Owen saw it clearly—Hakwell Morton, the man in the suit, made a sharp turn into a side tunnel with his car. Owen followed immediately. In the wide, empty passage, he could still make out the red taillights of the car ahead, speeding away at full throttle. Owen stayed hot on his tail.
In the back seat, Ghost leaned out halfway and tried to shoot, but hitting the tires of a speeding vehicle from another moving car was no easy feat. He emptied an entire magazine without success.
A light burst ahead as the car exited the underground tunnel and entered the street. The streetlights here were far brighter than inside the tunnel.
The car ahead was still racing, swerving abruptly every so often in an attempt to lose them. But Owen wasn't so easy to shake. His driving skills were top-notch, and even though he wasn't entirely familiar with the terrain, his speed never dropped.
Then came a burst of gunfire—"tat-tat-tat." The war criminal's subordinate in the car ahead had started firing at them. In the back seat, Heartbeat and Ghost returned fire, exchanging shots with the attackers. Bullets sparked as they struck the vehicle, and both windshields were quickly riddled with holes.
On the silent streets of Paris, two cars raced through the night, locked in a full-blown shootout. One stray bullet shattered a window of a nearby apartment, prompting screams. Lights turned on—then just as quickly turned off. Behind the windows, eyes peeked out, and phones started dialing the police.
With no satellite support, Swagg and the others could only follow and provide backup. Under normal circumstances, Becky would have been directing Swagg to intercept the target from another route. But not tonight.
A crisp crack—a shot from behind hit the side mirror of the car ahead, shattering it. Morton flinched in fear. Just then, a black armored van loomed into view, barreling toward them. Morton swerved violently to avoid a collision, turning onto another street.
The armored van drifted after him with surprising agility, one side of its tires momentarily lifting off the ground before slamming back down with a screech. It then steadied and continued the chase.
Owen cursed under his breath when he caught a glimpse of the van's markings: large white letters spelled out "GIGN" across the vehicle's matte-black body.
Shit. Since when were French police this fast?
He sighed in frustration. Normally, French police weren't exactly known for their combat prowess. But GIGN was a different story altogether. The full name was Groupe d'intervention de la Gendarmerie nationale—a special ops team for counterterrorism, well-trained, well-equipped, and experienced.
If it had been the regular police, Owen might've pushed on. But with GIGN in play, he knew it was time to back off. Getting entangled with GIGN on French soil could spell disaster. If they were caught, it would look like an American counterterrorism unit operating illegally in France—a diplomatic nightmare, especially given how often France pushed back against U.S. influence.
A stream of rapid French followed from the armored van, shouted through a loudspeaker. When there was no response, it switched to English: "Pull over and submit to inspection or face consequences."
Owen clenched his jaw. They had the target cornered—so close—and now this? Even worse, GIGN was ignoring the fleeing vehicle and focusing solely on them. What the hell?
Suddenly, the armored van cut them off, swerving sharply to block the road. The screeching of tires echoed as the van skidded to a stop. Even before it had fully halted, the rear doors flew open and heavily armed operatives in tactical gear poured out, weapons raised.
SCREEECH—
Owen slammed the brakes. The tires screamed, and the SUV spun 180 degrees in place, coming to a stop facing the other direction.
"Retreat! Get out of here—rendezvous at the safe house!"
He shouted as he stomped on the accelerator. The Mercedes SUV roared and tore off in the opposite direction.
Behind them, Swagg's team quickly reacted, yanking the wheel and turning onto a side street. They'd been lucky—GIGN hadn't noticed them yet, and they slipped away through a web of alleys and back roads.
Owen and Swagg had intentionally chosen different escape directions. It was just their bad luck—France's police response hadn't magically improved overnight. They'd simply run into GIGN returning from a training op. The unit hadn't responded to a call; they just happened to stumble upon Owen and the others at the worst possible moment.
Gunfire erupted behind them in bursts, bullets smacking into the SUV with metallic thuds. Owen crouched low in the driver's seat, unwilling to expose himself. In the back, Ghost and Heartbeat had grabbed extra Kevlar vests and wedged them against the rear windshield, just in time to stop a hail of bullets that shattered the glass completely.
It wasn't until they'd put significant distance between themselves and the armored van that the pressure eased. Ghost and Heartbeat checked themselves—both had been hit, but the bullets hadn't penetrated thanks to the body armor. Thankfully, GIGN had fired MP5s in the chaos—low-power submachine guns.
One of the SUV's taillights had been shot out. The GIGN team watched helplessly as the remaining red light shrank in the distance. By the time they turned their vehicle around, there was no sign of the Mercedes.
Owen scanned his rearview mirror—no pursuit. Navigating through familiar and unfamiliar streets, he avoided all known surveillance spots as much as possible. Earlier that day, he'd studied the city layout and knew which intersections had cameras and which didn't.
After circling back and making sure they hadn't been tracked, he finally returned to the safe house. The other Mercedes SUV was already parked in the garage, engine still warm—Swagg's team had only just returned.
Inside, Swagg and Fred were each nursing a beer. Fred tossed one to Owen, who caught it, cracked the tab, and took a long swig, finally feeling a bit better.
The others followed suit, opening the fridge and pulling out cans. The faint hiss of tabs being pulled filled the air.
"Fred, tap into the police radio channels. Swagg, you're sure no one followed you back?"
"No one. I'm positive."
"Baryev, clean up the vehicle—get rid of any forensic evidence."
Ghost took charge of the cleanup, issuing orders smoothly. Everyone moved out.
Owen walked over to the window and peeked through the blinds. Satisfied nothing looked out of place, he took out his phone and called Becky.
"Becky, we lost them. Get in touch with the CIA and ask about Dan White—what the hell is his story? Is the CIA involved in this? Also, contact the Office of the Director of Intelligence. We need full cooperation on identifying the two other individuals who appeared during the deal."
Becky acknowledged immediately. She had seen the entire deal through the camera feed and was just as blindsided by the sudden appearance of GIGN. With no satellite support, her intel team had contributed nothing during the operation, and that filled her with guilt.
______
(≧◡≦) ♡ Support me and read 20 chapters ahead – patreon.com/Mutter
For every 50 Power Stones, one extra chapter will be released on Saturday.