Reborn in America’s Anti-Terror Unit

While the senator's new conspiracy was unfolding, Owen was still struggling to trace the mysterious sniper.

Becky had already tapped into the NSA's godlike resources. Only an organization like the NSA—with a budget multiple times that of the CIA—could run a global cross-check of every sniper known to have hit targets at 2,000 yards or beyond.

But even with all that tech, data analytics, AI modeling, and deep pattern analysis, the search still turned up nothing.

Out of options, Becky decided to try one last thing. She compiled a list of all current and former military snipers confirmed to have successfully engaged targets at 2,000+ yards. Then she sent the full profiles to Owen—hoping something, anything, would stand out.

The list wasn't long—just over 50 names.

Becky had been thorough. Each file included name, nationality, branch of service, specializations, preferred sniper rifle, confirmed kill stats, and a handful of photos.

Owen and Swagger sat side by side, going through them one by one.

So far—nothing. But then…

"That's him!" Swagger suddenly shouted, pointing at a photograph. "That guy! I saw him! He was with Isaac Johnson's team!"

Owen quickly pulled up the file.

Name: Sokolov

Ethnicity: Russian-American

Former Unit: U.S. Army Green Berets (Special Forces)

Status: Retired

Specialty: Long-range sniping

Injury: Double leg amputation from combat injuries—confined to a wheelchair

Owen raised an eyebrow. A double amputee? A sniper? There was no way this guy had crawled into position and executed a 2,200-yard kill shot. He couldn't even prone out. Hell, he probably couldn't even sit still without a cushion under his ass.

But Swagger was certain. "I'm telling you, I saw him. When I was being briefed by Isaac Johnson, he was there. Standing right next to him. And I remember—half an hour before the hit, he was still at the scene."

"Becky," Owen said, dialing her up. "I need you to do a deep dive on this guy—Sokolov. Everything you can find. Medical, financial, travel records, known associates—go nuts."

"Roger that. You'll have an email in a sec."

A few minutes later, Owen's phone dinged.

He opened his inbox—and never saw it coming.

CRACK–CRACK–CRACK!

Glass shattered. The monitor on the desk exploded into a shower of sparks and plastic. Then came the stuttering pop of suppressed gunfire—pap pap pap—rounds tearing through the screen and into the furniture behind it.

Before Owen could react, Swagger slammed into him from the side, knocking him to the ground just as three more bullets whizzed overhead.

"Sniper!" Swagger shouted.

"Shit—how the hell did they find us?!"

"Don't move! Crawl—get to the back room!"

Both men belly-crawled, keeping as low as humanly possible. Even the slightest pop-up would mean a headshot. The shooter wasn't just skilled—he was locked in.

As they reached the hallway, Swagger reached out and snagged the bolt-action rifle leaning near the corner—a hunting rifle Sara had dug out the day before. It wasn't much, but it was accurate.

Owen followed, armed with only a Glock 23—a compact .40-caliber version of the Glock 22. CTU had recently adopted it as their new sidearm. Lightweight, easy to conceal, and surprisingly snappy.

They kept crawling.

Owen shifted his leg slightly to reposition—crack crack crack!—bullets slammed into the floor beside him, spraying splinters into his shoulder.

"Jesus—they've got our position dialed in."

"Not a sniper," Swagger muttered. "Suppressed AR platform. Could be an M4. They're using volume of fire to suppress, not precision."

Owen's eyes narrowed. "That means they're closing in."

As if on cue—dots.

Red laser dots began sweeping across the walls. First one. Then three. Then five.

"Shit. We've got company," Owen hissed. "CQB team. They're flanking."

He didn't wait.

Crawling backward, Owen rolled into the kitchen, opened a drawer, and grabbed a sack of flour. He sliced it open with his boot knife, then flipped the electric fan on high.

WHOOOSH.

The fine white powder clouded the air like smoke. It danced through the hallway like ghost mist.

"NOW!"

Owen and Swagger made their move. While the shooters outside opened fire on the curtain, thinking it was movement, the two of them bolted for the rear hallway.

Just as they reached the back door—more lasers. Red dots swept across the floor again. Three targets this time.

"Down!"

They dove behind a shoe cabinet, the only real cover near the exit.

CRASH—CRASH!

Front and back windows shattered at once. Flashbangs came sailing through both sides.

Standard breach tactics.

Owen was already waiting.

The moment the flashbang landed near him, he scooped it up and chucked it down the hall, then curled into a ball and covered his head.

BOOM—BOOM!

Double explosion. The shockwave slammed through the walls, sending shrapnel and flour into every corner of the house. The operators outside—ready to storm in—were caught mid-step.

The ones at the front porch got slammed by the overpressure, toppling backward in their gear.

The rear team wasn't much luckier.

Owen had triggered what he'd planned: a dust explosion.

Fine particles—like flour or grain—mixed with air can become highly combustible. Add a heat source, and the rapid ignition causes an explosive overpressure wave—violent, hot, and blinding.

While the operators were still reeling from the blast, Owen and Swagger sprang to their feet and charged.

BANG! BANG! BANG!

Owen put a round into the skull of the first attacker he saw—no hesitation. Blood sprayed the doorframe.

The second—a young woman barely out of her teens—was just regaining balance. Owen stepped forward and stomped on her rifle, then fired two shots directly into her face. Her blood painted the wall like a Jackson Pollock.

Swagger crushed the third operator with a vicious buttstroke to the jaw, sending teeth flying. Then Owen finished him off—two bullets to the dome.

Three down.

Owen holstered his Glock, kicked an M4 into the air, caught it one-handed, and spun around.

More targets were pushing through the front—moving tactically down the hall.

Owen didn't wait.

RATATATATATAT!

5.56mm rounds ripped through the entryway. Two more operators dropped, blood mist spraying.

The rest dived for cover—stuck in the bottleneck of the narrow front porch.

Owen recognized the gear. Military-grade. Clean, high-end armor. No insignia.

And again—some of them were women. Attractive ones, even. One brunette in particular had almost model-tier cheekbones.

Didn't matter.

Dead was dead.

He looked over at Swagger. "You see what I see?"

Swagger nodded. "These aren't mercs."

"Nope. They're pros."

Someone was throwing elite kill squads at them.

And they'd just killed six.

That meant more were coming.

A lot more.

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