The grenade never exploded. The sound of bullets leaving the barrel and a grenade going off were in entirely different leagues. If a grenade had actually gone off, it would've definitely alerted the other terrorists—essentially delivering the hostages in the engineering level right back into enemy hands. So Owen had merely used the grenade as a distraction. The real killer move was his gunfire afterward.
Martin reacted fast—but Owen was faster. Before Martin could even get off the ground, he felt a sudden force on his right hand. Looking up, he saw a hand gripping the slide of his P229 pistol, the thumb locking the trigger from behind. Martin tried pulling it, but no matter how hard he pressed, the gun wouldn't fire.
Then came a flash of silver. Pain erupted from Martin's right wrist—blood sprayed. Just as he instinctively tried to pull back, another excruciating pain exploded from his groin. It tore through his nerves and slammed into his brain, and the next moment, he blacked out.
At that moment, Walker cautiously poked his head out of his hiding spot—Owen had told him to find cover before the fight started. Now, as he looked at the four bodies sprawled across the corridor and Martin curled up on the floor with his butt in the air, Walker instinctively pressed his thighs together.
He recognized the man. Martin, the Director of the Secret Service. The chief of presidential security. Anytime the president appeared in public, if you looked closely enough, Martin would always be in the frame somewhere.
Well… he was probably in a lot of pain now.
"Stop standing there like an idiot and help me out!" Owen shouted, stripping Martin of his weapons while calling over the still-staring Walker. After binding Martin's wounds in a quick field dressing, the two of them each took one of his arms and dragged him out of the area.
As for the noise from the MP5, Owen wasn't worried. The deafening hum of machinery in the engineering level easily drowned it out.
…
In a dimly lit room elsewhere in the White House, Martin was now tied securely to a chair. Owen grabbed a flower vase from a nearby table and splashed the water over his face. Then he pulled up a chair, straddled it backwards, and stared Martin down while casually playing with the Buck combat knife he'd confiscated.
"Director Martin. Good to see you again," Owen said with a wide smile.
Martin shook his head as his consciousness returned. He looked at Owen with no sign of panic. "Who are you? Oh—you're one of Jack's men…"
Martin didn't actually know Owen. He'd seen him a few times when Owen had accompanied Jack to visit President Palmer, but never learned his name.
Before Owen could respond, Martin continued, "You're strong. You took out my team in one sweep. A guy like you shouldn't be risking your life at CTU for peanuts. Give me the president, and I'll cut you in. Fifty million. That's enough to live like a king anywhere on Earth."
Owen nearly burst out laughing. Martin was talking as if he was the one holding the power.
"Alright, cut the crap. Don't waste my time—it won't work. No one's coming to rescue you. Trust me, I'm a professional in this field."
Martin wasn't embarrassed. His mind was racing.
Just minutes ago, he'd confidently led a tactical team into the engineering level to capture Owen. Now, the tables had turned completely. His team had been cut down like wheat before a scythe, and he was the one tied up, at his enemy's mercy.
There was only one reason Owen hadn't killed him—he wanted information. Otherwise, Martin would already be lying dead next to his men. He could already guess what was about to happen.
"Director Martin, I'll say this once, so listen carefully," Owen said, his tone going cold.
"I want your cooperation. Don't waste my time with tricks. The more you cooperate, the less pain you'll feel. If you don't… well, I have all the tools I need to make you wish you were dead."
With that, Owen scraped the blade of his knife against his clothes, the sound grating in the silence. Then he turned to Walker. "Mind turning your head away? The next bit might be a little much for you."
Walker scowled. "Come on, man. Give me some credit." He stood his ground, not budging.
Owen ignored him and began the interrogation.
"Where are the remaining hostages? You've got thirty seconds."
He tapped a button on his watch, starting the stopwatch function. His gaze shifted back and forth between the ticking seconds and Martin's face.
Martin stayed silent. As a veteran agent before becoming Secret Service director, he'd seen these pressure tactics a hundred times. They didn't faze him.
Owen didn't rush. He simply watched as the seconds ticked by. Thirty seconds passed. Martin said nothing.
Owen showed no sign of frustration. He calmly reset the timer—then, without hesitation, pressed one hand over Martin's mouth and drove the knife deep into his thigh with the other.
A muffled scream broke out.
Owen withdrew the blade and said coldly, "I may be short on time, but I have plenty for this. Don't test my patience."
"Second chance. Where are the hostages? Where are the Secretary of Defense and the Secretary of State?" He restarted the timer and stared coldly at Martin. "You've got thirty seconds."
"FUCK—"
Martin swore in rage and pain. It had been a long time since he'd experienced anything like this.
But it only earned him another strike.
Owen covered his mouth again and shoved the knife back into the same wound, this time twisting it.
Martin made a strangled sound and thrashed violently. His body shook like a leaf. Then he let out a high-pitched cry—his pain had reached its breaking point. He convulsed for a moment, then slumped over like a soaked rag doll.
"Same question. Still thirty seconds," Owen said, resetting the timer. The quiet tick of the watch's second hand echoed in the room.
Owen's voice was robotic—utterly devoid of emotion. Walker, watching from the side, felt the hairs on his neck stand up. He wanted to look away but couldn't. He was horrified, yet morbidly curious.
Martin didn't respond. He just sat there, trembling, staring at Owen. Fear was in his eyes now—clear as day. But he also hesitated. He knew Owen wasn't bluffing. He also knew exactly how people like Owen were trained. Death would be a mercy. These people had a thousand ways to make you beg for it.
Owen couldn't read Martin's mind. When the timer once again hit zero, he stood up. A new round of torment was about to begin.
"No, wait—I'll talk! I'll talk!"
Martin finally broke, flinching away from Owen as if avoiding the plague.
"Where are the hostages?"
"The Yellow Room. On the top floor. All of them are there. The Secretary of Defense and the Secretary of State too…"
Owen stared into Martin's eyes. He had no way of knowing if Martin was lying. At this level, you couldn't tell truth from lies. You could only rely on instinct.
"What about White Mask? What do you know about them?"
(End of Chapter)
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