Reborn in America’s Anti-Terror Unit

Outside the convenience store, the police cruiser slowly approached.

Inside, hope flickered in the eyes of the hostages. In the parked car out front, Swag silently drew his pistol, prepared for the worst.

"You'd better not reach for that Remington under the counter," Owen growled at the store owner. "Because whether the cops get in or not, you're dead if you try."

The old man froze. His hand, which had been inching downward, froze midair and then slowly returned to the counter. The tension in the room surged again. The arrival of the police no longer guaranteed safety—not while they were still under Owen's gun.

The cruiser pulled up. Two officers stepped out. One of them waved at the old man through the glass door, smiling casually—clearly a regular at this store.

At Owen's signal, the old man forced a weak smile and waved back. The distance was just enough that the cops couldn't see the unease on his face.

Owen motioned the other five hostages over to the far side of the entrance—out of direct sight from the door. The glass reflected just enough that he could monitor the officers' approach. Meanwhile, the old man kept his hands where Owen could see them.

Behind Owen, every hostage had their own thoughts.

The mother with the child wished the police would come inside, but she also feared being used as leverage. She knew, from countless crime shows, that if the suspect negotiated for a show of goodwill, women and children usually weren't the first to go free.

The young couple, George Walker and Jennifer, were brimming with adrenaline. George was tempted to make a move—to wrestle the gun away. Jennifer gave him an encouraging look. Clearly, she had the same idea.

George glanced at Denzel Payton, trying to gauge whether they could coordinate an attack, but Denzel remained noncommittal. George assumed he was just scared, so he decided to act alone.

In truth, Denzel was torn. He had a pistol tucked behind his waist. While he had no desire to be held hostage by this lunatic, he was equally reluctant to get the police involved—especially since his gun had a body on it. If caught, it'd mean big trouble.

The two officers slowly made their way toward the door. For them, it was routine. Afternoon patrols were dull, and they always stopped here for a cup of coffee.

Owen, through the glass, tracked their movements. Swag, still in the car, kept his sights on them too. Seeing the officers nearing the door, Swag knew he had to act.

Screeeeech—! Tires screamed. A beat-up Ford parked nearby suddenly roared to life, peeled out of the lot with a violent swerve, and tore toward the exit.

The driver wore a mask and fired twice as he passed the officers.

Caught off guard, both cops ducked for cover. As the Ford sped away, they scrambled to their car, shouting into their radios.

"Dispatch, this is E7! We've got shots fired at officers—no injuries. Suspect in a dark Ford, heading—"

The cruiser peeled out in pursuit, sirens blazing, leaving the parking lot behind in seconds.

Back inside the store, chaos erupted.

George Walker had attempted to seize Owen's weapon during the distraction. He earned a pistol-whip to the face for his trouble—blood now pouring from his nose.

The old man had made a move for the shotgun under the counter, but Owen had warned him. A round blasted into the vase inches from his head. The old man froze mid-action.

The failed rush fell apart. The mother and child hadn't moved. Denzel had held back. Now the group was scattered across the floor, shelves knocked over, snack bags and candy strewn everywhere.

They all stared at Owen in stunned horror. During the scuffle, his mask had come off, revealing his face.

At that exact moment, the store TV displayed a breaking news alert—Owen's face, front and center, with an FBI wanted label beneath it.

Each hostage looked from the screen to the man holding the gun. Their expressions changed from fear to outright terror. They hadn't just fought off a random thief—they'd just antagonized a wanted murderer.

Owen was seething. These idiots had tried to take his gun while police were present. If he had been an actual criminal, they'd all be dead now.

He yanked the old man from behind the counter and threw him into the group.

"Fuck! Fuck! FUCK!" Owen paced like a caged beast, gun in hand, chest heaving.

Luckily, Swag's gunfire had masked Owen's own shots, and the cops had never realized what was happening inside.

George sat on the floor, holding his bleeding nose. Jennifer knelt in front of him, shielding him now. The roles had reversed.

Owen thought about smacking the guy again, but paused when Jennifer met his gaze—unflinching, almost defiant.

The child and his mother cowered in the corner. Denzel Payton watched Owen carefully. If the man truly snapped, Denzel would have no choice but to intervene. He was confident he could take Owen down—especially with meat shields like these people. But that would blow his cover.

He edged slightly closer to the mother and son, mentally prepping his next move.

Jennifer, meanwhile, was entirely focused on protecting George.

"Stop!" she screamed as Owen moved forward. "You can't kill him!"

She stood tall between them, voice shaking but loud.

"George's father is the commanding officer at the Indiana military base," she said quickly, "and his mother is the CFO of Pfizer! He works for the Department of Defense. If you kill him, it won't end with the police—it'll be war."

"We're done resisting. We won't fight back. I'm sorry for what we did—we thought you weren't serious. You didn't want to hurt anyone, right?"

"Police will be back soon. You need to leave—now—before they return. Please… I work for the White House. I know how these things go."

Owen actually stopped—not because he believed her, but because Becky came through on the comms.

"Owen, you're good to go. Satellite's online."

Perfect timing.

He gave Jennifer a long stare. Maybe she was lying. Maybe not. Either way, it gave him a graceful exit.

He glanced at the wall clock, made a show of hesitating, then said, "My ride's gone. I need a car."

"The keys are yours!" the old man shouted, eager to be rid of him. "Mine's parked out front. Take it. Just… go."

"Everyone—turn around. Face the back wall. Count to fifty, out loud. If anyone peeks, I'll shoot."

One… two… three…

By the time they reached fifteen, the bell above the door chimed.

Owen was gone.

Denzel was the first to peek back. The store was empty.

He'd vanished.

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