Swagger had spent ten days recovering at Sara's house. By now, his wounds had scabbed over—though he still couldn't move too aggressively, he was mobile again.
In the early morning light, Sara returned home with a bag of groceries from the local supermarket. She was an elementary school teacher, and despite harboring a fugitive, her life hadn't changed much on the surface. She still went to work as usual, keeping up appearances, though the amount of food she bought had noticeably increased.
Over the past few days, Owen had asked Becky to look into several things—including a global list of snipers capable of hitting a target from 2,200 yards. Truth be told, there weren't many. And even fewer had the means or opportunity—most of the capable ones were still serving in various military units across the world, and thus unlikely to be involved.
As for the retired ones—some were dead, some disabled, and a few were suffering from degenerative diseases like Parkinson's, rendering them incapable of such precise shooting.
Becky had also dug into "Isaac Johnson," the name Swagger had been given. As expected, it was fake. No military records. No identity. Completely fabricated.
Even the Congressional Medal of Honor that Johnson allegedly had? Becky confirmed there was no such recipient matching his description.
"Becky, keep digging," Owen said. "We're missing something. A shot at 2,200 yards—that's not just some nameless grunt. Even if the shooter was active duty, we can look into deployment records, financial irregularities, or signs of coercion—missing family, kidnappings… They might not be willing participants, but someone out there did this."
Owen had shifted focus to active-duty snipers—it made sense. Anyone physically incapable was off the table. If a guy couldn't even prone out or hold a rifle steady, he sure as hell couldn't pull off a 2,200-yard kill shot. Unless God himself was blind, there was no way a Parkinson's patient exploded the Archbishop's skull.
"Alright," Becky replied, sighing. "I'll head back to the NSA and check again using their databases."
"Wait—NSA? Weren't you fired?"
Monica had told him weeks ago that Becky had been canned from the NSA after going rogue in Colombia without clearance. That's how she'd had the time to work with Monica on those crazy gadgets.
"Pfft! They begged me to come back!"
Becky sounded like she was beaming with pride. Owen could practically hear her smirking on the other end of the line.
"You're not gonna believe this," she said. "A few days ago, NSA's data center got hit with a major cyberattack. No one could fix it. Then someone remembered, 'Hey, didn't Becky write the original security protocols?' So they called me in."
"And let me guess," Owen muttered.
"I fixed it in, like, five minutes," she said smugly. "So now I'm reinstated—senior tech researcher, higher clearance level, double the pay, and my own office! Pretty sweet, huh?"
Owen blinked. "Wait… that attack wasn't your doing, was it?"
She giggled. "Hehehe... what do you think?"
Owen sighed. Hackers were ridiculous. A staged cyberwar to engineer your own promotion? That was a new low—or high, depending on your perspective. Still, the mental image of a cheerful, bespectacled girl turning the NSA upside down with a keyboard made Owen snort with laughter.
Somewhere in California – Golf Course
State Senator Dick took a lazy swing, sending the golf ball sailing across the green. He handed his club to the caddy and strolled back under the sun umbrella to sip on some fresh juice.
Sitting beside him was none other than Colonel Isaac Johnson—the same name Swagger had given Owen, the man who had lured him into the setup.
"Colonel," Dick said coldly. "I'm beginning to think I chose the wrong man for the job. You said Swagger wouldn't be a problem. But it's been ten days, and he's still out there. I'm starting to question your competence."
Johnson's jaw tightened, a flicker of resentment in his eyes, but he kept his composure. "He was shot—twice. Every hospital in the area has eyes on it. Chances are, he's already dead somewhere."
"I don't want 'chances' or 'maybes,'" Dick snapped. "Those words don't match your 'elite military professionalism.' I want results. Is he dead or not?"
Johnson took a breath. "I've set a trap. If he's alive, he'll take the bait."
"No need," Dick interrupted. "I've arranged for someone else to handle it. Real professionals."
Johnson frowned but held his tongue.
Dick picked up his phone and played a short video—just under ten seconds long. Johnson leaned in to watch.
The clip showed the moment David Palmer arrived at the rally venue, stepping out of the car with Secret Service agents around him. But then, from the other side of the car, another man stepped out—the Ethiopian Archbishop.
Johnson's face drained of color.
"This is your 'flawless' plan," Dick spat. "You swore everything was accounted for. You didn't even know they entered together. That Archbishop may have told Palmer everything. And if Palmer exposes us, what then?"
Cold sweat began to form on Johnson's brow. He knew how powerful these people were. If the plan unraveled, the rest of them might survive with political bruises—but he would be the sacrificial lamb.
"Where did this video come from?" he asked.
"Anonymous email," Dick replied. "Encrypted. Untraceable. Same source who first tipped us about the Archbishop's involvement."
"So… this person is helping us?"
"Don't know. Don't care. Right now, he's useful. But if Palmer knows the truth, he's a ticking time bomb. He's the Democratic Party's front-runner, for god's sake."
"Should we… eliminate him?" Johnson asked hesitantly.
Dick's face twisted in rage. "Are you insane? The election is less than two months away! If the leading candidate is assassinated now, it'll blow everything up!"
Johnson seemed to weigh the risks… and then a new look crossed his face—one of cold certainty.
"Wait here. I'll make a call."
He stepped away, murmuring rapidly into a burner phone. After a few minutes, he returned.
"Well?" Dick asked.
"We're going forward," Johnson said. "Swagger failed, but we'll say he wasn't working alone. His 'accomplice' will finish the job. The narrative writes itself."
"Reasonable enough," Dick muttered. "But Palmer just survived one assassination attempt. The Secret Service has probably reinforced every square inch of his life. You think you can still get to him?"
Johnson smirked.
"It's not us who will kill David Palmer," he said.
Dick narrowed his eyes. "Then who?"
"CTU's very own… Jack Bauer."
[Check out my Patreon for +200 additional chapters in all my fanfics! Only $5 per novel or $15 for all!!] [[email protected]/Mutter]
[+50 Power Stones = +1 Extra Chapter]
[+5 Reviews = +1 Extra Chapter]