Counterterrorism in America

The atmosphere was tense and eerily quiet. Owen and McClane moved with extreme caution, each step slow and deliberate. In the darkness, their bare feet proved to be an advantage, allowing them to glide silently across the floor like two predatory cats stalking their prey.

Before long, they reached the doorway to the adjacent room. Due to ongoing renovations, there was no door installed. From their position, they had a clear view of everything inside.

As expected, the setup matched their suspicions. Bathed in faint moonlight, a table had been pushed close to the window, with all clutter cleared off its surface.

A sniper rifle rested atop the table, aimed out a large, removed glass pane. Behind the rifle stood a short-haired man dressed in camouflage, his body taut as he maintained his position. Occasionally, the night breeze drifted through the exposed window, ruffling his uniform.

McClane made a hand signal, indicating that he would take the lead. Owen nodded, following quietly behind. They crept closer, holding their breath to avoid alerting the sniper.

Then it happened.

Crack!

A sudden noise broke the silence, loud and jarring in the still room. Owen cursed silently. Under the faint moonlight, he noticed a small pile of round pellets scattered on the ground—nearly invisible unless one was looking closely.

In that moment, it all became clear. The sniper had laid this trap to detect any unwanted intruders.

The man reacted instantly, flipping sideways in a smooth roll. By the time he was on his feet, his hand was already reaching for the handgun strapped to his thigh.

"Now!" Owen shouted, charging forward.

McClane reacted just as swiftly, lunging at the sniper. However, as soon as McClane made contact, he was sent flying backward with a speed that defied belief.

Owen barely had time to register what had happened before McClane crashed to the floor with a grunt of pain, sliding further away than he had lunged.

"Shit!" Owen gasped in shock. The sniper was a close-combat expert. He hadn't even seen how McClane had been thrown so easily.

But there was no time to hesitate. Owen was already within striking distance. He drove his elbow toward the sniper's face while simultaneously aiming to disarm him by jabbing at his gun hand with the pointed compass in his other hand.

"Argh!"

The sniper blocked the elbow strike but failed to notice the hidden attack. Owen's compass stabbed into the back of his hand, causing him to cry out in pain.

Taking advantage of the opening, Owen yanked the pistol from the man's holster. Unfortunately, before he could take aim, the sniper slapped the gun from his grip. It spun out of his hand and tumbled through the open window, disappearing into the night.

The next moment, Owen was hit by a powerful kick to the chest. He was lifted off the ground and hurled backward, landing with a thud several feet away.

"Damn, this guy is strong!" Owen muttered through gritted teeth.

He forced himself to his feet, shaking off the pain. His training in free fighting had hardened him, making him more resilient than most. Still, that kick had hurt like hell.

Glancing to the side, he saw McClane writhing on the ground, struggling to recover. It was clear that McClane hadn't fared any better.

The sniper calmly pulled the compass out of his hand, tossing it aside with an indifferent expression. Not a single muscle in his face betrayed discomfort, which sent a chill down Owen's spine. This man was dangerous.

The sniper launched his next attack without warning, closing the distance with a swift sidekick aimed at Owen's ribs. Owen barely dodged in time. He twisted to avoid a follow-up punch, blocking it with his forearm.

The fight quickly became a contest of speed and agility. Owen's flexibility allowed him to evade the sniper's attacks for a while, but the man's relentless pressure soon began to corner him. The limited space in the room forced Owen into a defensive stance, each block sending jolts of pain through his body.

I can't keep this up, Owen thought grimly.

He knew that his best chance lay in grappling. If he could trap the sniper in a chokehold, the fight might end quickly. Grappling techniques, once fully applied, were nearly impossible to counter. Unfortunately, while Owen had some knowledge of holds, it wasn't his area of expertise.

As the sniper lunged again, Owen saw his opportunity. He slipped behind the man, leaping onto his back and locking his arms around his throat in a textbook rear-naked choke. His legs clamped tightly around the sniper's waist, anchoring himself in place.

The sniper staggered, stumbling backward as Owen tightened his grip. They crashed to the floor, rolling across the ground in a desperate struggle.

Despite his thrashing, the sniper couldn't break free. He reached behind him, clawing at the air in an attempt to grab Owen's hair, but Owen had anticipated this. He tucked his head low, out of reach, a precaution he'd learned after sparring with a particularly dirty opponent named Carlos.

When that failed, the sniper shifted tactics, trying to pry Owen's legs apart. Owen locked his ankles together, his legs acting like a vice around the man's midsection. The sniper grunted in frustration, but the hold held firm.

"Let go, you bastard!" the sniper hissed, his voice strained.

Desperate, he began yanking at Owen's exposed toes. Owen's eyes widened in pain. Shit! He's going for my feet!

In a real fight, there were no rules. The sniper's dirty tactics paid off as Owen's grip weakened under the sharp, searing pain.

With one leg free, the sniper found his balance again and rose to his feet, carrying Owen on his back like a sack of potatoes. With a growl, he charged backward, slamming Owen into the wall.

Owen groaned as the impact rattled his entire body. Still, he refused to let go. He was betting everything on endurance. If he could hold the choke for a few more seconds, the sniper would lose consciousness from lack of oxygen.

The sniper's vision began to blur, but he refused to submit. In a last-ditch effort, he performed a sudden backflip, slamming Owen onto the floor with bone-crushing force.

All the air was knocked out of Owen's lungs. His vision spun, and his grip slackened involuntarily.

The sniper tore free, gasping for air. The fight wasn't over yet.