CTU, Los Angeles Division.
As Owen walked in, he immediately noticed a crowd gathered in Jack Bauer's second-floor office. There were quite a few people inside.
Many agents in the lobby were looking upward. Owen sidled over to Tony. "What's going on upstairs?"
"Pentagon suits," Tony replied. "Now that we're under the Department of Defense, they've been sent to pick us apart. Who knows, maybe they're eyeing Jack's position…"
Owen shrugged. This was exactly why he hated politics.
"You two, come with me."
Owen and Heartbeat were called into a meeting room. Tony tossed them a file and gestured for them to read it themselves.
After they finished, Tony explained, "We're just over a month out from the final round of the presidential election. Democratic candidate David Palmer will be in Los Angeles over the next few days for campaign stops. He's scheduled to give a speech at Acryl Plaza in two days. You two are on his security detail."
Owen and Heartbeat exchanged a look. "Just the two of us?"
Tony rolled his eyes. "Come on."
"This whole operation is being led by the FBI. On-site security will be handled mainly by the Secret Service and local police.
This sort of thing normally isn't our jurisdiction, but the FBI wants us involved. Plus, the Democrats might actually win this time. Jack wants you two to show up, make an impression.
The NSA will be sending people too, but like us, they're there as advisors. No one's taking the lead on security outside of the Secret Service."
That made sense.
The two nodded in understanding. This was going to be a major event. USSS (United States Secret Service), FBI, CTU, NSA, and federal police—nearly every major U.S. law enforcement and intelligence agency was represented, short of the CIA.
Scenes like this were common in the U.S. For major affairs, multiple agencies were usually involved, and sometimes even the military joined in.
…
Two days later, at Acryl Plaza.
Federal police had locked down the area early. All around the venue, men in suits and sunglasses—Secret Service agents—stood on high alert. On nearby rooftops, police snipers in tactical gear were in position.
The police snipers were equipped with Remington 700PSS rifles.
PSS stood for "Police Sharp Shooter." It was a law enforcement-specific version of the Remington 700, long favored for its cost-effectiveness and precision. It had served countless agencies over the years.
Acryl Plaza was an open-air venue, capable of holding around 200 people. Media crews had already set up cameras. Of course, all journalists had been thoroughly vetted. Ordinary people weren't allowed within 800 meters of the site.
Security at the stage—where the speech would be given—was handled exclusively by the Secret Service. Even the FBI had no authority there. The Secret Service was directly responsible for the protection of VIPs.
The FBI covered the outer perimeter, which was the usual arrangement in joint operations.
A week prior, the Secret Service had shared their "Tier 3 Threat List" with the FBI, which was then cross-referenced with CTU's list of terrorist threats to ensure nothing was overlooked.
Like CTU, the Secret Service maintained its own classification system for potential threats—usually divided into three tiers.
Tier 1 threats were minor cases: drunkards shouting "I'm gonna kill the president" or some similar nonsense. These people were logged but usually dismissed after review.
But Tier 3 was a different story.
The Secret Service had its own evaluation criteria. It assessed whether a subject had military or firearms training, a history of mental illness, or the capability to carry out an attack.
If you were designated as a Tier 3 threat, congratulations—you were now under surveillance. Any suspicious behavior could trigger an immediate and forceful response.
Just two weeks earlier, the Secret Service had arrested a teenager in Michigan for sending threatening emails to David Palmer.
In a country that prided itself on freedom of speech, people like that were surprisingly common—maybe in the name of "individualism"—but the consequences were rarely pleasant. That teen now faced two years in prison and two years of supervised release.
Around the plaza, guards stood every ten meters, and plainclothes FBI agents were embedded in the crowd, ready for anything.
Owen and Heartbeat, coffees in hand, were chatting in a quiet corner. Owen couldn't help but compare this operation to another he'd experienced.
"Relax, man. I know what you're thinking. You're remembering the Caesar Hotel incident, right?"
Owen shrugged. That was exactly what he'd been thinking about.
The Caesar Hotel had also been under tight security during the signing ceremony, but the assassin had used a modified RPG to launch a long-range attack. The case still hadn't been solved.
"Don't worry. There's no subway here, and the Secret Service perimeter extends 800 meters. That's beyond most RPG effective range."
"Let's hope so."
Owen frowned. He clearly remembered that the last RPG had been fired from 900 meters away, launched from a moving subway, with barely any loss of accuracy. 800 meters didn't offer much comfort.
"Standing at this podium today, I feel both humbled and honored. This is a great era, a historic era, but also an era of upheaval…"
Onstage, David Palmer had begun his speech. As the first Black presidential candidate in U.S. history, he was immensely popular and widely predicted to win. The media loved him.
The speech was going well. Cameras clicked constantly, and the crowd responded enthusiastically, applauding after each powerful point.
But the guards and undercover agents weren't paying attention to the speech. Their eyes were constantly scanning the perimeter. These were the moments when things usually went wrong.
Another round of applause erupted. Owen took a sip of his coffee and glanced toward the stage—only to notice a Black man in religious robes standing behind and to the side of Palmer. He had assumed the man was part of Palmer's team, but the clothing didn't match.
"Who's that guy?" Owen asked curiously.
"You mean him? That's the Archbishop of Ethiopia. He came specifically to attend the speech."
"The Horn of Africa?"
"Yep."
"What's he doing here?"
"He was on the approved list."
"That's not what I mean. I mean why is he hanging out with a presidential candidate? Shouldn't he be meeting with the actual president?"
"Oh, that's because he and the current president don't exactly get along. He's kind of a controversial figure—he's been pushing hard to have his country declared neutral, which obviously goes against U.S. interests."
"So now he's trying to cozy up to the next president? Hahaha…"
Owen didn't care much about politics, but he was intrigued by the archbishop.
"Now let's welcome His Grace, the Archbishop, to share his thoughts…"
The emcee onstage introduced the archbishop, who stepped forward to speak.
"I love America. I love this land of freedom. Here in this country—"
BANG!
A single, sharp gunshot rang out. Blood exploded from the archbishop's head as he collapsed to the ground.
"Sniper! Enemy fire!"
Chaos erupted. For a moment, there was stunned silence—then all hell broke loose. The crowd panicked, media scrambled to capture every second, and the Secret Service and FBI agents sprang into action.
The Secret Service was lightning-fast. The moment the archbishop fell, they formed a human wall around David Palmer and rushed him offstage. The scene descended into total chaos.
Owen spilled his coffee in shock.
The Archbishop of Ethiopia—assassinated in the United States by a sniper!
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