Caesar Hotel
The signing ceremony was scheduled for 10:30 AM, but SWAT teams had arrived an hour early. The FBI had only sent Team A and a portion of Team D's snipers, while the other two teams remained on standby at the base, prepared for emergency response.
Caesar Hotel was ideally located—situated at the end of Central Avenue, with no obstacles in front of it. Nearby, a newly opened metro station was visible, and from the hotel entrance, one could see the newly launched autonomous metro gliding in the distance.
Security was being overseen by a deputy chief from Central Division. In addition to the FBI SWAT teams, LAPD SWAT was also deployed. Snipers were stationed on surrounding rooftops, keeping watch over the venue and scanning for potential sniper positions.
By the time Owen and his team arrived, the area was already packed with police cars, making the place resemble a parking lot more than a security perimeter.
Officers were stationed throughout, and Owen recognized many familiar faces among them—clearly, West Hollywood Division had also sent personnel.
The deputy chief assigned SWAT to cover a section diagonally in front of the hotel, pairing them with uniformed officers.
The team was split into two-man units.
Normally, precision shooters like Owen and Monica would be placed separately, but Alyssa likely noticed their flawless teamwork over the past few days and decided to pair them up.
The security plan was standard procedure:
- Snipers spread across rooftops for overwatch.
- Barricades and checkpoints established by police vehicles.
- Uniformed officers positioned at intervals around the venue.
- SWAT teams, though fewer in number, were placed at greater distances to cover key areas.
- FBI undercover agents were likely blended into the crowd.
Standing under a tree, Owen glanced at Monica—she seemed to be in a good mood today, probably because she had finally let go of her frustrations from the other day.
At close range, Owen couldn't help but admire her beauty again—she truly was stunning.
She didn't smile often, but her sharp features, golden hair, and that unique warrior-like aura made her incredibly captivating.
She was the kind of woman who looked best in tactical gear—Owen couldn't even imagine her in a dress… it just didn't feel right.
They made small talk, and Owen noticed something odd—Monica's attitude toward him was different than with others.
Was it because she had beaten him up so many times that she felt more comfortable around him?
Or was it just his imagination?
Either way, chatting with a beautiful woman was never a bad thing.
"Monica, you seem in a good mood today."
"Hmm. Yeah, I am."
"By the way, why is your nickname 'IQ'?"
"Because I was always top of my class. No matter what I did, I was always first."
"Uh…"
Of course… a classic overachiever.
Owen suddenly remembered that he, too, had been a genius—at least for the first two years after he transmigrated.
Back then, he aced everything without even trying, thanks to his prior knowledge.
But… that was years ago.
Should he try to impress Monica by discussing Middle Eastern conflicts or global economic trends?
Would casual conversation bore her?
Before he could decide, Alyssa's voice came through the earpiece.
"Monica, how's your area looking?"
"All clear."
Monica responded immediately.
Owen checked his watch—ten minutes left until 10:30 AM.
The motorcade would be arriving any moment now.
Realizing this, he stopped chatting—it was time to focus.
There were too many reporters around, and if they caught him slacking off, he might end up in tomorrow's news.
—
"Screech—!"
A black SUV suddenly braked hard at the checkpoint.
The driver flashed credentials, and after a quick verification, officers moved the barricade, letting the vehicle through.
The SUV stopped, and a man rushed out—it was Max Payne, looking around frantically.
The deputy chief scowled and approached him.
Owen was surprised—Payne seemed to have recovered well.
He remembered how Payne's car got hit by an RPG the other day—when he didn't respond inside the wreckage, everyone assumed he was dead.
Turns out, he had only passed out.
Given the formal nature of today's event, Owen didn't greet him, and Payne didn't seem to recognize him either.
Still, Owen respected him—not many detectives were willing to rush into the field like this anymore.
"Max, what the hell are you doing here? Move your car—this event starts in ten minutes. Don't cause problems for me."
The deputy chief barked at him.
Max interrupted him immediately:
"Chief, we need to call off the ceremony—IMMEDIATELY. I just got a phone call from the hitman. He explicitly said he's going to assassinate someone involved in this signing."
"A hitman? Are you kidding me?" The chief scoffed.
"Look around, Max—there are dozens of police cars, over a hundred officers, and heavily armed SWAT teams. We've locked down FIVE city blocks since this morning. Who the hell could attack this place?"
"No, Chief. He knew the exact time, location, and target. This wasn't a prank—he's well-prepared!"
"Then tell me—how does he plan to attack? This place is a damn fortress!"
"Uh… I don't know. But he must have a way. I think—"
"Shut up, Max. You're getting paranoid. You can't believe every call you get."
Owen frowned.
His gut told him that Max was right.
Because in every movie, the hero is always ignored by a dumb superior before proving he was right all along.
The only question was—was Max the protagonist?
—
### Ten minutes earlier—at the Metro Station.
A fit man in a jacket, tight jeans, and a baseball cap stood at the platform, holding a guitar case and a luggage bag.
This was the new autonomous metro, still in its trial phase—a short route with only three stops and two-car trains.
Few people ever rode it.
Aside from the cap-wearing man, only a small group of thugs loitered nearby.
They were just bored, trying out the new driverless train for fun, laughing and joking among themselves.
One of them noticed the man's guitar case and started teasing him.
"Yo, where's your gig, bro?"
The man ignored them.
Another thug joined in.
"You in a band? Where's the show? We might come check it out!"
Again—no response.
Feeling disrespected, a fat thug sneered.
"Yo, what's in the case? Your tight-ass jeans?"
The others laughed.
Still, the man didn't react.
Now, the thugs were irritated.
The fat one scowled.
"Hey, tight-pants—I'm talking to you! You deaf?"
The man didn't even look at them.
Just then, the metro arrived.
As the doors slid open, he quickly stepped inside, looking as though he was fleeing.
The thugs laughed mockingly behind him.
"Yeah, that's right! Run away, tight-pants!"
As the doors closed, the metro pulled away from the station.
Inside, the car was nearly empty—just the thugs and the baseball-cap man.
He set his luggage down, pulled out a special key, and unlocked an electrical panel.
After inspecting it, he opened his bag, took out a miniature computer, and connected several wires to the metro's control system.