On a street somewhere, a Fiat sedan rolled to a stop by the curb. Owen could hardly believe that the IMF's safe house was actually located inside a commercial skyscraper.
He couldn't help confirming one more time. "Nikki?"
"I'm sure of it."
Though Nikki also found it bizarre, she trusted the data. The address on her computer was clear—this was the place, no doubt about it.
With her confirmation, Owen performed one last gear check inside the car. He holstered the P226 at his lower back and stepped out.
Nikki remained in the vehicle with the engine running, ready to extract him at any moment. At the same time, she was hacking into the building's surveillance system to support Owen remotely.
Staring up at the towering office building, Owen had to admit—the CIA had imagination. Using a commercial high-rise for a safe house? Gotta hand it to them.
But admiration aside, they were on opposing sides now, and Owen had work to do. He paused at the building's entrance, glanced once, then walked right in.
He entered confidently, holding several helium balloons. As he moved, the balloons floated perfectly between him and the surveillance cameras, concealing his face.
Before going in, Nikki had already briefed him on the exact locations of every camera. If the CIA truly had a safe house here, they'd definitely be monitoring the feeds.
…
Inside the safe house, William and Ethan were watching the monitors with growing boredom. Owen's assumption had been correct—the CIA's safe house tapped directly into the building's surveillance and security communications systems. Every sound or movement in the building was within their grasp.
Ethan was lazily tossing a pebble, occasionally glancing at the workshop door as if waiting for good news from Luther. The stone danced between wall, floor, and his hand with eerie precision, as if guided by an invisible thread.
With nothing better to do, William had taken a Winchester M1887 off the rack and was idly loading shells into it. Who knew why the CIA had a vintage lever-action shotgun in their arsenal.
The only sounds in the room were the rhythmic click of shotgun shells being chambered and the tapping of Ethan's pebble—an oddly tranquil tension hung in the air. Suddenly, the workshop door burst open, and Luther called out irritably, "Ethan, I think we've got a problem..."
Ethan looked up. Luther continued, "The unlock device—it's fake. It's actually a tracker. And it's already been activated."
"You're saying—? Fuck… grab your gear. No, forget everything—let's go now!"
Ethan reacted instantly, grabbing the plutonium case and heading for the door. William followed, abandoning the shotgun on the table. Luther, the slowest of the three, scrambled to pack up his computers.
"No time. Leave it all. Move!" Ethan snapped.
Luther paused, eyes full of reluctant pain as he looked back at his customized, high-end rig—a setup he'd spent tens of thousands optimizing. But even the best computer wasn't worth dying over. With gritted teeth, he turned and ran after Ethan.
With everyone gathered, Ethan pressed his ear to the door. Silence. He opened it and was immediately met with a fist.
Outside, Owen slammed into Ethan, dropping him with a punch. As Ethan buckled, Owen drove a solid knee into his gut, sending him sprawling, face red from the impact.
It all happened in a blink. Before William could react, Owen was already inside.
Seeing the situation, William instinctively backed away and reached for the shotgun on the table. But Owen moved faster—he closed the gap and kicked the gun out of William's hand, then grappled him in close-quarters combat, using him as a human shield between himself and Luther.
Luther had just drawn his pistol, but no matter how he aimed, William's body remained in the way.
The next second, Owen grabbed an ashtray off the table and hurled it across the room. It smashed into Luther's face, sending the gun tilting upward. Dazed, Luther was caught off guard—just as Owen struck William's throat with a precision hand chop, knocking him out.
Then Owen dashed at Luther and delivered a brutal front kick to his chest. The tech-heavy Luther, nearly 200 pounds, was launched backward into a cabinet, scattering equipment everywhere.
Three opponents down in an instant—Owen had seized total control.
He drew his pistol and scanned the room—no reinforcements. He finally exhaled. So far, the IMF team's numbers matched what he'd anticipated.
Ethan writhed on the floor, still winded from Owen's punch. William clutched his neck, gasping like a dying man. Luther, bloodied from the ashtray, looked the worst off.
"Ethan, we meet again. I've come to take back what's mine…"
Owen whistled casually, taunting. He'd never let go of his grudge since Ethan had taken the plutonium. Sure, Ethan had probably done it because Makarov was holding Benji hostage, but Owen still didn't appreciate being robbed.
Now, after flooring them all and personally reclaiming the stolen item, he felt the sweet burn of satisfaction.
"O… Owen…" Ethan finally gasped out.
"Relax. I'm not killing you—just like you didn't kill me. But I'm taking the case."
"No, wait—Benji is—"
Ethan tried to explain, but Owen shoved him aside. There was no need to drag this out. Everything had gone smoother than expected, thanks to a lapse in surveillance. They hadn't noticed him coming.
But just as Owen was about to leave, Nikki's urgent voice crackled in his earpiece: "Owen—we may have company…"
…
A minute earlier, Nikki had been watching Owen's disguised approach when a cleaning van pulled up downstairs. Several men in janitor uniforms, carrying toolboxes, entered the building.
At first, nothing seemed strange. A commercial tower like this saw janitorial staff all the time.
But when those men entered a certain room, Nikki stopped watching them. Then suddenly, every camera under her control turned away—each one pointing at blind spots.
That was no accident.
…
Inside, Owen reacted instantly to Nikki's warning. He lunged to the table, grabbed the dropped Winchester M1887, and aimed at the door—just in time.
The door burst open. Owen fired.
A blast of buckshot met the intruder at the threshold, hurling him backward before he could even fully step through.
Owen racked the lever—classic 12-gauge, lever-action style. Another round chambered.
Boom! Another intruder fell.
Both had been wearing tactical vests and body armor. Unfortunately for them, Owen's scattershot had hit their heads—there was no surviving that.
Just as Owen moved to check the bodies, an explosion rang out nearby. A figure rappelled in through the window—clad in foreign camo.
Owen got a clear look—definitely not American gear. More likely Russian.
The man landed awkwardly right next to Owen, who reacted with a vicious buttstroke that stunned him.
Owen stepped back to fire, but the man tackled him, grappling desperately to prevent the shot.
Owen ditched the shotgun and drew his claw knife. The attacker dropped his own weapon, pulling out a combat knife. The two engaged in a brutal melee.
Though their styles differed, their training was similar—each strike aimed to kill.
After leaving two deep slashes on the enemy, Owen disabled his knife hand by severing tendons. But before he could interrogate the man, two more armed assailants burst through the doorway.
Owen grabbed the wounded enemy and used him as a shield—thup-thup!—friendly fire took him down.
Owen tossed aside the body, rolled to safety, retrieved the shotgun, and slung the plutonium case on his back for cover.
Meanwhile, the IMF team had all scampered. At first, they'd only had to deal with Owen—brutal, yes, but not lethal.
But these new attackers were a different breed—fully armed and ready to kill. And the IMF trio had no weapons. Stay, and they were dead.
The firefight would've ended them—if not for Owen, tanking bullets with the case.
"Who the hell are these guys?" Owen asked as he ran.
"GRU," Ethan answered.
"Fuck. You tangled with them?!"
The GRU—Russia's military intelligence agency, formerly under the KGB.
"Where do you think we got the plutonium from?" Ethan said breathlessly.
That stunned Owen. Ethan explained: "Russia was decommissioning ICBMs. Makarov was sniffing around for warheads. We 'acquired' one…"
He said it so casually, but Owen could imagine the insanity behind it. The IMF really was nuts. Who signs up for this kind of work without fearing nuclear war?
They fled into a back room. William opened a wall cabinet to reveal a hidden door. They entered one by one. Owen followed.
The real surprise wasn't the door—but what lay behind it: a clean, well-lit conference room inside a different office. A team meeting was in session. When Owen's group burst through the wall, jaws dropped all around.
Ignoring the stunned onlookers, they rushed to another wall. Ethan placed his hand on it. A voice said, "Identity confirmed."
The wall lowered, revealing a row of zipline launchers.
Each IMF agent grabbed one, aimed through the window at a building across the street, and fired. Hooks embedded into the opposite wall, forming a zipline.
More jaw-dropping stares.
Ethan, William, and Luther didn't hesitate. They clicked the launchers into the wall and zipped across.
Owen tried to do the same—but the gun wouldn't fire. A voice repeated: "Access denied."
Fingerprint-locked. Only IMF agents could use it.
Across the way, the team landed one by one. And then, Owen's zipline detached—no more hitching a ride.
Owen flipped them the bird.
With approaching footsteps behind him, he turned and bolted again.
"Down!" he shouted.
But the stunned office workers remained frozen.
Bang!
He fired a warning shot. The crowd erupted in panic and fled.
The pursuing GRU agents ignored the bystanders—opening fire without restraint. Several civilians were hit. That finally triggered the others to hit the floor.
Bang!
Owen fired another shell, peppering the GRU's legs and forcing them to hesitate.
(End of Chapter)
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