"What is it?" Jack asked, entirely unaware of what was coming.
Owen took a deep breath. "I need Bob Lee Swagger."
"Are you out of your mind?" Jack looked at him like he'd lost it. "That man assassinated the Ethiopian Archbishop on live television in front of the entire country."
"Come on, we both know what really happened," Owen shot back. "I need him, Jack. I need the best damn sniper we can get, and he's it."
Owen's tone left no room for negotiation. He wasn't just speaking for the team—he was also speaking from personal conviction. The Rapid Response Team truly needed an elite sniper, and Owen genuinely wanted his old friend to stop living like a fugitive, hiding across Europe.
Back during the archbishop assassination incident, Swagger was the only one who came out of it with nothing. Owen had earned Jack and the new president's trust. Jack had taken over CTU. The president had secured a smooth transfer of power. But Swagger? He was left with a bounty on his head and nowhere to go.
The political heat had long since cooled down. Owen figured now was the time to try and help his friend.
Jack sighed. Of course, he knew Swagger was innocent—but this was politics.
"What do you want me to do?"
That gave Owen hope. He probed: "A presidential pardon?"
"Don't even think about it. That's impossible," Jack said flatly. "No president's going to pardon someone accused of assassinating a foreign religious leader—not unless they're planning to quit politics entirely."
Owen nodded. He'd figured that was a long shot anyway. If a pardon were possible, David Palmer would've done it years ago.
"How about a new identity?"
Now that was more realistic. Every year, the FBI and CIA helped people fake deaths and assume new lives—agents, witnesses, undercover cops, even law enforcement officials targeted by cartels. Swagger would be just one more.
"Let me think..." Jack frowned, deep in thought.
Owen waited silently. He had no idea if CTU had an internal mechanism for something like this.
"Alright," Jack finally said. "I'll take care of the identity. But I'll need to speak with the president first. What about Swagger himself? You sure he'll agree to come back?"
"Leave that to me. I'll handle it," Owen said confidently. "Just make sure the logistics are squared away."
"Should be fine."
Owen had no doubt he could convince Swagger. Despite all the bitterness he probably felt toward Washington, Swagger was, deep down, a patriot—even if he didn't realize it himself.
Colonel Johnson had played on that sense of duty once before to get him to return. Owen believed he could do it again. And with a new identity that let him move freely within the U.S.—his home—who wouldn't want that?
With Jack's support, Owen brought up the language training issue next. That was easy—Jack instructed his assistant to arrange tutors immediately.
Owen left the office to give Jack some space—he had a call to make to President Palmer.
Back at the operations floor, Monica and Heartbeat were sitting idly. Their workstations were adjacent to the regular field ops team. In the short time they'd been there, Heartbeat had already made friends with several of the agents. Monica, of course, remained her usual frosty self.
"Alright, folks—let's check out our weapons," Owen said.
For now, their team shared an armory with the field ops division. Once procurement was complete, CTU would build a dedicated arsenal for the Rapid Response Team.
They scanned their fingerprints to enter. The weapons selection was about the same as CTU Los Angeles: M4A1s, HK416s, SCAR-Hs, MK18 carbines, even some AKMs. Submachine guns included MP5s, MP7s, and P90s. The pistol section was extensive—pretty much every major sidearm was present.
Unlike CTU Los Angeles, where Glock 22s were mandatory, the Washington office didn't seem to enforce strict weapon standardization. That didn't sound like Jack's style—he always liked consistency.
Owen glanced toward Simon Riley's empty desk. Something told him Jack had wanted to enforce uniformity here, too—but someone had changed his mind. That someone was most likely Simon Riley, head of the field ops team.
With nothing urgent to do, Owen gathered his team for target practice. He wanted the Rapid Response Team to stay sharp at all times.
One floor of the CTU building had been converted into various training rooms: combat, firearms—you name it.
They carried their gear to the range. Owen chose his weapons randomly—he made it a point to stay proficient with as many systems as possible. That wasn't just good practice—it was essential. He rarely used the same firearm twice. Aside from his standard Glock 22, he'd always adapted to whatever was on hand. Many times, he'd used weapons he'd picked off the enemy.
Monica, on the other hand, might need some time to adjust. As a SWAT officer, she'd trained almost exclusively with the M4A1. Even in IPSC competitions, Owen had seen her favor that rifle. He wasn't sure how she'd handle switching to new platforms.
When they entered, someone was already practicing—Simon Riley.
He was entirely focused on his shooting and didn't even notice them.
The three spread out to practice. Owen didn't start right away—he watched Riley's technique first. The man was good. His grouping was tight, consistently landing inside the 8-ring. Definitely a pro. No surprise, given his background in the British SAS. No wonder he was CTU HQ's field ops chief.
Satisfied, Owen turned to his own practice. This time, he chose the infamous FN Five-seven—nicknamed the "cop killer."
When Owen had spotted it in the gun rack, he'd done a double-take. He even checked the specs. CTU's Five-sevens were military-grade, loaded with 5.7mm SS190 rounds.
This was a favorite among Mexican cartels. While most sidearms—9mm, .45, even .357 or .44 Magnum—struggled against modern body armor, the FN Five-seven was a different beast.
It could punch through soft armor rated up to NIJ Level IIIa without hard plates—that was its biggest selling point.
For comparison: a standard 9mm like the Glock 17 fired at about 370 m/s. The FN Five-seven's SS190 round? 650 m/s—nearly rivaling the 710 m/s of an AK. And the bullet had a steel core.
High velocity plus steel core meant this weapon could pierce virtually any flexible armor on the market. That's how it earned its reputation as a "cop killer."
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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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