The scene had erupted into chaos. Police officers who had been stationed around the perimeter now rushed toward the center, weapons drawn, scanning for an unseen enemy.
Onstage, most of the Secret Service agents had already formed a tight human wall around David Palmer and were swiftly escorting him into a nearby building. Only a few agents remained by the fallen archbishop.
Sirens wailed through the streets. More police cars arrived by the second, even as others sped away in various directions.
Owen hadn't even noticed he'd spilled his coffee. After that moment of stunned silence, he and Heartbeat sprinted toward the podium, but the archbishop was already surrounded by medical and security personnel.
Owen scanned the surrounding buildings, trying to identify the sniper's location—but it was hopeless. Every rooftop within view already had police snipers positioned on it.
If there really had been an enemy sniper, they would've had to be at least 1,500 meters away—well beyond the Secret Service's 800-meter security perimeter.
But a 1,500-meter shot? That was insane. This wasn't a video game where you just align the target in the crosshairs and pull the trigger.
A real sniper at that distance had to account for temperature, humidity, elevation, wind direction, fog—any slight breeze could throw the bullet way off course.
A shot like that would take 6 to 8 seconds to reach the target, which meant the sniper had to calculate the exact lead time, factoring in not only ballistics but also the Coriolis effect and Earth's rotation.
To hit a target at 1,500 meters, it was half skill—and half sheer luck.
"I'm Officer Deamons from Central Division. I've wounded the suspect. He fled toward Lemon Tree Avenue…"
The voice crackled through Owen's earpiece. The next moment, Heartbeat screeched to a halt in front of him.
Owen didn't bother with the door—he leapt up, twisted midair, and landed directly in the passenger seat. Heartbeat hit the gas, speeding toward Lemon Tree Avenue.
They weaved through traffic, a convoy of FBI and police cars behind them, all rushing toward the reported location.
Above, the thrum of helicopter blades echoed through the sky. Owen glanced up—two FBI choppers were already circling, scanning the city from above.
Owen frowned. He checked his watch—less than ten minutes had passed since the assassination. How had the FBI gotten air support up this fast?
Heartbeat noticed it too and stared in disbelief. The two of them exchanged a look, each seeing the same incredulity in the other's eyes.
Everyone in federal enforcement circles knew each other's capabilities. In all of L.A., Jack Bauer's CTU had the fastest response time—this was a known fact, almost an unspoken law. Just like SWAT was accepted as the FBI's elite unit.
But today, the FBI had reacted faster than CTU. Had Womack finally found his mojo?
"All units, be advised. Suspect is fleeing in a government-issued black Ford sedan headed toward Lexington Avenue. Nearby units, set up a blockade…"
The radio dispatch crackled again. Heartbeat veered the car to follow the updated location.
More and more police cars poured into the streets, all converging on a single destination as relayed by central command.
If viewed from the air, a swarm of patrol cars could be seen converging like blood cells racing toward a wound.
Owen sat gripping the passenger-side handle, flinching slightly at each sharp turn. Heartbeat was a competent driver, but far from elite—his cornering was wide and clumsy. Still, for someone without advanced pursuit training, he was doing okay.
"Be advised, someone just reported that the suspect vehicle entered a car wash near the intersection of Lexington and Starbright Street. Be alert—suspect is armed…"
Heartbeat adjusted course again. As they neared Starbright Street, a black Ford sedan suddenly burst from a side street at high speed, screeching into a sharp turn.
"Target spotted!" Heartbeat shouted and gave chase.
Owen had already seen it too—no need for the callout. A line of police cars with flashing lights and blaring sirens were chasing after the black Ford. Several other police cars, including Owen and Heartbeat's, joined the pursuit.
Ahead, a busy intersection loomed. The Ford ignored the red light and floored it—only to get clipped in the rear by a massive oncoming truck.
The Ford spun nearly 180 degrees and came to a halt, facing directly into the oncoming police vehicles.
Cars on both sides of the intersection slammed on their brakes, quickly blocking both ends of the road.
Officers exited the lead cruisers and took cover behind doors, aiming their weapons toward the suspect vehicle.
Heartbeat stopped the car, crouched behind the engine block, and raised his weapon.
But Owen wasn't so sure. He stepped out and stayed near the vehicle, squinting at the black Ford's driver. There was something oddly familiar about him.
More vehicles arrived by the minute—cops, FBI agents, SWAT teams. In the distance, the sound of sirens continued to grow louder.
Helicopters hovered overhead.
This place had turned into a death trap.
At the center of the intersection, the black Ford stood alone, surrounded on three sides by police vehicles. Officers crouched behind cover in every direction. Helicopters circled above. And behind the Ford—open ocean. No way forward, no way back.
It looked like surrender was the only option.
But then the Ford suddenly reversed at full speed, shot off the embankment behind it—and plunged into the sea.
Water rushed through the open windows. Within seconds, the vehicle disappeared beneath the waves.
The officers closest to the water rushed to the edge, but saw nothing except a few rising air bubbles. The car was gone.
"Reporting—"
"Calling dispatch, suspect vehicle—"
"Contact Coast Guard immediately for assistance—"
A chorus of panicked voices filled the comms.
…
It was an hour later by the time Owen and Heartbeat returned to CTU. They learned about the aftermath through the news—media outlets were already running full coverage of the assassination and the chase.
As they walked in, CTU's giant screen was broadcasting NBC. A blonde reporter spoke into the camera:
"According to confirmed reports from the FBI, the suspect in the attempted assassination of presidential candidate David Palmer has been identified as former Navy Gunnery Sergeant Bob Lee Swagger.
Federal officers launched a massive city-wide manhunt, but he remains at large. Veteran LAPD officer Deamons, with seven years of service, was first on the scene and reportedly wounded Swagger during the initial encounter. Now, back to you—"
Owen froze as the name hit him. Bob Lee Swagger?
That was the same sniper who had saved his life during the Zhongchen Tower incident.
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