"And now, here's the surveillance footage obtained from the supermarket..."
Owen rushed into his apartment, dropped his bags on the floor, and immediately turned on the TV. The news was broadcasting the very footage he feared to see. He stared at the screen, entranced.
In the video, a white Nissan sedan slowly pulled into a parking space. Before the man inside could even get out, a red Chevrolet screeched to a halt beside it. The passenger jumped out before the vehicle stopped completely and opened fire with an automatic rifle. At the same time, the driver fired from his seat.
Golden shell casings rained down like confetti. The person in the Nissan never even made it out—just sat there, riddled with bullets. Halfway through, the shooter reloaded and kept going before hopping back in the Chevy and driving off.
Then came the anchor's voiceover: "According to sources, the deceased is Evans Patrick, operations leader of the local DEA unit. He was responsible for the recent operation to apprehend Mario Sánchez. Authorities believe this was an act of cartel retaliation. The investigation is ongoing..."
The very thing Owen had feared most had come to pass. Grief and rage churned in his chest. Strictly speaking, he and Patrick weren't close. They had no personal relationship, only professional interaction, and they'd known each other for barely any time at all. But Owen felt a deep, inexplicable sorrow.
Patrick had been a good man. A respectable man. And Owen had always felt a lingering guilt toward him. In the end, Mexico had simply assisted with an American-led operation, but it was the Mexican DEA that paid the price.
And that wasn't even the end of it. The screen cut to a live reporter, clearly stationed at the U.S.–Mexico border. As she spoke, the unmistakable sound of gunfire erupted in the background. She screamed, ducked, then quickly shouted with manic excitement, urging the cameraman to capture everything.
Though shaky and imperfect, the footage felt brutally real. A few modified pickup trucks had appeared on the Mexican side of the border, in Ciudad Juárez. All their truck beds had been fitted with mounted machine guns. They stopped just short of the border and opened fire—on the American side.
Brass shells spilled like water into the pickup beds. A barrage of bullets rained down on a small police station near the El Paso border checkpoint.
Outside the station, a few stunned American officers watched in disbelief as cartel gunners destroyed the building in broad daylight, mere yards away. No one fired back. The cartel's aim was obvious—they were targeting the building, not the people. Had they wanted to kill, those nearby officers wouldn't still be standing. This was a show of force, not an assassination.
The hail of gunfire lasted ten minutes before the cartel trucks raised a large banner reading: "GRINGOS, GO BACK TO AMERICA..."
"This is retaliation," the reporter shrieked. "This has to be retaliation—for America's involvement in the operation to capture Mario!"
Her voice cracked with giddy adrenaline. She might be the first—or only—reporter on the scene, and she had exclusive footage. To make it in journalism, guts and timing were everything, and today she'd had both.
She was right. The clip went viral back in the States. Her report aired long before even the cartel's own propaganda videos were uploaded. Major news networks scrambled to license the footage. Within hours, every American household had seen it: the Mexican cartels had openly attacked U.S. soil.
The White House was furious.
Barnes was especially livid. This public act of hostility shattered any remaining chance of diplomatic cooperation with Mexico. The Sánchez cartel was one of the six dominant syndicates in the country, and its influence in politics was immense. Now they were openly provoking the U.S.—and collaboration between the two nations was becoming impossible.
Back at CTU, Omega Squad had been summoned immediately. Jack Bauer stood in the office, his face grim as he addressed the team, his gaze finally resting on Owen.
"Per White House orders, Omega Squad is on indefinite leave. Effective immediately. Await further instructions for reactivation. In the meantime, no media interviews, and no disclosure of any operational details concerning Mexico."
He turned and walked out. Jack didn't know what kind of deal the White House was trying to broker with Mexico, but whatever it was, this time they'd gone too far.
In the past, even under pressure, the White House would at least allow hearings—Palmer himself, or Congress, would let CTU explain itself. But not this time. No questions, no communication—just unilateral decisions from above. It was becoming painfully clear to Jack: CTU no longer mattered to Palmer the way it once did. Maybe the President had already forgotten who saved him from the jaws of death at the White House.
Jack was furious. So was Omega.
"Vacation time," Owen said. "Go somewhere, unwind. I'm heading to L.A. to find Monica. Whatever happens next, it's not our problem. Stop living every day like it's war."
The others looked at Owen in silence. But they obeyed. They left CTU, said their goodbyes—and for the next few days, Owen disappeared.
His phone was off. No one knew where he was.
In a hidden room somewhere, Owen sat alone, mapping out a plan. It was a dangerous plan—too dangerous for his team. He didn't want them involved. Baryev had a precious daughter. Ferred had just won over Silly Sweet. Heartbeat had a family. Swagg and Ghost had already cheated death once. Owen couldn't let them risk everything again.
This was something he had to do alone.
He would avenge Patrick. He would hunt down the Sánchez cartel and kill as many of them as he could. Not just for Patrick—but for himself.
But going solo was hell. He had to handle everything: intelligence gathering, logistics, tactics, timing—every detail fell on him. He'd stayed up until nearly dawn the night before. Now he was sleeping, finally, when a knock came at the door.
Weapon in hand, Owen approached cautiously. No one should know he was here.
He peeked through the peephole.
Then his shoulders slumped.
He opened the door.
Ghost stood outside, lazily leaning against the frame. "Whatever you're planning, count me in. Only people with the same stink make good friends."
He walked straight in. Behind him came Swagg.
"I'm not doing this for America. I'm doing it for my brother."
Heartbeat followed. "I was in Colombia. I don't mind going again."
Then Baryev: "I'm an elite. If I don't fight back, what kind of elite am I?"
Finally, Ferred grinned. "If nobody talks, I'll die of boredom."
One by one, they entered. Owen gave a helpless sigh—but a smile tugged at his lips.
"How the hell did you find me?" he asked. That was the biggest mystery. His phone was off. He hadn't contacted anyone. Even Monica didn't know where he was.
"It was me~~"
Ferred held up his phone. On the screen, Silly Sweet's face filled the frame in a video call.
"Owen, I had no choice. Monica told me you hadn't called, so I knew you were planning something. I had to use some unconventional methods. But whatever you're doing, you'll need me. I can help. And I'm not letting my baby nephew grow up without a father."
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