Counterterrorism in America

36th Floor

Owen and McClane crouched near a window, looking down at the scene below. The police had finally arrived—and they weren't holding back.

From their vantage point, they could see a swarm of flashing red and blue lights filling the street. Beyond the police vehicles, a sea of news vans with long broadcasting equipment stood clustered together. Even from this height, they could clearly distinguish between two groups: officers at the front, and reporters held back by police barricades further behind.

Among the many police cars, two black armored vehicles stood out. Bold, white letters spelling "SWAT" were painted across their roofs. Owen recognized them immediately. The Special Weapons and Tactics team—better known as SWAT—had shown up.

As a police officer himself, Owen knew plenty about SWAT's reputation. Every U.S. state had its own version of a tactical unit, although the names varied. In Los Angeles, it was SWAT. In New York, they called it ESU (Emergency Service Unit). Chicago had HBT (Hostage Barricade Team), while Miami's was known as SRT (Special Response Team).

The Los Angeles SWAT was the original, the first-ever tactical police unit in the world. Their training was extensive, with elite candidates often selected from military special forces. SWAT maintained a close relationship with the U.S. Marine Corps, who provided instruction on various combat disciplines—demolition, sniping, reconnaissance, and more. SWAT was even known to adopt cutting-edge anti-terror tactics developed overseas.

In terms of effectiveness, L.A.'s SWAT ranked among the top three in the nation. Their surgical precision had been documented in numerous high-profile cases involving drug cartels and terrorist cells.

Seeing that even they had been called in gave Owen some reassurance. The authorities clearly understood the gravity of the situation.

However, Owen couldn't help but recall Die Hard. If the movie's depiction held true, then these SWAT guys were doomed to fail spectacularly. He cast a wary glance at the scene below.

McClane, on the other hand, scoffed at the sight. Being NYPD, he harbored a regional bias. Throughout their escape from the robbers, he'd taken every opportunity to mock the incompetence of L.A. police. Though he had gained respect for Owen's skills, his disdain for the rest of the LAPD remained intact.

To McClane, SWAT was just a joke—especially compared to New York's ESU. He ranted about it incessantly, declaring that SWAT was nothing more than a pile of garbage in tactical gear.

Owen sighed, realizing McClane was nothing more than a die-hard regional snob.

"Alright, Mr. NYPD, what do you suggest we do now?" Owen asked, cutting off his tirade.

In his mind, Owen imagined McClane's future demise—probably from a gunshot or car accident. But deep down, Owen suspected the true cause of death would be his unfiltered mouth.

Focus, Owen, he scolded himself. We're still in danger. No time for nonsense.

With the police on-site, Owen briefly considered making a break for it. He'd been toying with the idea for a while. Unfortunately, the constant pursuit by the robbers had made escape impossible. Now, the ground floors were undoubtedly sealed off like a fortress.

Trying to leave now would be suicide. If the robbers didn't kill him, there was a good chance an overzealous cop might mistake him for a suspect and shoot him on sight.

It was safer to wait for an opportunity to slip away quietly.

McClane, having calmed down, was about to speak when a sudden ding echoed from the nearby elevator.

Owen tensed. Once again, the cursed sound of the elevator bell filled him with dread. Every time the elevator had made noise tonight, it brought trouble.

Who could be coming to this half-renovated, dusty floor? Construction materials were scattered everywhere, and the lighting was poor.

Both men instantly fell silent, lowering themselves into the shadows.

Footsteps echoed down the hall, approaching their location before stopping in the adjacent room. The faint sound of rummaging and metallic clinks soon followed.

Owen and McClane exchanged puzzled glances. Moments later, there were two distinct sounds: a click and a metallic clack. Owen's heart skipped a beat. He knew those sounds all too well—they were the unmistakable noises of a magazine being loaded and a bolt being cocked.

In the dark, Owen and McClane locked eyes, each confirming the other's suspicion: someone—likely a robber—was in the next room. But why was there only one person?

For a while, the sounds of rummaging continued. The intruder seemed to be digging through a bag and unscrewing something. Soon, there was the unmistakable sound of glass being removed from a frame.

They're setting up a sniper position, Owen thought grimly. He glanced at McClane, who nodded in silent agreement.

"Position secured," a low voice reported over a crackling radio.

"Understood. Stand by for further instructions," came Hans's familiar voice from the other end.

"Roger that."

Silence enveloped the floor once more, broken only by the faint wail of police sirens from below. Neither Owen nor McClane dared to breathe too loudly.

The minutes dragged on. They heard faint chewing—possibly the intruder munching on gum—but otherwise, the room remained quiet.

Owen weighed his options. It had been some time since the radio call, and no reinforcements had arrived for the sniper. It seemed he was operating alone.

Owen shot a questioning look at McClane, who paused to think. Finally, McClane mimed a throat-slitting gesture, followed by a motion of holding a gun. Owen nodded in understanding. They would take him out and seize his weapon.

The truth was, they were desperate—completely out of ammo. Their only weapon was… a compass. Yes, a damn compass Owen had picked up while scavenging on another floor.

Quietly, they rose and crept toward the adjoining room, blending with the shadows like hunters stalking prey.