The GRU agents had already caught up. Owen was forced to fire while retreating. Fortunately, the Winchester M1887 was equipped with a lever-action handguard, allowing him to reload with one hand. Even while carrying the case, his combat effectiveness remained high.
After a few shots, no one nearby remained standing. Those still alive were all on the ground. Only two GRU agents remained in pursuit—one chasing, one fleeing.
Internationally, units like Alpha and Vympel (Signal Flag) were famous, but in truth, Russia had a vast array of special forces. Alpha and Vympel were just counter-terrorism units under the Federal Security Service (FSB). But there were many more.
In Russia, the term "special forces" covered a broad spectrum. Every major branch of their security apparatus had their own elite units: the General Staff's Main Intelligence Directorate (GRU), army reconnaissance brigades, naval infantry special squads, the Ministry of Internal Affairs, Ministry of Emergency Situations, Ministry of Justice, Civil Defense, the FSB—even the Ministry of Finance and Customs. Just the National Guard's special forces (including SWAT) made up over 25% of their total manpower—nearly 100,000 troops. The Ministry of Internal Affairs alone fielded elite anti-terrorist units like the Rapid Response Special Forces Center (FCB) and the Special Rapid Response Unit (SOBR). Even the notorious OMON riot police counted as special forces.
The GRU, belonging to the General Staff's Main Intelligence Directorate, was considered Russia's most secretive and efficient intelligence agency.
As a member of CTU, Owen had naturally studied the elite units of America's main geopolitical rival. The GRU and FSB were even the subject of a famous joke.
If the FSB were tasked with an assassination, they'd send a covert agent disguised as an embassy staffer or a local passerby, executing the job quietly and disappearing without a trace. But if the GRU were given the job, they'd go in guns blazing and turn it into a full-blown international incident.
The GRU's current actions seemed to perfectly live up to that reputation.
On foreign soil, they dared to unleash an all-out gunfight in the middle of a crowded urban district, using signature weapons like the PP-2000. One could only wonder what their commanding officer was thinking.
They weren't terrorists—they were a nation's covert operatives. If captured, at the very least it would trigger a diplomatic crisis between two major powers.
Complaints aside, the GRU's combat ability couldn't be underestimated. The first three agents were caught off guard by Owen. But the next two were a different story—despite prolonged close-quarter engagement, neither side could gain the upper hand.
Spotting a corridor ahead, Owen ducked in quickly—but the sound of footsteps below startled him. No other options. The only way out was up.
He raced up the stairs, dragging the plutonium case with him, and soon reached the rooftop. He slammed the door shut, locked it, and barricaded it with nearby junk. Before his pursuers arrived, he searched the rooftop. No other exit. A dead end.
"Owen, how are you holding up?" Nikki's voice came through the comms.
"I'm fine. Stay low."
Owen answered curtly, already resigned. The sound of the iron door being kicked came from behind—it was the GRU breaking through.
He walked to the edge of the rooftop and looked down. Over twenty stories. His stomach churned at the height. The crash of the door behind him signaled that time was up.
Without hesitation, he looked back, then jumped.
In midair, he hurled a small device from his pocket downward. As he turned mid-fall, he raised his gun and entered bullet-time.
Just as the heads of two GRU agents peeked over the edge, Owen's Winchester roared. The 12-gauge buckshot blasted straight into their faces—petals of blood blooming like a thousand pear blossoms.
That bought him only a few seconds. He continued to fall rapidly. The device he had thrown earlier hit the ground and expanded—an inflatable cushion. Seconds later, Owen crashed onto it with bone-jarring force.
The high-altitude fall, even cushioned, left him gasping for air. He lay there for a long moment, grateful he had brought the lifesaving device. Without it, he'd be fighting for his life right now.
Just as he stood up, the roar of a motorcycle engine sounded behind him—then his hands went empty.
A dirt bike streaked past, Ethan Hunt aboard, snatching the plutonium case from Owen as he flew by.
"FUCK!"
Owen raised his shotgun and fired, but he was too late. The bike veered into an alley, and the shot missed. By the time Owen reached the entrance, all he could see were the fading taillights.
"Nikki, find him for me—now!"
"I'm on it... got him! West side, two intersections over, heading north!"
Having satellite surveillance was a godsend. Owen sprinted in the direction Nikki gave him. But before he got far, she chimed in again.
"There's another group on him. Confirmed—they're GRU."
Owen wasn't surprised at all. It made perfect sense. If they had people attacking from above, they'd definitely have someone on the ground as well.
He bolted across the intersection just in time to catch sight of the chase. A massive cargo truck was barreling after Ethan's motorcycle. The bike weaved deftly through traffic, while the truck bulldozed forward like an unstoppable juggernaut, right on his tail.
Owen scanned his surroundings, ready to jack a car—when luck smiled on him. A biker gang roared down the street on Harleys, putting on a show.
Owen stepped into the street and raised his gun.
The leader, a burly man in a leather-studded jacket and a floral headscarf, stopped dead. Despite his heavy-metal swagger, the sight of Owen pointing a Winchester 1887 at his face turned him docile as a kitten.
Though Owen looked unremarkable, the blood-splattered shotgun and shell bandolier across his chest told a different story—especially the fresh red stains from the GRU agents on the rooftop.
The bikers quickly read the room and backed down. No need to get killed for pride.
Their cooperation earned Owen's mercy. He mounted the Harley, gunned the engine—it roared like a beast—and sped off.
The heavy, metal-framed Harley had a side pouch—perfect for stowing his shotgun. Owen reloaded it as he rode, feeding shells from his bandolier into the chamber.
"Where are they?"
"Keep going straight. Turn right at the next two intersections—you'll see them."
Owen followed Nikki's directions. The Harley was surprisingly stable—not light and twitchy like other bikes. Its heavy frame and powerful engine gave it both traction and speed.
Finally, he saw them. Ethan's motorcycle had swerved off the main road into a side path. The truck followed—ignoring traffic rules, smashing aside anything in its way.
Two sedans tried to dodge the truck and were spun 180 degrees by the impact, coming to a halt with terrified drivers inside. Owen passed the wreckage and continued chasing, following the path of destruction the truck left behind.
(End of Chapter)
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