The CTU team disembarked, using the nearby vehicles as cover as they cautiously advanced forward.
Some drivers, beginning to sense something was wrong, fled in panic. But many still had no idea what was happening.
"Heartbeat, take the middle with me. Jimmy, Carter, cover the flanks..."
Owen gave a quick set of orders, and the team began to move up, using the parked cars as mobile cover. Behind them, the tactical squad was also getting out, steadily advancing.
"Get down, stay behind the engine block!"
As Owen passed each car, he tapped on it, reminding the occupants to stay low. The others did the same. The drivers who hadn't fled had no choice but to hunker down inside, keeping their bodies as low as possible.
Anyone who lived in the USA knew the engine block was the most likely part of a car to stop a bullet—everyone followed instructions.
The atmosphere was grim—tense, on the brink of violence.
Owen crouched, moving forward with care. The others mirrored his movements, ducking behind each vehicle to observe and only advancing once the path ahead seemed momentarily safe.
Up front, everything remained quiet. By now, none of the nearby cars showed any signs of life. Everyone had ducked down, hiding in their seats.
Then, suddenly and yet inevitably, the gunfire began.
"Ratatatatatatatat~~~"
First a long burst, then controlled shots. The M249's fire was relentless. In seconds, nearly every window in the direct line of fire shattered into pieces.
The machine gun's rounds sprayed in a wide arc, forcing everyone to a halt. They ducked behind trunks, bodies curled tightly into the smallest possible space.
A pained scream rang out nearby. Despite his careful position, Carter had taken a hit—a ricochet had grazed his shoulder.
"Carter, you good?"
"It's fine. Superficial wound."
Owen breathed a little easier. Jimmy quickly tore off part of his t-shirt to patch up Carter's arm. Just a graze. Carter could keep fighting.
At the front near the Volvo, while Alfred's M249 roared, the rest of his team used the opportunity to fall back. After retreating a distance, they regrouped and began setting up a new defensive line—ready to cover Alfred's own retreat later.
Owen crouched behind a car, the whizzing of bullets and the pinging of impacts ringing in his ears. He wanted to peek out and take down the machine gunner, but the narrow road meant every position was exposed. A slight shift of the barrel could sweep their entire line. Owen dared not take the risk.
Then suddenly, the pinging intensified. Owen realized the enemy was focusing fire on Heartbeat's position.
"Heartbeat, move!"
Even without Owen's warning, Heartbeat already knew. The enemy was targeting the gas tank of his cover vehicle, trying to blow it up.
Heartbeat scrambled back a car length—just in time. A deafening explosion erupted behind him as the vehicle went up in flames, the blast throwing him forward before he hit the ground again.
With enemy attention focused on Heartbeat, Owen took the chance to pop up. He aimed, triggered bullet time, and fired a burst of short controlled shots.
The rounds punched through layers of cover. Though they missed the shooter, sparks flew around the machine gun nest. Sensing danger, the gunner pulled back in a panic.
The M249 fire paused. Owen moved up a vehicle, taking cover again. The rest of the team did the same, creeping forward in unison.
Enemy fire resumed—this time bursts from assault rifles. Though less sustained than the machine gun, the shots were much more accurate—far deadlier.
Bullets zipped around him. Owen popped up occasionally to return fire. His shots didn't find targets but forced the enemy to keep their heads down.
At one point, a civilian in a nearby car tried to open his door and run. Owen barked at him to stay inside. The man, clearly terrified, immediately dropped back into the seat.
Bullets were flying everywhere, whizzing past like they cost nothing.
Move, shoot, hide—advancing car by car. The distance between the two sides shrank slowly. The tactical unit had caught up, but the cramped space only allowed for a slow, staggered advance.
Alfred had returned to the group and swapped his weapon for a SCAR. Avril's team had clearly sourced new weapons recently—every rifle had more punch than before.
When they'd received the pizza earlier, Avril had felt something was off. Though it was the same delivery guy, something about his demeanor felt unnatural.
People in their line of work relied heavily on intuition—a sixth sense honed by expensive CIA training. Her instincts about danger were exceptionally sharp.
So when Alfred went to eat the pizza, Avril stopped him. Instead, they fed it to the two hostages. Sure enough, shortly afterward both had fallen into a deep, unshakeable sleep. That confirmed the setup and triggered the ambush and escape plan.
Avril couldn't figure out exactly what had gone wrong, but considering Castor had only just returned when the police showed up, it was likely he had inadvertently exposed their location.
Their next two attacks were now a bust. The hostages and the explosives were still in the cabin—there was no way they could have taken them during the breakout. But that no longer mattered. As long as they escaped, there would be more opportunities later.
"Ratatatata~~"
Owen's burst of fire sent sparks flying around Avril. Shards of car metal slashed across her face.
As a former agent, Avril wasn't a beauty queen, but she was attractive—another CIA selection criterion. A pleasant appearance was always a potent weapon.
Seeing his sister injured, Alfred moved closer, ready to shield her from incoming bullets if necessary.
"Wooo—wooo—"
A train horn blared from the front.
"Push forward—we need to finish this before the train arrives!"
The train was a massive variable. Owen issued the urgent order. Behind him, the tactical team began pressing in.
Avril issued a retreat order at the same time. They had also set their sights on the train. With the crossing blocked in both directions, the train offered two options: either block CTU's pursuit or jump onto the train itself.
Compared to the retreating group, Owen's team had the advantage. Their advance and their shooting were in the same direction. The White Mask members, meanwhile, had to shoot, retreat, then turn back to shoot again.
Owen's order triggered an intense volley—the bullet density soared.
Amid the retreat, one enemy was caught off guard. Heartbeat clipped his leg, bringing him to his knees. Before he could fall, Owen finished the job with a bullet to the neck—half his throat torn out, his blood pooling quickly around him.
With the tight space limiting their numbers, Owen ordered part of the tactical team to flank from the side, while the rest continued the frontal push with the field agents.
The firefight was fierce. There were no amateurs on the White Mask side—their marksmanship was solid across the board.
By now, the vehicles between the two groups had been reduced to scrap metal. Not a single car remained undamaged. No one knew whether the civilians hiding inside had been hit.
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