Owen was in the middle of a grueling fight. He, Walker, and the three others inside the room were doing everything they could to hold the door with limited ammo—just waiting for reinforcements to arrive. That was everyone's only hope. Just moments earlier, President David Palmer himself had called to inform them that a military rescue operation was underway. All Owen had to do now was hold the line until help arrived.
Outside the door, Staz was getting more and more frustrated.
In just this short exchange, both sides had taken hits. Sandman of Alloy Squad had been wounded, and two of Staz's own men were also down. None were fatal wounds, but it was clear the fight was dead even.
But the bad news didn't stop there. Over the comms, Staz kept hearing calls for help from various locations. Force Recon was attacking aggressively, and his people were being slaughtered by the minute.
He couldn't help but curse the hired mercenaries—they were unreliable, lacked combat strength, and couldn't be trusted. He wasn't surprised they couldn't hold off elite special forces, but not even being able to secure the hostages? That was inexcusable.
His original plan had been to have them hold the hostage room, creating a pincer trap. Instead, he had become the one trapped in the kill box.
As the situation grew worse, Staz had to face reality. He'd already lost Bobby. Several brothers he'd fought alongside for years had fallen. Martin was missing—either dead or gone. Staz knew the tide had turned. It was over.
"All units, fall back to the fifth-floor hostage room! As long as we have hostages, they won't dare make a move!"
He barked the command into his radio. Mercenaries began regrouping, abandoning their previous defensive positions to fall back to the hostage area.
As more of them converged, firepower in the hostage room increased, making things even harder for Alloy Squad. But Force Recon soon arrived to balance the scale. Outside the White House, the second wave of regular Marine infantry was also starting to breach the building.
"Boom—"
Cornered, some mercenaries began launching RPGs at the military. Technically, RPGs were completely inappropriate for indoor use—they hurt both friend and foe. But desperation had taken over.
The explosions turned the confined hallways into hell. The flames, shockwaves, and pressure waves were impossible to dodge in such tight spaces. Force Recon took casualties. In hallways like these, there was no escaping a rocket blast.
Seeing that the RPGs were effective, more and more explosions erupted. The door Owen and the others had been defending was blown apart by a rocket. Fortunately, at that very moment, a squad of Force Recon Marines arrived from another direction, slipping in between the hostages and the terrorists. The hostages were safe—for now.
With the battlefield blazing, there was nothing Owen could do anymore. Once Force Recon took over, he collapsed to the floor, exhausted. Walker was no better. Even the Secretary of Defense and Secretary of State, despite only being in the firefight briefly, looked completely drained. Combat was more than just physical—it was mentally exhausting as well.
Amid the chaos, no one noticed that Staz and several of his men had vanished.
The gunfire continued. Outside the White House, reporters couldn't see much. All they knew was that from the window where "Gun-Toting Spider-Man" had entered, explosions and muzzle flashes were still lighting up the night. But neither the White House nor the Pentagon gave any explanation.
Inside a nearby room, Staz and his three remaining loyalists burst in, quickly shutting the door. After listening for movement, they exchanged looks and began stripping off their clothes. From their packs, they pulled out Marine Corps camouflage uniforms.
Moments later, four terrorists had transformed into four Marines. They had planned this exit strategy in advance—just in case.
After changing, they gripped each other's arms.
"See you on the outside, brother."
"See you on the outside."
They dispersed immediately. There was no point in staying together. Against such overwhelming numbers, it didn't matter if they were one or four—the outcome was the same. Splitting up gave at least one of them a chance to get out.
Back in the corridors, the outcome had been inevitable from the start. Two elite special forces teams, backed by regular Marine infantry, were always going to win. The only question had been when.
More and more mercenaries were cut down. One moment a man would be fighting back; the next, his skull would explode from a high-velocity round. Desperate and hopeless, the mercenaries lost control.
Some had noticed that Staz was missing—but what good was that? The enemy wasn't going to let anyone talk. And none of them were foolish enough to try and surrender. Their crimes amounted to high treason—they'd be lucky to only spend life in prison.
Force Recon stormed the hostage room and officially took control of the hostages. The terrorists never managed to break through. With Alloy Squad hitting from the front and Force Recon from the rear, they were quickly wiped out.
The White House had been retaken.
Force Recon was the clear star of this mission. Not only did they eliminate the terrorist threat, but they also went above and beyond by completing Alloy Squad's objective of rescuing the hostages. Of course, no one denied that Alloy Squad had played a vital role—just look at the pile of bodies in front of them.
Hostages began to be escorted out by regular Marines. Outside, the reporters' flashbulbs never stopped. Every time someone emerged from the White House doors, the cameras erupted.
When the Secretary of Defense and Secretary of State stepped outside, the media went wild. Sure, the U.S. Constitution proclaimed equality for all—but that was just a slogan. If either of those two had died, the operation would've been labeled a failure. But because they lived, even if some civilians perished, the mission was considered a success.
Owen moved slowly down a hallway, weary and limping. A few Marines tried to assist him, but he waved them off. He wanted to be alone for now.
Around him, medics treated the wounded. Some carried out injured soldiers or escorted dazed hostages to safety. Owen himself was hurt, but he'd had a medic do some quick bandaging and left it at that.
The elevator was shut down, and the nearby stairwell was packed with people going up and down. This was the main evac route from the hostage room. Marines had cleared it into a safe corridor, which made it crowded.
Owen chose a quieter stairwell farther away. He wasn't leaving the White House—he was heading to the engineering level to inform the hostages down there.
As he got farther from the hostage zone, the number of troops around him dwindled. By the time he neared the other stairwell, he barely saw anyone except a few patrolling soldiers.
He walked quietly.
Up ahead, a door opened, and a Marine stepped out as if on patrol. Owen nodded at him, and the man returned the gesture. They passed each other without incident.
Owen didn't think much of it. He'd passed at least a dozen such Marines already. This one looked just like the others—face paint, gear, the works.
But just as they were about to pass, Owen noticed something—blood. A large red stain on the man's outer thigh.
"Hey, buddy, you're hurt. You should get a medic to take a look…"
Owen called out casually.
The man gave a vague "got it" kind of reply. They passed. But Owen's eyes lingered on the spot.
That wound didn't make sense. Regular Marines like this weren't part of the initial combat—they'd arrived after the fighting. So how was he injured? And the bloodstained spot... the fabric there was intact. That meant he'd changed into that uniform after being wounded.
The realization hit Owen like a lightning bolt.
He turned to look at the man's face—only to find the man looking right back at him.
The next second, a knife whistled through the air toward him.
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