Chapter 51: The Retired CIA Agent

Time passed quickly in peaceful days. Owen continued his busy schedule at the police department, but a lingering worry remained. A few days later, Bryan called him.

"Steve, the situation in France is resolved. My contacts over there checked things out—there's no trace leading back to us."

Bryan was as straightforward as ever. His blunt and direct style applied to both his words and actions.

"That's great news! I'm relieved to hear that." Owen finally felt the weight on his chest ease. He had used a fake passport precisely to avoid complications that might disrupt his life.

"Steve, I recently bought a house. I'm having a few friends over tonight and wanted to invite you. Interested?"

"Of course! I'd be delighted."

"Great. Write this down—it's on *** Street, number ***. Come by after work."

"Got it. See you tonight."

"See you then."

After hanging up, Owen smiled. The fear of retribution from France was gone, and it seemed he had gained Bryan's friendship in the process. Before this ordeal, they were just acquaintances, barely nodding in passing. But after fighting side by side, they had become trusted allies.

Owen also knew that Bryan, retired from the CIA, had moved to Los Angeles to be closer to his daughter and make up for lost time. He had been living in a motel but had now purchased a house. Owen was genuinely happy to have made another friend in the city.

In his own life, Owen had just been discharged from the hospital and had formally accepted an offer from CTU (Counter Terrorist Unit). He was set to start next month after finishing his current duties at the precinct. For now, his boss, "Old Man George," hadn't given him anything urgent to handle.

That Evening

Owen arrived at Bryan's new place on time. It was a modest apartment building. He double-checked the address and rang the doorbell.

"Steve? That you?" Bryan's voice called out before the door opened.

"Hey, Bryan! Congrats on the new place. Looks great." Owen handed over a bottle of wine he had brought as a gift. Bryan smiled, accepting it with a nod.

"Come on in. I'll introduce you to some friends."

Owen followed Bryan into the apartment, leaving his jacket on the sofa. They headed to the rooftop terrace, where the enticing aroma of grilled meat filled the air. A few older men, roughly Bryan's age, stood around a grill, laughing and chatting.

One of them cracked a joke upon seeing Owen. "Well, Bryan, I didn't think you had any friends outside of us! This is a shocker!"

Bryan chuckled and began the introductions. "Guys, this is Steve. Good guy. Steve, meet Sam, Wright, and Jim."

"Hey, everyone! I'm Steve Owen," he said, shaking hands with each man in turn.

Wright, the man who had joked earlier, laughed and said, "Oh, I know you! You're the lone hero from that skyscraper incident—the rooftop jump was insane! I saw the footage. Hell of a ride, huh?"

Everyone laughed, and Sam handed Owen a plate while Bryan piled some freshly grilled beef onto it. "Here, try this," Bryan said with a grin. "Just finished grilling."

Before Owen could take a bite, Jim sniffed the air and frowned. "Nah, this isn't right. It doesn't smell the same at all."

The others agreed, nodding in disappointment. Bryan reluctantly tasted a piece and sighed in defeat. "You're right. It's different. I gave it my best shot, but this stuff's harder than it looks."

Owen noticed that they weren't grilling traditional American BBQ but instead skewers of meat—something that looked oddly familiar.

"What kind of BBQ is this?" he asked.

Jim explained, "We're trying to recreate a Chinese dish called chuan'r—grilled skewers. We had it in Chinatown during a trip to San Francisco. It was amazing, but we couldn't find anything like it back here in L.A."

Owen chuckled as he recognized the mishmash of skewers. No wonder they looked familiar—it was an attempt at Chinese street food.

"You're supposed to skewer it two lean pieces and one fatty piece in sequence," he said, shaking his head at their mistakes.

"You know how to make Chinese skewers?" Sam asked, wide-eyed.

"Kind of," Owen replied with a grin. "I grew up next to a Chinese family. They were super friendly and always invited me over. I learned a lot about their food—stuff like kung pao chicken, dumplings, and skewers."

He wasn't entirely lying, though his neighbors had been more "banana" than authentically Chinese. His cooking skills were mostly self-taught from a love of good food.

"That's awesome! You're in charge now," Jim declared, handing over the grill tongs. Everyone eagerly encouraged Owen to take over.

"Alright, alright," Owen said with a laugh. "But I'll need the right ingredients. Chinese skewers require special seasonings to taste right."

"We've got that covered," Wright said, producing a bag filled with cumin and chili powder. "We had to get it from a Chinese supermarket. Stuff's expensive, too!"

Owen got to work. He re-cut the meat, skewered it properly, and arranged the sticks on the grill. As the aroma of sizzling beef, cumin, and chili filled the air, everyone's eyes lit up.

"That's it! That's the smell!"

"You're a lifesaver, Steve!"

"Man, where have you been all our lives? You've gotta teach me this!"

Owen expertly flipped the skewers, sprinkling salt, cumin, and chili powder as the oil from the meat dripped onto the flames with a satisfying sizzle. In just a few minutes, the skewers were perfectly grilled, glistening with charred edges.

He handed them out, and the men eagerly dug in. With cold beers in hand, they feasted on the flavorful skewers, laughing and chatting as the night wore on.

For the first time in weeks, Owen felt truly relaxed. This was the kind of peace he had been longing for.

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