Counterterrorism in America

Finally free from Owen's chokehold, the sniper coughed violently, gasping for air as though he had just come back from the dead. His eyes burned with murderous rage as he locked onto Owen. As soon as he recovered enough, he would kill him without a second thought.

After a few seconds of ragged breathing, the sniper stumbled to his feet. Though still shaky, the near-death experience had left him desperate for revenge.

Owen could feel the pain coursing through his body, every nerve screaming in agony. He struggled to stay calm, hoping that a surge of adrenaline might kick in and save him, but his body stubbornly refused to cooperate.

The sniper began advancing step by step. Owen's senses were slowly returning, but not fast enough.

Just when the situation seemed hopeless, a shadow crashed into the sniper from behind—it was McClane!

The two men rolled across the floor in a tangled mess. McClane straddled the sniper and unleashed a barrage of punches to his face, cursing him with every blow. Blood gushed from the sniper's broken nose, staining his face red.

However, the sniper was far from finished. With a sudden burst of strength, he kicked McClane off of him. McClane flew through the air, slamming against a pile of debris with a grunt of pain.

By now, Owen had recovered enough to act. He seized the opportunity while the sniper was distracted. Charging forward, Owen grabbed the sniper's right arm with both hands. He twisted his legs around the man's neck and chest, locking in a perfect armbar.

The sniper growled in pain as Owen applied pressure, trying to snap his arm. But the sniper's strength was incredible. Every time Owen tried to increase the pressure, the sniper would shift his weight and disrupt Owen's balance. The two entered a deadlock—Owen couldn't break the sniper's arm, and the sniper couldn't stand up or escape the hold.

Meanwhile, McClane dragged himself back into the fray. His face was swollen and bloodied from the earlier kick, making him look almost unrecognizable. He stumbled forward, determined to help.

The sniper thrashed violently, nearly breaking free from Owen's grip. McClane lunged at the man's legs, attempting to pin them down, but the sniper easily shook him off and delivered two vicious kicks to McClane's ribs. McClane was sent sprawling to the side once again.

The sniper was visibly weakening, his breathing ragged and strained. Owen knew he was close to victory, but his own strength was fading fast. Both men were nearing their limits.

The sniper suddenly launched into a desperate frenzy, thrashing with renewed vigor. Owen's arms trembled under the strain. He was losing the battle. His muscles burned, and his vision began to blur.

It was at that moment that McClane, crawling back once more, decided to change tactics. He knelt beside the sniper, his face twisted in pain and rage.

"Die, you bastard!" McClane roared, clasping his hands together and slamming them down hard—right between the sniper's legs.

The sniper's entire body seized up. Owen flinched at the sight, his own body involuntarily tensing in sympathy.

"Good God... that's brutal," Owen muttered under his breath. The sniper froze for a moment before erupting into a fit of wild, agonized convulsions.

Before he could recover, McClane delivered a second blow to the same spot. This time, the sniper went completely still, his eyes rolling back in his head.

Seizing the moment, Owen twisted the sniper's arm with all his remaining strength. There was a sickening crack as the bone snapped. Owen immediately shifted into a rear-naked choke, wrapping his arm around the sniper's neck once more.

The sniper tried to fight back, but every time he summoned the will to resist, McClane would land another punch to his battered face, snuffing out any hope of recovery.

Slowly but surely, the sniper's struggles grew weaker. His breath came in shallow gasps until, finally, he went limp.

Owen maintained the choke for several more seconds, just to be sure. When the sniper failed to move or breathe, Owen finally released his grip, collapsing onto the floor.

Both men lay there, panting like dying animals. They hadn't expected the sniper to be this difficult to take down. Despite fighting two against one, they had come dangerously close to losing.

Owen's arms ached terribly, and he could taste the metallic tang of blood in his mouth. He had bitten his own lip during the struggle.

McClane was in even worse shape. His face was swollen beyond recognition, and blood poured freely from his broken nose. He looked like he had gone ten rounds with a sledgehammer.

Owen glanced at him with a mixture of awe and horror. "You... you really went for that? What kind of monster are you?"

McClane grinned through his bruised lips. "Hey, all's fair in love and war, right?"

Owen shuddered. His lower body felt inexplicably cold, as though instinctively protecting itself.

From outside, faint voices echoed up through the broken window. Owen's ears were still ringing from the fight, so he couldn't make out the words clearly. It sounded like the police issuing some kind of ultimatum.

They needed to make contact with the authorities, but their satellite phone had been destroyed during their earlier escape. The room was a disaster—furniture overturned, construction materials scattered everywhere. The sniper rifle was missing, most likely knocked out the window during the scuffle.

Then Owen noticed a spilled bucket of white paint. An idea began to form in his mind. He grabbed a piece of wood, dipping it into the paint.

"What are you doing?" McClane asked, watching as Owen began scribbling on the sniper's back.

"Writing a message," Owen replied.

"A message? For who?"

"For the police," Owen answered with a smirk.

McClane's eyes widened as he realized what Owen was planning. Moments later, Owen dragged the sniper's lifeless body to the window and heaved it over the edge.

Outside the building...

Chief Javier was in the middle of a conversation with a young man in military fatigues. The man's name was Bob Lee, a sniper expert temporarily assigned to SWAT from the Delta Force.

Javier had been explaining the urgency of the hostage situation. "I know you're military, and your role here is purely advisory. But we're dealing with dozens of lives on the line. I need your help—not for me, but for those people inside."

Bob nodded solemnly. "Understood. I'll do what I can."

He slung his rifle over his shoulder and led a team to find a suitable sniper position across the street.

Just as Javier watched them leave, a shout came from the crowd.

"Look out! Something's falling!"

A loud thud echoed through the plaza.

"Jesus Christ—it's a body!" someone yelled.