Walker was excited—very excited—because the idea to disguise themselves as enemies using black hoods had been his sudden brainwave. And the results had been surprisingly effective.
Although no one else said anything, Walker believed he saw a trace of approval in President Palmer's eyes, along with recognition, admiration, and reverence—all sorts of emotions. Of course, President Palmer wasn't an actor and couldn't express that many feelings at once through his eyes, but the rest was Walker's own interpretation.
Owen listened carefully. No more footsteps could be heard. It seemed only those two enemy teams had been in the area—for now, they were safe.
...
Around a corner, Stevenson glanced anxiously toward the hallway. Just moments ago, Morris and the others had gone to check out the gunshots, and then there'd been no further sound.
Stevenson suppressed his curiosity—he still had to guard the hostages in the room. Suddenly, there was a slight noise from around the corner. He raised his gun, cautiously moving closer.
In CQB (Close Quarters Battle), corners were extremely dangerous. Most firefights and casualties occurred at such places. Stevenson moved slowly but precisely, slicing the pie bit by bit. If anyone was there, he would spot and eliminate them the moment they came into view.
But he underestimated Owen's cunning. As he was halfway through slicing the corner, a shadow suddenly darted out. Stevenson reflexively fired—only to realize he'd shot at a bulletproof vest that had been thrown at him.
Too late. That was his last conscious thought.
A second later, Owen lunged from the corner, shoved aside Stevenson's weapon with one hand, and pressed his P229 against Stevenson's head with the other. He pulled the trigger at close range.
Blood sprayed all over Owen's face. He wiped it off with a sleeve and led the group past the body to the room's door. Since the man they'd just killed had been guarding it, it was likely filled with hostages.
In Owen's mind, it would be best not to enter, regardless of who was inside. If it really was full of hostages, leading one person out was already risky enough—bringing a group would be exponentially harder. But President Palmer clearly disagreed.
Inside the room, the crowd huddled together in unease. They were ordinary White House staff—clerks, secretaries, maintenance workers, switchboard operators. When the crisis broke out, the terrorists had rounded them up and locked them here.
No one knew what would happen next. If Hollywood was any guide, they'd either be executed on live TV as a statement or saved by a lone hero. Everyone hoped for the latter, but they were adults. They knew reality and fiction were two very different things.
Sudden gunfire outside made them even more anxious. Then, to their horror, a blood-soaked head appeared at the door, causing several women to scream.
"Shhhh\~\~\~\~"
The bloody-faced man made a silencing gesture, and the room immediately fell quiet. That face alone was intimidating enough. Then, the door opened fully and President Palmer stepped inside.
For a moment, the group was stunned. Then, cheers erupted—only to be quickly stifled by another silencing gesture from the bloodied man.
"Friends, I'm David Palmer. What's happened at the White House today is terrible, but seeing you all alive is very good news..."
The President showed his warm, human side, and the crowd stirred again.
"Mr. President, are you here to rescue us?"
"Did you defeat the terrorists?"
"President..."
One question after another. Palmer felt a little awkward, but politicians were good at brushing past such things.
"Everyone, please quiet down. This is Agent Owen—he has a few questions for you..."
Palmer smoothly handed the conversation over to Owen. As all eyes turned to him, Owen realized the President clearly intended to take the hostages with them. He sighed, throwing Palmer a glance and said, "The White House interior and rooftop are under terrorist control, but their numbers are limited. We still have a chance to escape—see, President Palmer is living proof of that..."
He started by encouraging them, then moved to the problem at hand. "The most urgent issue now is that no matter which side we try to exit from, we'll have to cross more than a hundred meters of open lawn. That's more than enough space for the rooftop snipers to gun us down. Does anyone know of a way that leads directly outside—like a sewer line or a secret passage?"
Owen wasn't expecting much. Asking was just a last-ditch effort. Even thinking about it, a secret tunnel under the White House seemed implausible. The one known tunnel existed only due to historical reasons—normally, the Secret Service would never allow such a thing.
Sure enough, someone in a blue work uniform spoke up. "Impossible, Agent. All of the White House's underground drainage pipes are welded shut. And the diameter's far too small for a human to pass through anyway..."
Judging by his uniform, he was clearly a White House maintenance worker. Pipes were his specialty, so what he said was likely true. As for the other white-collar staff, knowing anything about secret tunnels was even less likely.
This bad news deflated the group's morale. Owen had no better ideas for the moment either. If all else failed, they'd have to wait until nightfall. Under the cover of darkness, their chances would improve.
But then, the same blue-collar worker hesitated and added, "There's no direct way out—but I do know of a utility trench that leads to the gas room. That's about thirty meters from the perimeter fence. Maybe that could work?"
Yes. Absolutely yes!
Owen wanted to hug and kiss the guy. Why couldn't he have said that in one go?
The biggest issue had been the 100-meter open stretch. If they could cut that down to 30 meters, and coordinate with their backup, their odds of escape improved dramatically.
After questioning the worker in detail, Owen had to admit—it was an unexpected windfall. The White House did use natural gas, but for safety reasons, the gas hub was located outside the main building, beyond the lawn. A pipe ran from there to the White House, and for maintenance access, the pipeline wasn't buried directly underground—it had a service trench. That gave them a way to crawl through.
"How do we get to it?"
Owen needed to know every detail, every possible risk. The maintenance worker was clearly nervous—now everyone was looking at him. He was the group's only hope. Their fates hinged on his answer.
The pressure mounted. He thought for a moment, then stammered, "Y-you have to go to the basement level... There's a utility door there that leads straight to the trench."
(End of Chapter)
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