Twenty minutes later, two cars arrived at the prison almost simultaneously.
The facility had changed significantly since Alex Montel was incarcerated. Security had been reinforced several times over—not only were there crash barriers at the entrance, but armed soldiers with automatic rifles patrolled the perimeter.
Owen and his team's fast arrival nearly caused a misunderstanding. The machine gunners on the prison walls trained their weapons on them, ready to turn them into Swiss cheese at the slightest provocation.
When they stopped the car, the soldiers didn't move the barricades aside.
"Lower your window. Let me see your hands."
Two soldiers approached Owen's car cautiously, their weapons aimed subtly but deliberately, fingers resting on the triggers.
Owen complied, then gestured that he was reaching for identification. Once given permission, he produced his badge.
Los Angeles Counter-Terrorism Unit, Junior Agent, Steve Owen.
The lead soldier returned Owen's ID and went to check Ash's car. The other soldier remained on high alert, scanning their vehicles with sharp eyes.
Owen glanced up and saw more machine gunners and snipers positioned on the walls, all focused on them.
After a thorough inspection, their identities were confirmed. Owen expected to be granted access immediately. Instead, the response was a firm denial.
"Why? I'm with CTU. I have a case that requires the suspect's cooperation in an investigation," Owen argued, his frustration growing.
"No one is allowed to see Alex Montel without FBI authorization," the soldier responded coldly, never removing his hand from his weapon. He had likely noticed the firearms inside Owen's vehicle and was particularly wary of him.
"But we are with the FBI," Ash snapped. Monica's life depended on this meeting.
"Sorry, I should've been clearer," the soldier replied. "Only Director Womack of the FBI can authorize it. Any other request is invalid."
The three exchanged glances. The soldier's stance was unwavering—they took orders from their chain of command, not from CTU or even the FBI unless it came from Womack himself.
They weren't getting in. They had no choice but to go find Womack.
Back in the car, heading toward the FBI headquarters, Owen considered reaching out to Chloe for surveillance assistance.
The kidnappers were obviously planning to transport Monica to Colombia.
But without any details on their vehicle, personnel count, or route, tracking them was near impossible. Los Angeles had multiple private airstrips, and if the kidnappers had enough resources, they could fly her out directly.
Even CTU lacked the authority to lock down the entire city. The best Owen could do was call in favors with some police contacts to flag suspicious activity on key state highways—though how effective that would be remained uncertain.
Their two cars sped through the streets, running multiple red lights before finally arriving at FBI headquarters.
---
Elsewhere in Los Angeles—A Secluded Road
A large truck rumbled down a deserted side street, making the ground tremble slightly as it passed.
Once it was gone, the road fell silent again. Though the area was within city limits, traffic here was scarce.
Suddenly, a manhole cover shifted. A moment later, someone pushed it open and peeked out, scanning the surroundings.
Seeing the coast was clear, the man climbed out. Another followed. Then a third.
By the time the last person emerged, they replaced the cover.
It was Andrew's mercenary squad.
Fortunately for them, this was an isolated area—no stores, no homes. Even in full tactical gear, their presence didn't cause alarm.
Andrew and his men oriented themselves and walked toward an intersection.
Minutes later, two black Jeeps approached from the distance, stopping at the curb.
A group of men stepped out, led by a burly bearded man with a bandaged arm.
He greeted them with a boisterous laugh, stepping forward for an embrace—only to suddenly freeze.
"Boss… why are there only four of you? Where's Terry?"
The four mercenaries who had been smiling moments ago fell silent. The others quickly realized what that meant, their expressions darkening.
After a few seconds, Andrew finally spoke. "Terry didn't make it. We were ambushed. He couldn't escape."
"Shit!"
The bearded man, Trudeau, roared and kicked the Jeep's door in frustration.
"I knew we shouldn't have come to the U.S.! Dammit! Why the hell are we even here?" He fumed. "Neil's dead. Thomas is dead. And now Terry?! Fuck this! I'm gonna kill that bitch and avenge Terry—"
Trudeau whipped out his pistol and stormed toward the Jeep's rear, yanking open the trunk, about to fire.
BANG!
At the last second, Andrew grabbed his arm, causing the shot to go wide. Then he slammed Trudeau against the vehicle.
"Calm the fuck down, Trudeau!"
The bearded man struggled but couldn't break free from Andrew's grip.
Andrew yelled in his face, "You need to think! Terry is dead. Killing her won't bring him back. But if you shoot her now, we lose a million dollars for nothing!"
Trudeau huffed, his heavy breaths filled with rage, glaring at Andrew.
Andrew met his stare without flinching.
Only after Trudeau began running out of energy did Andrew speak again.
"I'm letting go now. Don't do anything stupid. You need to take this money and go home. Buy your mother a new house. Let her live comfortably for once."
He added coldly, "Don't throw Terry's death away for nothing. Think before you act."
Andrew released him.
Trudeau stood there, panting heavily. He was clearly unwilling—but in the end, he holstered his pistol and sat back inside the Jeep without another word.
The others knew Trudeau had accepted reality—he and Terry had been brothers-in-arms, but in this line of work, death was inevitable.
Andrew and the rest turned to the Jeep's trunk, where Monica was.
Inside, Monica lay bound with duct tape around her wrists and ankles, her mouth also taped shut. She looked battered, her forehead slightly swollen—evidence of the rough treatment she had endured.
But her eyes remained defiant.
"Shit, she's not blindfolded! Andrew, she saw our faces!" one of the mercenaries shouted.
"Doesn't matter. She knows my name too."
Andrew shot the man an annoyed glance. The idiot had just said his name out loud in front of her.
The guy shrunk back sheepishly, realizing his mistake.
Andrew, however, was completely unfazed.
"Do you even know why the Montel family wants her?" he asked dryly.
"She'll never get the chance to leak our identities—not in this lifetime."
Andrew was in a foul mood. He wanted to kill her himself just to vent, but as the squad leader, he couldn't afford such impulses.
They had fought in countless battles worldwide. They had even waged war for the Montel cartel against rival factions in Colombia—and never lost this many men.
Yet ever since arriving in the U.S., things had gone south. Every operation had cost them dearly, with nearly half their original squad wiped out.
Thinking of Owen, Andrew gritted his teeth.
If they had captured him, Andrew would've gladly given up the bounty just to torture him to death.
He glanced down at Monica and warned, "You'd better behave. Otherwise, my men might just take their payment in advance…"
Then, the trunk slammed shut.
The mercenaries got into the Jeeps, engines roaring to life.
They sped off—heading for their next destination.
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