Inside Jack Bauer's office, Owen and Heartbeat sat side by side across from him.
This time, there was no need for a detailed debrief—Jack already knew everything.
Retired Marine Gunnery Sergeant Bob Lee Swagger had allegedly used a CheyTac M200 Intervention sniper rifle to attempt an assassination on Democratic presidential candidate David Palmer from a distance of 2,200 meters.
However, due to unforeseen circumstances, the bullet missed its intended target and instead struck and killed the Ethiopian archbishop standing nearby.
It all sounded absurd—but that's what the FBI was reporting.
Owen didn't know what others thought, but his first reaction was disbelief.
Never mind the fact that Swagger had saved his life multiple times during the Zhongchen Tower incident—just based on his understanding of the man's character, this wasn't something he'd ever do.
Owen hadn't spent much time with Swagger—just a few encounters—and even when he'd wanted to properly thank him, Swagger had already been whisked away on another military mission. But he still trusted his gut.
"I don't need to tell you this is an FBI-led operation," Jack said. "They're spearheading the manhunt and they're the ones reporting to Washington. We're not getting involved. We were just there for face value. Now that the Pentagon has stationed their own deputy director here trying to grab authority, the last thing I need is to give them an excuse."
Owen understood what Jack was saying. The FBI would take the heat—CTU would stay out of it. Since being moved under the Department of Defense, CTU had been under heavy scrutiny, and the last thing they needed was internal drama giving the Pentagon a reason to interfere.
After leaving the office, Owen and Heartbeat returned to their desks.
The mood in CTU had changed. The frantic energy of the past was gone. People sat idle, distracted, pretending to work. Ever since the Pentagon agents arrived, the atmosphere had gone stiff.
Politics. Damn politics.
With the agency's momentum stalled, many meeting rooms now sat empty. Most of the field agents had gone to the basement range to shoot.
Owen, however, locked himself in a conference room and started digging.
He didn't believe Swagger had tried to kill David Palmer—but belief wasn't enough. He needed proof.
Owen pulled up Swagger's military records. For the first time, he got a real sense of the man who had once saved his life.
Bob Lee Swagger: a decorated sniper in the Marine Corps, with numerous commendations. He had retired a year ago. The file listed his final mission as a cover op for a Special Forces extraction.
But after the mission, Swagger and his spotter had been abandoned by their commanding officer and were caught under enemy artillery fire. Swagger made it out alive—his spotter didn't.
The interesting part? The report mentioned that despite being left for dead, the two men had still managed to eliminate 70% of the enemy force. It described Swagger as a hero.
Two weeks later, he requested retirement. Three days after that, the commander who'd abandoned them went missing—never found again.
Since then, Swagger had been living alone in the mountains of Arkansas with his dog, living a quiet, isolated life. Until now—when he suddenly turned up in Los Angeles.
Owen reviewed the files again and again. The only possible link he could think of was if Palmer had somehow been involved in Swagger's final mission. But there was no overlap. Palmer didn't even have a military background.
Owen spent the entire afternoon researching and analyzing. He didn't even pause to eat.
By now, the whiteboard in the meeting room was covered in notes, charts, and printouts of the FBI's report on the shooting. A TV played in the background, tuned to the news—sometimes, media got things faster than the government did.
Outside, night had fallen. But the coverage continued: roadblocks across California, but still no sign of Swagger.
It had been four hours. Based on Owen's experience from the Alex hostage case, a suspect could potentially flee the state within two hours. Beyond that, escaping by highway became nearly impossible.
So either Swagger had already crossed the border—or he was dead in some ditch.
After all, according to early reports, a cop had shot him twice. If Swagger hadn't managed to treat the wounds, he was likely already a corpse.
"Breaking news," said the anchor on TV. "A local pharmacy has reported a suspicious purchase made two hours ago by a man believed to be the suspect, Bob Lee Swagger. The man allegedly bought salt, sugar, water, and syringes..."
Owen turned up the volume. On screen, a heavyset woman who appeared to be a pharmacist explained:
"I didn't know it was him. The power was out. He stood at the door and said he needed those things. Paid cash. I swear I didn't see his face..."
A glimmer of hope. That was probably Swagger—and that meant he was still alive.
Owen muttered to himself: "Salt, water, syringes—makes sense for IV fluid. But sugar? What the hell is sugar for?"
A voice answered from behind: "Sugar has been used on battlefields to treat wounds for centuries. It relies on osmotic pressure. Very common during the Napoleonic Wars."
Owen looked up. It was Heartbeat.
"You haven't eaten?"
Heartbeat had been heading home but saw Owen still working and came in to say hi.
"No, I haven't."
"You knew him, right?"
Everyone in CTU knew about Owen and Swagger's connection during the Zhongchen Tower incident. Everyone knew what Owen was doing.
Owen nodded.
"You really think he's innocent?"
Owen met Heartbeat's eyes and replied without hesitation, "Absolutely. Come here, I want to show you something."
He led Heartbeat to the whiteboard and pointed at a cluster of charts.
"These are ballistic groupings from a public demo Swagger did two years ago. Full-size target. Distance: two kilometers. Five rounds—1.5 feet spread.
Now look at today's shot. According to weather records, today's atmospheric conditions were nearly identical to that demo. But this time, the deviation was 2.5 feet. What does that tell you?"
Heartbeat didn't know what to say. Owen, however, was just getting started.
"And the data the FBI released? At first, I thought it came from Quantico or Washington. But no—it's from a bunch of places I've never heard of: Mechanical Bureau, Recon Division, some unnamed departments. Who knows what they even do?"
"And what about the FBI's response time? You remember how fast they were? The report says that within 12 minutes, they had helicopters in the air and police had locked down the scene. By minute 22, they had ballistic reports. How did they get that data and analysis in just 10 minutes?"
"We work in this system—we know how slow things move. Since when has the FBI ever moved this fast?"
Owen's words came faster and faster. Heartbeat could barely keep up.
"And this guy—Deamons. I know him. LAPD Central Division. Total scumbag. Dirty cop. Gambling debts, extortion, harassing hookers and small-time dealers—he's done it all.
He claims he was patrolling on foot, saw a barrel sticking out a window, and went to investigate—and found Swagger? No way. No sniper would make that mistake. Swagger was a Marine Gunnery Sergeant. Look at his medals. He wouldn't screw up like that."
"Maybe you should talk to this Deamons guy?" Heartbeat suggested.
"Can't."
"Why not?"
"Because he's dead. Just announced. Shot in an armed robbery on his way home."
Heartbeat fell silent.
But the chill in the air—the quiet spread of something far more dangerous than a single assassination—was unmistakable.
The scent of conspiracy was everywhere.
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