On the way back to CTU, Owen was driving while Tony picked up his phone and called Chloe.
"Chloe, look up a man named Jabbar Bernie—he's a board member at Aselcon Biopharmaceuticals. I need to know his current location, call records from the last few months, social connections, emails, criminal history, financials, and his movements over the past six months..."
"Got it, I'll get someone on it right away. What's going on?"
"This guy may be connected to the Cruel Angels."
"Understood. I'll get back to you."
Owen drove in silence, saying nothing, and Tony also remained quiet, waiting for Chloe to send the information to his phone.
This was when CTU's formidable information power came into play. A few minutes later, Chloe called back.
"Chloe, what's the situation?"
"Tony, things are a bit complicated..."
Tony switched the phone to speaker mode as Chloe continued.
"Jabbar Bernie owns only one property in Los Angeles—he's got an entire top floor at the Levinsky Hotel. Remember that rooftop pool you saw in the news, the one that's half suspended outside the building? That's his."
Tony shot a glance at Owen, then asked, "And?"
Owen understood the look. He knew exactly where the Levinsky Hotel was and immediately turned the wheel in that direction.
Chloe continued on the phone, "Aisha just breached their email server, but found that someone else had hacked in a few minutes earlier and deleted all information related to Jabbar. So, I believe—"
"He's trying to run? …Damn it..."
Tony snapped to attention and growled, "Owen, step on it. We need to stop him!"
Owen slammed the accelerator. The car blew through red lights at full speed, the once-gentle Chevrolet Pathfinder turning into a beast, weaving through narrow lanes, cutting off other cars and leaving a trail of screams and curses behind.
"Chloe, notify the field team to move in immediately. No—check his license plate, pull his position from traffic cams, and get someone to intercept him!"
"I've already got people on it..."
Owen raced through the streets like lightning, and before long, they arrived at the front of the Levinsky Hotel. But a dense crowd had gathered out front, blocking their way. As the two looked up, they were met with a shocking sight.
On the rooftop pool over thirty stories up, the suspended section of the pool had ruptured, and water poured down in torrents—along with a human body.
The screams lasted only a few seconds before ending in a sickening "splat." Amid the growing puddle of water was a mangled body, blood splattered everywhere. Dozens in the crowd vomited on the spot.
Tony and Owen pushed through the crowd to the front. Even though only half the face remained intact, Tony instantly recognized the victim: Jabbar Bernie.
They exchanged a look, then both stared up at the shattered rooftop pool. The timing was far too coincidental. Tony immediately recalled what Chloe had said about Jabbar's email records being wiped. This wasn't about Jabbar trying to run—it was someone else erasing him.
…
The next day, Tony and Owen were back at CIA headquarters. Everyone sat in the conference room with grim expressions.
Director Mueller stubbed out his cigarette harshly and opened the meeting. "Simon, tell us what happened on your end."
Simon glanced around, then projected a photo of a man's corpse on the screen. "By the time we arrived, Green Stone was already dead. He was found with his neck snapped in his luxury high-rise apartment on the 18th floor."
Simon flipped through a few more images. "According to his bodyguards, the killer was a woman who posed as *** personnel to get into the room. When the guards realized something was off and broke in, the killer walked out right in front of them.
We investigated the scene. The execution was extremely professional—it was a hit job. Unfortunately, the surveillance didn't capture her face, just a silhouette."
A slide showing the back of a woman appeared. Owen found the figure oddly familiar.
Tony asked, "Walked out in front of them? What do you mean?"
"I'll explain that..."
Paso, clearly excited, started gesturing as he spoke, "The killer used a specialized metal-woven handbag. After killing Green, she used the bag as a descent tool and jumped out from the 22nd floor.
The interesting part? I looked it up—that type of bag was a CIA product from a few years ago, designed as an escape tool for female operatives.
The material is extremely durable—each thread can hold 200 kilos—and it's woven in a way that provides enough friction to absorb the impact from a high fall. All you have to do is anchor one end and slide down holding the other."
Tony frowned. "Are you saying this was done by your CIA people?"
"No, no, no, that's not what I meant!"
Paso waved his hands frantically. He'd just been amazed by the boldness of the method and hadn't expected Tony to take it as an accusation.
Mueller stepped in to calm things down. "It wasn't CIA. We don't have jurisdiction for lethal operations on U.S. soil. We would never make a domestic hit."
Both Owen and Tony scoffed inwardly. The whole "no jurisdiction" talk was nonsense—maybe the CIA wouldn't do something as blatant as an assassination, but they weren't exactly strangers to illegal activities.
"Then how do you explain the equipment?"
"Probably leaked or sold off." This time it was Harry who answered. He also didn't believe the CIA was behind the hit—not because of legal boundaries, but because of the execution.
Harry was a frontline operative himself and knew the CIA's style intimately. If they wanted someone dead, they'd stage a car accident, a gas leak, or at worst, a robbery gone wrong. This kind of direct kill—snapped neck and high-rise escape—was too blunt. Definitely not CIA.
Owen kept his head down. Simon, thinking he hadn't understood, explained, "It's not surprising. Every year, the CIA spends tons on new equipment. They often sell outdated or non-sensitive gear and patents. That bag's just an escape tool—it's not high-tech. Selling it off is standard."
Owen didn't speak up. But from the description and the image of the woman's back, a familiar feeling crept over him. In his mind flashed the image of the woman on the motorcycle who once told him, "We're even."
While Owen was still thinking about the female assassin, Tony had already begun recounting what had happened to Jabbar Bernie.
"You're telling me Jabbar Bernie fell from over thirty stories and turned into a pile of meat?"
------------------
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