The robber fired two shots but failed to hit Owen. He quickly shifted his aim to the man in the tank top.
Sensing the danger, the tank top man wisely ducked and scrambled for cover, dodging bullets as he dove behind a pile of debris. The shots narrowly missed him, granting him a temporary reprieve.
Owen returned fire, but the robber shot back immediately. Both men engaged in a fierce shootout across a table, the confined space filled with the deafening noise of gunfire. Objects scattered and shattered as bullets ricocheted wildly.
The robber moved backward to increase the distance, while Owen did the opposite, determined to close the gap. With the robber wearing body armor, Owen needed to get in close for a lethal shot.
The two men moved in parallel paths, exchanging fire as they weaved around the room. Eventually, a pillar obstructed their line of sight.
In that brief moment, both made their moves—Owen rushed forward while the robber took the opportunity to reload. His speed was impressive; as the spent magazine dropped, the new one was already in place.
But as the robber rounded the pillar, he was stunned to find Owen alarmingly close. His shock only lasted a moment before he raised his gun and fired. The bullet barely missed as Owen ducked, the projectile whizzing past his head.
Owen dropped to the ground and slid toward the robber, firing as he moved.
Bang! Bang!
Blood sprayed as both of Owen's shots hit the robber's legs. With a pained cry, the man collapsed.
Owen reached him just as he hit the floor. Before the robber could recover, Owen pressed the muzzle of his gun to the man's temple.
Bang!
The robber's body went limp, hitting the ground with a thud. Owen had just killed his second target but couldn't let his guard down yet. He still didn't know the intentions of the man in the tank top.
His gun slide locked back—he was out of bullets. Instead of reloading, he quickly grabbed the dead robber's weapon and performed a forward roll, aiming at the tank top man's position.
"Come out! Hands on your head!" Owen ordered in a low, commanding voice.
"Hey, easy! Don't shoot! I'm not one of them—I'm a cop!" the man called out from behind the debris.
"A cop? Prove it. Move slowly. No sudden moves, or I'll shoot."
"Alright, alright. I'm coming out. No need for an accident."
The man carefully raised his pistol with two fingers and walked out from behind the debris. He stopped a few steps away, turned in a slow circle to show he had no hidden weapons, and then gestured toward his pocket.
"I'm going to take out my badge now. It's in my pocket."
"Do it. Slowly."
Keeping his gun trained on the man, Owen watched as he slowly reached into his pocket, deliberately turning his body to show he wasn't making any suspicious moves. He pulled out a small badge case, opened it, and held it up for Owen to see.
Owen examined it briefly—it was a genuine NYPD badge, identifying the man as a sergeant. His rank was even higher than Owen's. Satisfied, Owen lowered his weapon, and the tension in the air finally eased.
Exhaustion hit Owen like a wave. The adrenaline that had kept him sharp was fading fast. He slumped to the floor, leaning against a table. The firefight had lasted less than ten seconds, yet in that short span, he had danced with death multiple times.
The sudden relief brought with it the sharp sting of pain. Owen realized he had been hit—at least twice. He grimaced as he unbuttoned his shirt, revealing a Kevlar vest with the LAPD logo. Embedded in the vest were two bullets, their golden tips gleaming faintly under the light.
Owen reached under the vest to check for injuries. Thankfully, there was no blood—the vest had absorbed the shots. It had held up well under the close-range fire.
The tank top man approached and casually plopped down beside Owen. There was something oddly familiar about him, though Owen couldn't quite place where he had seen him before. Looking down, Owen noticed the man was barefoot, which explained the strange sound of his footsteps earlier.
"Hey, man. Name's John McClane, NYPD. Thanks for saving my ass back there. And by the way, that move you pulled… I don't even know how to describe it. That was some impressive shooting."
McClane mimicked Owen's execution of the Mozambique Drill. Owen wasn't surprised—most people were impressed by the technique the first time they saw it.
McClane offered Owen a cigarette, but he waved it off. McClane shrugged and lit one for himself.
"It's no big deal. I'm Steven Owen, West Hollywood Division. So, what brings you here?"
Owen was genuinely curious. What was a New York cop doing in the middle of a hostage situation in Los Angeles?
"My wife works here—she's an executive. I was invited to this company party. Didn't think I'd be walking into a nightmare like this. Damn party, damn Loyalty Tower, damn robbers, damn Los Angeles…"
McClane kept ranting, but Owen froze at the mention of his name. John McClane… Loyalty Tower… The robbery…
The puzzle pieces fell into place. Names and events from a certain movie flooded Owen's mind. He was standing face-to-face with a character from Die Hard.
His expression shifted, betraying his shock.
"You alright, man? You don't look so good," McClane asked, snapping him back to reality.
Owen hesitated before asking, "Your wife's name… Is it Holly?"
"Yeah. You know her?"
Realizing how strange the question sounded, Owen quickly coughed to cover his tracks. "Oh, not personally. I've just heard of her. Female executives are pretty rare in L.A."
"Gotcha."
Relieved that McClane didn't seem suspicious, Owen changed the subject. "Do you have any way to contact the outside? We need to report this ASAP."
"Afraid not. I already tried. The phone lines are cut. No one's answering. And from what I saw, there's no one else left in the building. Do you have a phone? Mine got smashed."
McClane pulled out what remained of his shattered phone, showing it to Owen.