"Thank you… I didn't think you'd really come bail me out…"
Sitting in the car, Eddie looked over at Owen, voice still a little shaken. He'd honestly thought he was screwed. For someone like him, life was fine as long as he kept his head down—but once the FBI decided to dig into him, there was no running. If they pressed charges, he was easily looking at 20 years.
By pulling him out, Owen had essentially saved him from two decades behind bars.
"Oh, come on. Let's just say this makes us even for that big stash of weapons I 'borrowed' from you last time."
Owen shrugged casually. He'd once traded Eddie a seized Ferrari—on loan from CTU no less—for a whole arsenal, including a mounted M2HB. Of course, there was never any intention of letting Eddie keep the car. In the end, the fat man got completely fleeced, trading top-tier firepower for a supercar that was never really his.
So bailing Eddie out today? A fair repayment.
Eddie gave a nonchalant shrug in return. No point in holding a grudge—especially not against the guy who just saved your ass.
Owen glanced at him. "Did you find anything on that thing I asked about?"
Eddie didn't disappoint. "I called a few trusted contacts. One of them said a couple of street punks came by trying to sell him some TATP. Said he didn't want to touch that crap—too volatile. Said one wrong move and it'd blow up in their faces."
"Street punks? Did he get a name?"
"He didn't know them personally, but he heard one of them call the other 'Mad Dog Billy.'"
SCREECH!
Owen slammed on the brakes.
"Eddie, that's huge. Did you tell anyone else? The FBI?"
"What? Hell no! Screw those guys. They kicked in my door, stepped on my donuts, and threatened to torture me. You think I'm gonna help them?"
Eddie looked genuinely offended.
"Good. Keep it to yourself. Don't tell anyone. Here's fifty bucks—get yourself home. I've got to find this Mad Dog Billy."
Moments later, Owen was speeding off, leaving behind a stunned Eddie and a fluttering $50 bill.
Inside the car, Owen didn't call Chloe—he called Carl instead. Based on Eddie's info, it was almost certain that the batch of TATP Mad Dog Billy tried to sell came from the recently looted piping company.
And when it came to petty street thugs, patrol cops like Carl were ten times more connected than any federal agent.
"Carl, it's Owen."
"Steve? What's going on? You sound urgent."
"Do you know someone named 'Mad Dog Billy'? Should be a small-time punk."
"Mad Dog Billy? Yeah, I know the guy. What'd he do now?"
Carl knew him! That was exactly what Owen was hoping for. No one knew the streets like beat cops—they knew every gang, every wannabe gang, every hustler.
"I think he's connected to the bombing. Where is he?"
"The bombing? Him? No way…"
Carl clearly didn't believe a guy like Billy could be involved in something that serious. But he still provided the details.
"Mad Dog Billy's one of my regulars. Low-level thug. Mostly car theft and petty vandalism. A few days ago, he and some buddies formed a little crew—called themselves the 'Mad Dogs.' Whole thing was so ridiculous they got beat down by a real gang on the first day."
"Where do they hang out?"
"They've got a hideout in a three-story abandoned building near Factory Road in the slums. I can take you—"
"No need. I know the place. I'll handle it."
Owen didn't want Carl in harm's way. If these kids were holding explosives—or worse—he wasn't going to risk a beat cop getting caught in the blast.
Thirty minutes later, two CTU tactical teams had quietly surrounded the decrepit three-story building.
Factory Road was deserted at night. The only light came from the flicker of a third-floor window. Perfect for a stealth approach.
Under their commander's hand signals, the CTU teams equipped night-vision goggles and moved in silently.
Team A swept the first floor. Team B proceeded to the second. Owen and Heartbeat followed behind Team B.
Once both floors were cleared, the teams regrouped and began ascending to the third floor in tight CQB formation—each person's hand on the shoulder in front of them, moving without a sound.
The building had long since decayed. Debris and garbage littered the floor, but the CTU operators navigated effortlessly with their night vision.
Outside the door on the third floor, they assembled. From inside came the faint thump of rock music. Through the flickering light, shadows danced against the walls.
Three. Two. One.
The commander counted down silently with his fingers.
The breacher kicked the door open and ducked. Two flashbangs rolled in low—BANG! BANG!
The team surged inside.
Cries of pain echoed briefly—no gunfire. Within seconds, the room was silent again.
Owen and Heartbeat entered behind them.
Several men and women were face down, hands on their heads, restrained by the team. Owen pulled out a photo and approached one of them, brushing aside greasy long hair.
"Mad Dog Billy?"
"Yeah, that's me. Who the hell are you?"
"You'll find out. Take him."
All of them—Billy, his crew, and the women present—were shoved into a transport van and hauled back to CTU.
In the CTU interrogation room, Heartbeat took the lead. He was CTU's expert in interrogation and negotiation.
Guys like Billy didn't require fancy psychology. Just a few threats, a little pressure—and they folded.
Sure enough, it took less than 30 minutes for Billy to spill everything.
"They said they sold the stuff to a guy named Viper—a local arms dealer. I can give you his address…"
CTU deployed again.
Another tactical team surrounded Viper's safehouse and breached—only to find a bloodbath.
Bodies everywhere.
The stench of decay hit them like a wall. The corpses had been there for a while.
Owen dragged Billy inside to confirm.
He took one look at the bloated corpses and nearly fainted. "That's him… that's Viper."
Billy went from "Mad Dog" to "Whimpering Puppy" in seconds.
Owen's face turned dark. Viper was dead—the trail had gone cold. Again.
He ordered Billy—now practically a noodle—to be removed from the scene.
Then Owen got to work, examining the corpses carefully.
Judging by the clothes and body positions, the bodies belonged to Viper and his armed guards.
They'd been dead for over 48 hours. Their skin had discolored with livor mortis. The bodies were already decomposing.
But the strange part? There were no signs of gunfire.
This place was Viper's personal villa—surrounded by giant floor-to-ceiling windows. If there'd been a shootout, there should've been stray bullet holes. But the windows were perfectly intact.
Viper himself lay face-down, his body untouched, no wounds, no blood on the floor. Owen examined each corpse in turn… until he finally spotted a clue.
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