Reborn in America’s Anti-Terror Unit

By the time Owen made it out of the minefield, Nina and her group were long gone.

Just a day ago, he'd taught those guys a brutal lesson with a Claymore. Now, he'd nearly fallen into the same trap himself.

He looked down at the mines—he didn't know the exact model, but they were all tripwire-activated. Fortunately, that's exactly why he was able to spot the wires. If they had been buried pressure mines, the consequences would have been unimaginable.

Swag came down from his sniper perch at that moment.

"You alright?"

Owen shook his head and began inspecting the bodies scattered across the ground.

They were strewn everywhere. Owen did a quick count—seventeen in total. Six had been killed by the M2HB, bodies horrifically mangled. The remaining eleven were taken down by him and Swag.

Avoiding the shredded remains, Owen focused on the eleven they had personally killed.

Among them: seven white, four Black. All had the same characteristics—no identifying marks, standardized gear. Their main weapon was the SCAR; sidearms matched Owen's—M9s.

He checked several of their hands—all heavily calloused from years of firearm use. On their upper arms, Owen once again found the tattoo: two entwined rattlesnakes.

He had asked Becky to look into this tattoo earlier, but hadn't received any leads. Pulling out his phone, he snapped a photo and sent it to her, then immediately called.

"Becky, help me run this tattoo again—see who's using it."

"Okay, don't hang up."

Becky was quick to respond. With a picture in hand, her search was surprisingly fast.

"Got something."

Owen's heart jumped when she spoke again.

"That tattoo is used by a Caucasian crime group based in Central Asia called Angry Ivan. They've got about 200 members, mainly in weapons and human trafficking. Their boss is someone named Tatarov.

But there's something else—there's a mysterious U.S. Army Special Forces unit known as Red Rattlesnake that uses the same tattoo. They've been stationed in Africa for years, but their operations aren't documented."

That was all Owen needed to hear. It confirmed everything. These men had to be connected to the Red Rattlesnake.

None of the bodies looked like Caucasians, and none of them had accents. Combined with the fact that the Red Rattlesnake unit operated in Africa, and that Colonel Johnson and his team had committed atrocities there—it all added up.

Owen studied the corpses. Judging by their condition and gear, these men were all likely retired members of the Red Rattlesnake.

This wasn't unusual in the U.S.—a whole unit of veterans joining the same PMC or mercenary group was fairly common. It saved time on building trust and team cohesion. Private military companies loved hiring such ready-made squads.

"Damn, Becky, you're the best," Owen praised excitedly, then added, "I've got a fingerprint from one of the others too—run it for me?"

Becky rolled her eyes at the nickname "dumb sweetheart," but she'd grown immune to Owen's antics. Whatever—let him call her what he wanted.

This time, Owen had found a corpse mangled by the M2HB—head blown clean off. The kind of sight that guaranteed nightmares. But what mattered was that this one corpse didn't have the snake tattoo.

Becky gagged a little when the photo arrived—Owen had accidentally included the headless neck in the frame. Her stomach churned at the sight.

"You're such a freak..." she muttered, but still ran the fingerprint through the database. As a senior NSA technical analyst, Becky had access far beyond what most agencies could touch.

Before long, she was back.

"Richard Brown. CIA, stationed in East Africa. But the intel says he's supposed to be in Kenya. What's he doing stateside—and dead, no less?"

Becky also forwarded Brown's profile—a good-looking young man in his official photo, though now his appearance hardly mattered without a head.

CIA?

Owen's brow furrowed. What the hell was the CIA doing here? A scent of conspiracy wafted through the air.

"Can you check who this guy's superior is?"

Now Owen felt he was onto something. Becky quickly sent over more info.

"Daniel Glover. African-American. CIA East Africa bureau chief. High-ranking. Oh—and here's the kicker: before joining the CIA, he was an Army colonel. Guess where he served? That's right—Red Rattlesnake.

He used to be their top commander. Got relieved of duty for command failures, then retired and joined the CIA."

Owen stared at the photo on his screen. It was the same face—Daniel Glover was the man he had just met, the one calling himself Colonel Isaac Johnson.

It all made sense now. Why people still called him "colonel," how he could command so many ex-special ops troops. Everything checked out.

The mastermind behind framing Swag had finally been unmasked. They now knew exactly who their enemy was.

It should have been good news—but knowing it involved the CIA, a monstrous entity with near-unlimited power, made it hard to feel anything but dread.

Just as the two men were processing this, Richard Brown's corpse let out a soft beep beep.

Owen bent down and found a phone in the dead man's pocket.

A text message. But the phone was encrypted—Owen couldn't access it.

Still, this was a big deal.

He had checked the other corpses earlier—none had phones, or if they did, they were cheap burners. Disposable, untraceable. He'd never expected any intel from them.

But this was different.

This was a high-end Nokia model—obviously Richard Brown's personal device. That incoming message could be critical intel.

Owen had to try. He called Becky again.

After a brief explanation, Becky walked him through the setup. Using a wire, Owen connected Brown's phone to his own. Becky started hacking remotely. Less than a minute later, the phone was unlocked.

Looking at the home screen, Owen gave Becky a mental high-five.

The first thing he saw was the new message. And it made his eyes widen.

"More money. I need more money! This shipment is too hot. Once I finish this job, I can't stay in the States. $100,000. I want the rest now. I'll be at the usual place in one hour. If you don't show, you'll never see them again..."

The message was short, but it made Owen's pulse spike.

The word "them" stood out—it meant the "shipment" referred to people. Women. And linking it with Richard Brown's CIA identity, there was only one conclusion to draw:

The cargo... could be Jack Bauer's wife and daughter.

Suddenly, there was a ray of hope. Owen had planned to use Daniel Glover's identity as a leverage point. But now... maybe there was a shortcut.

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