Counterterrorism in America

In the hallway, McClane ran along cheerfully, grinning as he listened to the blonde man furiously cursing him over the radio. Occasionally, McClane tossed a sarcastic comeback, further enraging his adversary.

Owen knew the moment had come. After getting hit with two grenades earlier and being hunted like a dog, it was finally time to strike back.

"33rd floor, southwest corner!"

One of the robbers monitoring the security cameras suddenly spotted Owen and McClane. Though he had no idea why the two hadn't sabotaged the cameras this time, he quickly reported their position through the radio.

The blonde man, immediately alert, rallied his team and made his way over. However, this time, he was smarter. Instead of taking the stairs, he opted for the elevator.

"Are they still on the 33rd floor?" he demanded as soon as he stepped out. The cat-and-mouse game had started to unnerve him.

"Confirmed. Ever since they entered, I've been watching. All cameras are intact. Unless they grew wings, they haven't left the floor," the surveillance operator replied with certainty, eager to redeem himself after the earlier fiasco.

The blonde man's lips curled into a cruel smile. "Good. Keep an eye on them. I'm going to catch these bastards myself and show them what hell really means."

Inside a room on the 33rd floor, Owen and McClane were unaware of the torturous plans the blonde man had in store for them. Even if they had known, it wouldn't have mattered—they were too focused on their trap.

A grenade had been rigged behind the door, with the pin secured to the doorframe by a thin string. As soon as someone pushed the door open, the pin would be pulled, detonating the grenade.

They say revenge is a dish best served cold. Well, screw that. I'm serving mine hot, right now.

Time crawled by as they waited. Eventually, footsteps echoed down the hall, growing louder as several men approached.

The blonde man ordered his team to spread out and search each room. The doors of all the other rooms had been left wide open by Owen and McClane—except for the door to their trap. It was shut tight.

The surveillance team hadn't reported any changes. The blonde man smiled with satisfaction. Got you now, you rats.

"You know what happened to the last guy who pissed me off?" he called out in a loud, taunting voice. "I tied him to a tree and burned him alive with gasoline."

The blonde man's voice dripped with malice as he continued, delivering his mock sentence. "You should thank God—I don't have time to torture you today. So… just die!"

Rather than kick down the door, he took a more brutal approach. He raised his weapon and opened fire.

Bullets tore through the wood, riddling the door with holes. The blonde man chuckled darkly. His men exchanged glances, then followed his lead, spraying the door with gunfire.

"Ratatatatata!"

"Ratatatatatata!"

"Boom!"

The grenade exploded—not because the pin was pulled, but because a stray bullet hit it.

The blast hurled the nearest robbers through the air. Several others were hit by shrapnel, sustaining light injuries. The shockwave knocked the rest to the floor. The doorframe and surrounding walls were scorched black, debris scattered everywhere.

The blonde man, incredibly, survived with only minor wounds. Anger twisted his features as he stumbled to his feet.

"Inside! Move!" he barked, rushing into the room with his weapon ready.

His men followed, their eyes burning with rage. They had been humiliated too many times and were eager for revenge. But when they stormed inside, they found… nothing.

The room was empty. Besides a few pieces of furniture, there was nowhere for anyone to hide.

"Come out! Come out, you cowards!" the blonde man roared, stomping around in frustration.

Then his eyes caught something—the ceiling vent. The cover lay discarded on the floor. Nearby, a short cabinet had been moved under the vent, and a large, muddy footprint marked its surface.

"Son of a bitch…"

The blonde man seethed with fury. They got away through the vent.

He screamed in rage and unleashed a hail of bullets into the vent. His men joined in, firing into every duct they could find.

For two full minutes, gunfire echoed throughout the floor. By the time it stopped, every section of the ventilation system was riddled with holes, smoke rising from the perforated metal.

Panting heavily, the blonde man surveyed the damage. There was no sign of the two fugitives. Were they already gone… or lying dead somewhere in the ducts?

His radio crackled to life. "The police are here," Hans announced. "Everyone, follow the plan. Alex, forget those two and regroup."

So, the blonde man's name was Alex.

Hans's voice echoed ominously through the room. The robbers glanced at Alex, awaiting his orders.

Alex snarled, kicking a nearby cabinet in frustration. Reluctantly, he gathered his team and left.

Silence descended once more. The dust settled, and the scent of gunpowder faded from the air.

After about ten minutes, a faint creaking sound broke the stillness. The same cabinet Alex had kicked earlier shifted slightly. Slowly, the door opened.

A disheveled figure crawled out, coughing and spitting out dust.

"Shit… didn't think they'd go that crazy," Owen muttered, shaking off the debris from his hair. The force of the kick had nearly given him a heart attack.

"Hey… give me a hand. I can't move," came McClane's muffled voice from inside the cabinet.

Owen chuckled and extended a hand to pull him out.