The blade slashed right past Owen's face as he staggered backward, reaching instinctively for his gun—but his opponent had anticipated the move. The combat knife in the man's hand never strayed from Owen's chest. If Owen even tried to reach for the quick-draw holster on his chest, he'd be wide open for a fatal strike.
Each time Owen's hand neared his holster, the knife followed without hesitation. There just wasn't enough time. If he managed to draw his gun, his fingers would likely be severed in the same moment.
With no other option, Owen released his grip and kept retreating, narrowly dodging a diagonal slash. Step by step he gave ground, but Staz was relentless. The knife in his hand danced with precision, always within striking distance.
Staz's knife work was brutal and efficient. Besides the Israeli Krav Maga that Delta Force trained in, they also had their own modified knife-fighting techniques—but regardless of origin, all were built around the same principles: speed, precision, and lethality. No flourish, just kill.
Knife fighting was simple in theory—only a few basic moves existed. The real test was endurance and reflexes.
Owen tried to create space, but Staz stuck to him like a shadow. Another slash came in—Owen dodged—but the blade suddenly curved mid-air and sliced toward his chest. He twisted away, but not fast enough. The knife grazed across his tactical vest, slicing clean through the quick-draw holster. His handgun clattered to the ground, the vest torn, and blood began to seep through.
Owen rolled away with the motion, just in time to see Staz step forward and kick his fallen handgun far down the corridor. It was obvious now—Staz's real objective was to disarm him completely.
As Owen scrambled to his feet, he finally pulled a knife of his own. Up until now, he hadn't had a single chance to draw it. Staz had kept him too busy. Only now, in the chaos of being wounded, did he manage to arm himself.
They began circling each other in the hallway, knives in hand. At last, Owen realized who his attacker was: Staz, former Delta Force operator and the man orchestrating the White House siege.
Carol had sent him the photo earlier. He hadn't recognized him at first, thanks to the camouflage face paint. But now, face-to-face, there was no doubt.
Staz clearly meant to kill him silently—that's why he was using a knife instead of a gun. A gunshot, even if successful, would draw attention and make escape impossible.
The two locked eyes, and Staz lunged again, knife reversed in his grip, tracing an arc toward Owen's side. Owen dodged, countered, and their blades clashed with sharp metallic snaps.
Cut for cut, both men landed hits. In truth, Owen had the disadvantage—his weapon of choice was the karambit, not this straight-blade combat knife. His karambit had been surrendered to security at the White House's entrance. The knife he now held was one he'd taken off a dead enemy—not ideal, but better than nothing.
The back-and-forth continued. Owen's uniform was bloodied with fresh cuts. Staz was bleeding too, and visibly frustrated—he knew Owen was stalling, hoping for more Marines to arrive.
Realizing the ploy, Staz ramped up the aggression, even risking injury to end the fight quickly. But haste breeds mistakes.
Staz lunged again, and Owen seized the moment. He blocked the incoming arm and slashed along Staz's wrist. The blade bit deep—muscle split open, blood gushed, and Staz dropped his knife.
Owen didn't hesitate. He twisted his wrist, landing two quick stabs into Staz's side. The wet crunch of steel slicing through tissue was followed by a spray of blood.
Staz stumbled back, and Owen pressed the attack. Holding the knife in a reverse grip, he rammed it forward with all his weight. Staz caught the blade with his forearm, but Owen drove him backward into the wall.
They locked into a brutal struggle—Owen pushing down, Staz resisting with all he had. For a moment, it was stalemate.
But only for a moment.
When McCall had first taught Owen knife fighting, he'd shown him how to break this exact deadlock. Owen remembered.
Still pressing the knife forward, Owen raised his other hand and began hammering down on the knife's pommel like a piston.
One blow. Then another. Then another.
Each strike drove the blade deeper into Staz's chest. The moment the tip pierced skin, Staz's strength began to wane. A final hammering motion drove the knife all the way in.
The light in Staz's eyes began to fade as blood bubbled from his lips. Owen collapsed from exhaustion, while Staz slumped against the wall, bleeding out.
It was only then that Marine soldiers finally arrived. Seeing the blood-soaked aftermath, they surrounded both men with raised weapons while calling for backup over the radio.
…
Outside the White House, the Quick Reaction Team was en route to a location in Washington.
Inside the vehicle, Sweetie was on the line with Ghost.
"Owen sent me the data he pulled from Martin's phone. I found some encrypted texts—standard encryption software, honestly pretty basic. I cracked it, traced the sender—his name's Roger Moore. He's Lafferson's assistant."
"So the Vice President was involved in this," Ghost replied, skeptical. "But doesn't this feel too easy?"
A former SAS operative, Ghost knew the rule: the easier a discovery came, the more likely it was bait.
"You might be right," Sweetie said. "But I think it's more likely he just wasn't a professional. He thought using some consumer encryption app would be enough. Problem is, NSA cracked that software a long time ago."
"Well, okay then."
Ghost shrugged, though the mask hid his expression. "Go on."
"We didn't confront Roger Moore directly. Instead, we pulled all his digital records. Turns out, he used the same encryption to contact another number. We traced that one too—the owner's name is Glaz."
"The guy with the white mask?" Ghost interrupted. "Yeah, I know him. Ex-Russian special forces. A dirty little bastard who only knows how to hide and snipe from the shadows. No offense, Bullseye. I have nothing but respect for snipers. Really. But seriously—I've been dying to kick these guys' asses. Send me the address, Sweetie. We'll take care of it."
He ended the call. Behind the mask, his tone was unreadable, but the mood in the vehicle was definitely weird—until the chirp of an incoming message saved him. Sweetie had sent the location. Ghost handed the phone to Pulse up front, and the Quick Reaction Team sped toward their target.
…
Ten minutes later.
Ghost walked out of the target house, expression grim. Inside, the residents were dead, but the place was otherwise empty. Clearly, the White Masks had stayed there recently—but they were gone.
The team piled back into the vehicle and headed toward the Pentagon. Their only lead now was Roger Moore.
But before they even reached the Pentagon, Sweetie called again—Roger Moore was dead. Killed by a sniper from long range, in a room outside the Pentagon.
The team exchanged glances.
"Fuck."
They'd been outplayed—again.
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