Counterterrorism in America

The surrounding officers collectively drew in a sharp breath. No one had expected the criminals to be this ruthless—killing a hostage without hesitation. Javier's face turned grim. His eyes darted about as he processed the shocking display of brutality. His thoughts were interrupted by the sudden ringing of his phone.

"Hello, Chief! How do you like the gift I sent you?" The voice on the line was unsettlingly cheerful, as though the caller were an old friend rather than a dangerous criminal.

"Do you think throwing a dead body down here will scare me?" Javier retorted, his voice cold and defiant.

Though his words were tough, Javier couldn't help but feel uneasy. The fact that Aoki had made no noise—no scream or struggle—meant he had already been dead before being thrown out the window. These criminals were unpredictable and extreme in their methods, not following any conventional patterns.

Usually, criminals would start by threatening or killing unimportant hostages as leverage. But these guys? They had just killed one of their most valuable bargaining chips—a wealthy CEO. Javier knew all too well that, in the real world, rescuing a billionaire carried a lot more weight than saving an average civilian.

"Ah, I see I underestimated you, Chief. Fine, how about I show some sincerity this time? I'll send down a live hostage. You get to choose—Vice President Holly Gennaro? The executive assistant Powell? Or maybe the board director Andrew? Heck, I can send all three of them if you'd like. Haha!"

The criminal's tone was maddeningly arrogant. Javier clenched his jaw, barely able to suppress his rage. "What do you want?" he growled.

"It's simple. I want you to release General Sara of the Red Front and his accompanying officers. You remember him, don't you?"

"The guy who orchestrated the amusement park bombing last year?"

"Exactly."

"I don't have the authority to make that decision."

"Of course you don't. That's why I'm giving you two hours. How does that sound?"

"Two hours? That's not enough. I need at least four hours to get approval."

"Two hours, Chief. That's all you've got. And listen carefully—every minute you're late, I'll toss another body out the window."

Being cornered like this infuriated Javier to no end. But he forced himself to remain composed. "Fine. Two hours it is. I'll report your demands. But you need to guarantee the safety of the hostages until I get a response. If you harm them, we'll be forced to take aggressive action. You wouldn't want that, would you? Also, how should I refer to you in my report?"

The criminal chuckled lightly. "Ah, of course, Chief. I'm all about supporting law and order, right? Call me… X. Remember, Chief, two hours. Tick-tock!"

The line went dead. Javier clenched his fists, seething with frustration. It had been years since he'd been toyed with like this by a criminal. He knew full well that the request to release General Sara was a non-starter.

No U.S. authority would ever negotiate with terrorists. If hostages could force the government's hand, every two-bit criminal would try the same trick. Javier prided himself on being a hardliner—his reputation as the "Iron-Fisted Chief" of Los Angeles' 33 precincts was well-earned.

He handed his phone to an aide and took a communication earpiece from another officer.

"Test, test," he said.

"Coming through loud and clear," came the reply.

Javier issued his next order. "SWAT, prepare for assault. We're launching the operation in five minutes."

Javier had no intention of caving to the criminals' demands. This was his city, his jurisdiction. The attack plan had been finalized ten minutes ago—his conversation with the terrorists had only been a formality to stall for time.

From a distance, George came running toward him, clutching a radio. Gasping for breath, he called out, "We made contact! It's working!"

Javier grabbed the radio and listened intently. He was now almost certain that Detective Steve Owen was inside the building. The dead body they'd received had likely been a criminal that Owen had killed.

Owen's tactic of using a body to send a message was clever, but since the last digit of the radio frequency had been smudged, they'd been unable to establish communication earlier. Javier had ordered George to test various frequencies until they found the right one, and now they finally had a line.

Inside the Elevator Shaft

Owen and McClane were carefully climbing through the maze of horizontal and vertical beams. After killing the sniper, they knew it was too dangerous to remain on the same floor and had quickly made their way into the elevator shaft.

As they moved, the sound of helicopter blades echoed faintly from outside. Owen and McClane couldn't be sure if it was a police or news helicopter, but either way, it was a hopeful sign.

McClane suggested heading to the rooftop to scout the situation. Owen, knowing McClane's status as the "main character" of this ordeal, had no objections and followed him without question.

The building had 55 floors in total. With security cameras likely monitored by the enemy, climbing the stairs from the 36th to the top floor would have been risky. The elevator shaft was their best bet.

So far, their climb had gone smoothly. The criminals hadn't anticipated them using this route, and the sturdy beams provided reliable footholds—though covered in dust and grime. Owen had nearly slipped earlier, saved only by McClane's quick reflexes.

Taking extra precautions now, Owen wiped dust from each handhold with a piece of cloth before moving. Despite the precarious situation, he wasn't particularly afraid of heights. Years of extreme sports had dulled any such fears.

McClane, on the other hand, climbed with reckless abandon, joking as he went. "Hey, you saved my life earlier, and I saved yours. I guess that makes us even, huh?"

Owen rolled his eyes. "I saved you twice, thank you very much."

McClane's chatter was incessant. In addition to being a master of snark, the guy was apparently a closet motor-mouth. He rambled on about his family, his kids, his strained marriage, his gripes with his boss, and how he hadn't been promoted since becoming a police sergeant.

Owen listened in silence. He'd never been married or even had a girlfriend, so he had no frame of reference for most of McClane's complaints. But when it came to the lack of promotions, Owen couldn't help but think, With a mouth like yours, I'm surprised they haven't demoted you.

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