Reborn in America’s Anti-Terror Unit

That evening, Owen and the other three boarded Beth's private jet. It was only then that Owen and Monica realized Beth was, in fact, a wealthy heiress.

"When I was twelve, my mother passed away and left me a large inheritance. So technically, you weren't wrong—I'm a billionaire," Beth explained, seeing the questioning look in Owen and Monica's eyes. Whitney didn't look surprised at all, clearly already in the know.

"Oh…" Owen and Monica nodded in realization. No wonder she'd been so bold at the factory, claiming she could buy everyone's lives.

Owen shifted in his seat—the plush sofa chair was incredibly comfortable.

He'd been on private jets before, but not often. The last time had been during the mission to Paris, when he flew on Amanda's stepfather Ken's plane. Funny how all his private jet flights seemed to follow deadly chaos in Europe. It was becoming a pattern: Europe equals trouble, return via private jet.

"Excuse me, your champagne," said the thoughtful flight attendant, seizing a pause in their conversation to approach.

With a professional smile, she offered a tray, handing each person a tall flute of champagne, then retreated with practiced grace. She made no comment about the passengers' disheveled appearance. Serving high-profile clients meant one thing: never let curiosity override discretion.

It was Monica's first time on a private jet, and she couldn't help but look around in awe. She gestured toward the cabin. "Would it be okay if I…?"

Beth shrugged. "Of course, feel free to look around. There's a dressing room over there with some spare clothes, though I'm afraid they're all women's sizes."

She offered an apologetic smile. The jet was customized for her personal use, so everything on board catered to her. No men's clothing.

Owen shrugged to show he didn't mind.

Monica explored the cabin, then changed into a clean set of clothes. When she returned, visibly refreshed, she asked curiously, "If you're that wealthy, why take the train to travel?"

Beth smiled. "My money comes from my mother's inheritance, but I personally don't care much for all that. I prefer the life of an average person over the hollow luxury and fake friendships. I hope you'll keep that part to yourselves."

"Oh, of course. No problem at all," Owen and Monica replied in unison.

Beth thanked them, then continued, "I didn't go to some fancy private university—just a regular school. No one knew I was rich, except Whitney. Even when Whitney and Lorna became my close friends, they didn't know at first."

Owen and Monica nodded in understanding. They had never expected to see the classic "rich girl hides her wealth" trope play out in real life.

In most movies, it's a wealthy heir pretending to be poor to chase a Cinderella. But here was a rich girl simply trying to live a normal life.

Still, they had brought this disaster upon themselves. If not for their desire to take the train, they never would've crossed paths with the Doghead Society.

That organization only preyed on vulnerable targets.

Thinking back on everything that had happened, Owen decided it was time to offer a warning. "We made a lot of noise this time. Even though we burned the factory, the inn, and the police station, if someone really wants to investigate, they'll find something. So it's best you don't ever return to Slovakia—or even the neighboring countries."

He emphasized the danger to ensure they took it seriously.

The group had discussed whether they should expose the Doghead Society publicly. But going public would also reveal their own involvement in mass killings, including the deaths of local police. Ultimately, they decided to stay quiet—pretend none of it happened.

Owen had observed that Slovakia was quite backward. Outside the factory and the inn, there were hardly any surveillance systems. And since those places were Doghead's private properties, the footage was privately held. Burning everything should've erased the evidence.

Still, they had killed a lot of people—including law enforcement. The impact would be huge, even if the local government chose to cover it up instead of investigating.

And according to Elixhill, the Doghead Society auctioned its victims, meaning other members still existed—members who knew exactly who Owen and the others were.

Erasing all traces was impossible. Owen knew that well from his time at CTU.

"Yeah," Beth said. "I'll hire a professional team to handle the aftermath, minimize the fallout, and distance us from everything as much as possible."

Owen nodded. With her kind of money, their chances of staying in the clear just improved significantly.

This was, after all, a world run by money. With enough cash, you could get anything—legal or not. Money couldn't buy everything, but it could buy a whole lot. If you had enough, you could even become president. Hiding a few deaths? No problem.

Beth then fixed her eyes on Owen and Monica. "So, now that I've shared everything, can you tell me your real identities? Hollywood screenwriters and C-list actresses don't usually have military-level marksmanship."

There was nothing to hide anymore. Monica looked at Owen, who shrugged and gestured for her to explain.

"Alright," Monica said. "I'm not an actress. I'm with the FBI, part of the tactical unit—SWAT."

Beth raised her eyebrows. She had suspected something, but hadn't expected the FBI—especially not SWAT. With Monica's looks, it seemed almost… incongruous.

"As for him," Monica continued, nodding toward Owen, "he really is a screenwriter. He's writing a film for Universal called Die Hard. But that's just his side gig. His main job is with CTU—Counter Terrorist Unit—based in Los Angeles."

"Ohhh…" Beth nodded. She'd heard of CTU. The massive bounty placed by a drug lord in Los Angeles had been all over the news. CTU's name had popped up a lot during that chaos.

Now it all made sense—why these two could shoot so well, why they were so unfazed by bloodshed. They were members of America's violent elite.

"Are those your real names?" she asked.

"Of course."

"So, were you on assignment when this all happened… or?"

"No," Owen replied. "We were just tourists—same as you. Got caught up in the mess."

…

The four talked a lot during the flight. Whitney, still shaken, eventually fell asleep. Most of the conversation happened between Owen, Monica, and Beth.

Having survived hell together, they now saw each other in a new light. Their bond, forged in blood and fire, had grown stronger than ever.

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