7:00 AM, Ontario International Airport, East Los Angeles
The plane touched down, and Jenny, now in a different outfit and wearing sunglasses, walked out of the airport terminal and flagged down a cab, heading straight for downtown LA. She had spent the previous day resting in Salt Lake City. After the failed attempt on Swagger's life, her agency had demanded an explanation—something that hadn't happened to her in a long time.
But before she could even respond, the company had sent her a new assignment—assassinate Democratic presidential candidate David Palmer.
Assassinate a presidential candidate? What kind of insane world was this?
The details showed this job had the highest priority, which meant she had to drop the Swagger mission for now and focus solely on this one.
Jenny had never taken on a target of this caliber before, but the agency had promised her that if she completed this mission, she would be allowed to either retire or start her own team—something every assassin dreamed of.
No seasoned killer really wanted to stay in the game forever. Living on the edge of life and death every day was no way to survive long-term. Most veterans had already made enough money to live comfortably for the rest of their lives—but the real question was whether they'd be allowed to leave.
At a certain point, assassins usually had two paths: fade into retirement or form their own teams.
It was a bit like Hollywood stars—once you reached a certain level, you typically started your own company or studio. You still worked under big corporations, but you made way more money.
Jenny checked David Palmer's public schedule. High-profile figures like him were well protected, but their appearances were also easy to predict. One quick glance at the paper was enough to figure out where he'd be next.
…
Half a day earlier, at a villa in Los Angeles
Senator Dick had barely gotten out of bed when a phone call yanked him out of sleep. Isaac Johnson had failed again. Just days earlier, Johnson had confidently promised on the golf course that he'd finally take out Bob Lee Swagger—but he'd failed.
Dick sat grim-faced in his study, puffing on a Cuban cigar. Not even this famous cigar, supposedly rolled on virgin thighs, could calm his nerves. After a long pause, he made a call.
"Boss, sorry to bother you this early."
"What is it?" came a low, slightly hoarse voice.
"Isaac Johnson screwed up. His entire team is dead, but Swagger's still alive. I'm starting to doubt his ability to get the job done."
"If the glove doesn't fit," the voice said calmly, "get a new one. You don't need me to teach you not to get your hands dirty."
"Understood…"
"Just handle it. Especially with David Palmer—if he takes office, he could become a major threat to us."
"I'll take care of it."
"I hope you don't disappoint me."
After hanging up, Senator Dick opened his laptop and entered the dark web. A series of encrypted handshakes and authentication layers brought him to his account.
The bounty on Swagger still showed "In Progress." On the dark web, contracts usually had a 72-hour window. Apparently, the last hired assassin still hadn't succeeded.
Dick posted a new bounty—target: David Palmer. To keep it as discreet as possible, he made it visible only to the same "Five-Star" company from before and specified it must be carried out by an A-rank assassin. Reward: $5 million.
With a final click of the "Confirm" button, the funds were transferred. The money flowed through a labyrinth of financial networks, fragmented and reassembled through various shell entities, until it landed in a special escrow account.
Once the job was done and the client confirmed it, the dark web platform would clean the money and send it to the assassin's account—minus their commission.
A few minutes later, Dick's phone vibrated with a text: someone had accepted the contract.
The Five-Star Company used its internal matching system to assign the contract to Jenny Fox. Given her A-rank, proximity to LA, and ability to complete the task within 72 hours, she was the system's sole match.
…
9:20 AM, Owen and Swagger were driving back into Los Angeles. Though they had left Salt Lake City earlier than Jenny, the difference in travel methods meant they actually arrived later.
Just as they reached the city, Owen received a call from Jack Bauer. After having Nina relay the message and waiting nearly a day, Jack was finally calling back.
"Owen, you wanted to talk?" Jack's voice was tight.
"Yeah, Jack. I've found the truth behind the attempted assassination of David Palmer. It turns out, it wasn't really an attempt on his life…"
"Hold on," Jack cut him off. "This line isn't secure. Let's meet in person… Is Bob Lee Swagger with you?"
"No," Owen lied without hesitation. "Once he found out the truth, he took off."
He trusted Jack, but that didn't mean Swagger did. Besides, he had no idea who might be listening on Jack's end. Better to keep Swagger off the radar.
Jack didn't press. "There's a warehouse 30 kilometers eastbound on Highway 13. You know it?"
Owen thought for a moment. "Yeah, I know it."
"Good. I'll meet you there in an hour."
"Got it."
…
Outside a small town, Owen and Swagger split up. Swagger was still a wanted man. Even with some light disguise, it was better to avoid city limits entirely. Owen would go alone.
The warehouse Jack mentioned was easy to find. The area was open, giving a clear line of sight—very secure. Owen parked beside it and scouted the surroundings. Aside from a drainage ditch, there was nowhere for anyone to hide. Even the ditch was plainly visible.
He leaned against the hood of the car, waiting for Jack.
About thirty minutes later, Jack Bauer arrived—driving an unremarkable old Ford. But strangely, a second car followed him.
Both vehicles pulled up slowly in front of the warehouse. Jack got out. From the second car stepped a man with a big nose—someone Owen didn't recognize. Definitely not CTU. What was Jack doing bringing him along?
"Jack?" Owen called out, giving Jack a nod and cocking his head toward the stranger.
"Don't worry about him," Jack replied. "Just show me what you've got."
Owen didn't push. He pulled out a voice recorder and hit play.
"Archbishop… Africa… oil pipeline… buried in a mass grave… 400 bodies… black glove…"
The recording captured Owen's entire conversation with Sokolov. Jack listened, visibly shaken.
Everyone had assumed the earlier assassination attempt was aimed at David Palmer. After all, he was poised to become America's first Black president—a target for racists and extremists alike.
But no one had imagined that the truth was so much darker.
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