Counterterrorism in America

Somewhere in the tower, Hans lowered his radio and turned to the blonde man standing behind him. "The rat is on the 40th floor. Go get him."

The blonde man, exuding a cold, detached aura, nodded silently and left with a group of armed men. Hans' mood darkened. His supposedly flawless plan was beginning to unravel. First, two of his men had been inexplicably killed, and now the man in front of him refused to cooperate.

Hans sneered internally. Weren't the Japanese supposed to be spineless?

Without warning, Hans grabbed his M1911 pistol, his gentlemanly demeanor vanishing.

He turned his gaze back to Aoki Masaru, the president of the company. The gun now aimed squarely at Aoki's forehead.

"Mr. Aoki, my patience is gone. Give me the vault code, or I'll have no choice but to apologize for what comes next."

Aoki Masaru, a middle-aged man of Asian descent, didn't flinch. He remained calm, confident that Hans wouldn't dare kill him. He was the only one who knew the vault's code. However, unwilling to provoke Hans further, he spoke diplomatically.

"I already told you—you won't be able to open the vault even with my code. It requires three separate passwords. The other two are held by our Tokyo headquarters…"

Bang!

A single gunshot interrupted Aoki's sentence. A bullet hole appeared in his forehead, and his body slumped lifelessly onto the conference table. Hans lowered the pistol and wiped his hands with a handkerchief, disgust etched across his face.

"Your job now is to open that vault," Hans said without looking back.

"No problem. You didn't hire me for my looks, did you?"

The voice belonged to a bespectacled Black man, who chuckled as he slung a large equipment bag over his shoulder and exited the room. He was Hans' hired expert—a genius with dual degrees in mechanical engineering and computer science from MIT.

40th Floor, Presidential Suite

While McClane continued his conversation on the satellite phone, Owen busied himself by examining the MP5 submachine gun in his hands.

He hadn't used an MP5 before. The major crimes unit typically issued Remington shotguns and M16s or M4 carbines. As far as he knew, only SWAT teams and special forces used the MP5. Still, its fame preceded it.

The MP5 was compact, had negligible recoil, and fired 9mm rounds. Its reliability and firepower made it a favorite among police and special forces worldwide.

Owen practiced loading and unloading the magazine, as well as chambering rounds. The magazines were taped together in a quick-change setup, allowing for seamless reloading. He repeated the process several times, savoring the tactile experience. Like many men, Owen had a fascination with firearms, and at the moment, the MP5 felt like a prized toy in his hands.

Standing guard near the open suite door, Owen heard a faint ding. He froze, his senses heightened. In this situation, an elevator arriving could only mean one thing—robbers.

He glanced over at McClane, who was still distracted on the phone. Owen quickly strode over and clamped a hand over McClane's mouth. He signaled for silence and pointed toward the door.

McClane's eyes widened in understanding. He crept to the door with Owen and cautiously peeked out. He barely had time to glimpse the figures outside before a barrage of bullets tore through the air.

Rat-a-tat-tat!

Splinters flew as the door frame was shredded by gunfire. McClane barely pulled his head back in time, a bullet grazing his cheek and leaving a thin line of blood.

"Damn, that was close!" he hissed, clutching his face.

Owen's mind raced. The robbers had clearly known their location in advance. How did we get exposed?

There was no time to dwell on it. Owen fired blindly through the door, suppressing the enemy's advance.

"How many of them?" he asked.

"At least two," McClane answered, but Owen suspected there were more based on the intensity of the gunfire. He estimated four or five, all armed with automatic weapons.

A ricochet whizzed past McClane's ear, prompting him to shout in alarm. Furious, he slammed the phone down and grabbed his weapon. Peeking out briefly, he fired wildly.

A pained curse echoed from outside, and the gunfire momentarily slackened.

"Got one," McClane muttered smugly.

Owen seized the opportunity to fire as well, but the robbers retaliated with a relentless barrage, forcing both men back into the suite. McClane hastily shut the door as bullets punched through it, turning the upper half into Swiss cheese.

"We're trapped in here," Owen muttered grimly. "This room isn't exactly Fort Knox. They'll break through sooner or later."

The two men pushed a heavy cabinet against the door and reinforced it with a table. It wasn't much, but it would buy them a little time.

The robbers reached the door and tried to push it open, but the barricade held. Owen took cover behind the table and unleashed a burst of gunfire through the gap. One of the robbers, caught off guard, was hit and fell with a grunt.

McClane, emboldened by the success, attempted to do the same. Owen yanked him aside just in time, as a renewed hail of bullets tore through the door.

The doorframe groaned under the onslaught. Despite the barricade, some rounds made it through, ricocheting off surfaces inside the suite.

"Shit… thanks," McClane muttered, realizing he'd narrowly avoided a fatal mistake. His gratitude quickly morphed into rage. "They want me dead? Fine, let's see who dies first!"

Fueled by anger, McClane returned fire blindly through the door. Bullets flew in both directions, neither side able to get a clear shot.

Owen, meanwhile, was frantically scanning the room for an escape route. His mind raced through possibilities—ceiling panels, the floor-to-ceiling windows, even the bathroom.

Nothing seemed viable, until his gaze landed on something in the adjacent room. His eyes lit up with sudden hope.

"I've got an idea," he whispered.