By the fireplace, Jennifer kept her expression neutral. She turned slightly, leaning back against the hearth as though trying to avoid the gaze of the Middle Eastern man nearby. He was one of the terrorists, and from the moment he had entered the room, he had been blatantly leering at her. If not for the presence of his superior just outside the door, there was no telling what he might have already done.
"There's only one inside," Jennifer said, barely moving her lips, her voice emerging as a low hum from her mouth. "But there are more outside…"
"If we come out through the fireplace, will he be able to see us from his position?" Owen asked.
"Don't. He's facing this way."
That wasn't good. Owen thought it over. "Can you distract him somehow? Get him to look away?"
"I'll try… um… how's George?" Jennifer couldn't help but ask.
"He's fine. Completely safe."
Owen didn't mention that Walker was right there beside him—he didn't want Jennifer getting emotional. Based on what he'd overheard earlier, at least one terrorist was paying close attention to her. Any sudden reaction would raise alarm.
Soon, they heard the soft sounds of movement—Jennifer had moved away from the fireplace.
Outside, Jennifer did exactly what Owen had hoped—she slipped away from the hearth and blended into the group of hostages, quietly whispering among them. The Middle Eastern man watched her with a leering grin. She was moving, acting shy, pretending to be unnerved by his stare. He looked over toward the door to make sure his superior wasn't paying attention, then reluctantly stayed put.
He stepped outside to speak with the guard briefly—Staz's personal man, stationed specifically to watch over the hostages. They, the mercenaries, weren't trusted with much autonomy. That fact irked him. With the prize so close, why should he wait for permission?
He came back in, grumbling, and looked around. Odd—somehow the people near Jennifer had moved away. She now stood alone, a short distance from the others, seemingly ostracized. But the reason was obvious to him: everyone had seen he had his eyes on her. No one wanted to be caught in the crossfire. Good—let them stay back. Sooner or later, the woman would be his.
In the chimney, Owen and Walker saw the light dim. Footsteps shuffled near the fireplace.
Then a faint voice said, "You can come out. We're blocking his view…"
Owen hesitated, then decided to trust them. Quiet as a shadow, he climbed down the flue, crouching low upon landing. Peeking through a gap between legs, he saw the lecherous mercenary—his eyes fixed on Jennifer.
Walker followed, also crouching behind the group. Owen held him back, fearing he might rush in, but Walker stayed still, staring at Jennifer in silent longing.
Owen slowly drew his knife, gripping it in a reverse hold.
The Middle Eastern man was starting to lose control. With no one standing near Jennifer, her isolated beauty ignited his lust. Licking his lips, he decided to act. Consequences be damned.
But before he could move, a flash of silver streaked through the air. His brain barely registered the glint before the blade pierced his eye socket.
The women nearly screamed—but managed to stifle it, trembling as the leering man collapsed dead on the spot. Owen stood over the body.
He immediately moved to the door, hiding behind it, ready for any reaction from the guard outside. But the hallway remained quiet.
Walker, no longer able to restrain himself, rushed toward Jennifer—only to be floored by a sudden spinning kick.
"Back off, creep! I'm a black-belt, ninth-dan in karate! Don't touch me! I'm engaged!" Jennifer barked, her voice fierce. If this man hadn't come from the chimney, she would've done a lot worse. That kick alone could ruin his chances with women for life.
"Babe… it's me! George!"
"George? Oh my God, what did I just do!?"
Her tone flipped instantly, going from enraged warrior to overjoyed sweetheart. Tears welled in her eyes. Her prince had come to rescue her—granted, this time, her prince was a little… soot-stained.
Owen signaled everyone to quiet down. Miraculously, no one outside seemed to have noticed anything amiss.
"Is it just you? Where's the rest of the team?" someone asked, clearly disappointed.
Owen didn't answer. He'd already checked—only one guard stood outside, but other terrorists were stationed nearby. He could take out the guard quietly, but couldn't guarantee he could evacuate everyone without being noticed.
He needed help.
"Carol?" he whispered into his comm.
…
In the Pentagon, Carol picked up the signal. "Owen?"
"Listen carefully. I don't have much time. I'm in the Blue Room on the third floor. There are about twenty hostages here. We have to use the fireplace flue. Is there any safe place we can hide them?"
"The Blue Room… the flue…" She paused, thinking. "Yes! About one floor up, there's a horizontal passage. At the end of that passage, there's a sealed-off area. If you break through, it leads to the maintenance level—between floors four and five. Almost no one ever goes there."
"Got it. I'll try it."
Just as he was about to hang up, Carol stopped him.
"Wait—Owen. How's the president?"
"He's fine. I've hidden him somewhere safe. But listen, Carol—don't tell anyone."
And with that, he cut the line. In the movies, she was a good person—Owen chose to trust she was the same here.
…
Ten minutes later, a sealed ventilation grate burst open. Owen jumped down, phone flashlight in hand, scanning the surroundings.
Just like Carol said—this was the maintenance level.
He waved the group forward. One by one, the hostages climbed through the flue and dropped down behind him like dumplings falling into soup.
…
In the Pentagon, Carol stared at her disconnected phone, hesitating. In the end, she decided to keep Owen's secret.
She too could sense—this thing wasn't as simple as it seemed.
(End of Chapter)
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