Chapter 224: Phantom Pain Alliance Leader Part Three

Bang! With a heavy kick, Owen burst through the door, gun raised.

"Don't move! Robbery!"

"You piece of shit, take your hand off that alarm, or I swear I'll put one through your skull!"

"Shut up, bitch! Scream again and I'll blow your fucking head off!"

Two quick warning shots silenced the store. The owner and the few customers inside froze in place.

The convenience store was small—only four shelves of goods, no real hiding spots. A clear line of sight from one end to the other. Perfect for control.

Owen had six hostages in total—an elderly white-haired store owner, and five customers: a young couple, a woman with a small child, and Denzel Payton himself.

It was easy to tell who was local and who wasn't. The mother and son, along with Payton, had that worn, desert-town look. The couple, however, screamed tourists. Why they'd ended up at a backroad gas station like this was anyone's guess.

"You! Get all the cash out—now! Put it on the counter!" Owen barked, trying his best to look like a panicked first-timer. His voice was loud, nervous, and cracked at the edges.

"You all—hands up where I can see them!"

He flailed the pistol awkwardly, making his act even more convincing. After a beat, as if remembering something critical, he dashed over and flipped the door sign to "Closed."

That's when he noticed the store's television. A muted news anchor spoke over his mugshot—FBI's official bulletin declaring him wanted. He couldn't hear the words, but he knew exactly what was being said.

"Move, old man! Get that register open—now!" Owen shouted again.

"O-okay… okay…" The store owner fumbled at the keys, hands trembling. Twice he failed to open it, drawing impatient growls from Owen, until finally it popped. It was mostly coins and small bills.

"Put it in a bag—come on, don't make me say it twice."

The old man obeyed, sliding a half-full bag of cash across the counter. Owen picked it up while keeping one eye on the hostages and another on the wall clock.

Only three minutes had passed. Damn it. He had to find more ways to stretch this.

"You—empty your wallets! And your phones—now!"

He started collecting the customers' belongings. The kid started crying—loudly. The mother held him close, hand clamped over his mouth to quiet him. The young man shielded his girlfriend, while Denzel Payton stood off to the side, face calm.

"Don't make me ask twice! Empty your damn pockets!"

To sell the part, Owen fired two more warning shots into the ceiling. The panic inside rose again.

One by one, people stepped forward, adding their meager handfuls of bills to the growing bag. But the total haul barely broke $200. In America, most people use credit cards. Hard cash was rare.

As the money was passed back, the customers stared at Owen in fear. Their eyes screamed one thing: Not enough. What if he snaps?

Owen hesitated. His next move had to look off—not logical. He needed to keep the act strange. He couldn't just grab the money and leave. Time was crawling.

"Why is he crying?" Owen suddenly asked, gesturing to the kid.

"Wh-what?" the mother stammered, caught off guard.

"I said, why is he crying?"

His voice had taken a curious turn—high-pitched, distant. Like he wasn't all there. He stared at the boy with wide, cold eyes.

The mother looked around in panic. She had no answer. She turned toward the others, silently begging for help.

Perfect. The hostages were now more afraid of Owen's mind than his gun. That's what he wanted.

"He's… he's probably just hungry…" the young tourist girl finally offered, her voice small.

Owen shifted his stare to her. Her boyfriend immediately stepped between them again.

"Hungry, huh? Then he should eat. You can pick whatever you want from the shelf. How about some chips?"

The mother hesitated, then nervously accepted a bag of chips Owen tossed her way, holding her son close. Another minute gone.

"Owen, I need ten more minutes…" Becky whispered through his earpiece.

Only Owen had entered the store. Swag remained outside in the car—wanted men couldn't risk being spotted. Ironically, Owen was wanted too, but at this point, he couldn't afford to care.

"You two—tourists?" he asked, turning to the couple.

They nodded.

"Where from?"

"V-Virginia," the guy answered. He looked like he wanted to wet himself. A hold-up that turns into a therapy session wasn't what he expected today.

"You two a couple?"

"Yes," the girl replied, more composed than her boyfriend.

"What are your names?"

They hesitated.

"I—I'm George Walker. This is Jennifer. Please don't hurt us…"

"Jennifer, huh? Pretty name."

Owen nodded slowly. She was a looker—tall, fair-skinned, long legs, striking eyes. A classic American beauty. No wonder George guarded her like a treasure.

But Owen had no interest in hurting them. He just needed a believable excuse to talk to everyone—especially the man he was really after.

Finally, it was Denzel Payton's turn.

Owen tilted his pistol. Denzel stepped forward, cool as ice.

"What's your name?"

"Paul. Paul Sholter…"

He gave a fake name. Owen didn't flinch.

"You local?"

"Yes."

"Where do you live?"

Denzel hesitated, then replied, "West valley. About ten kilometers out."

Just as Owen prepared to press further, a police cruiser pulled into the lot outside.

Everyone in the store noticed at once. Excitement surged—someone had seen them, called the cops! Owen quickly waved his gun, barking threats until the room quieted again.

Back to square one. But he only needed ten more minutes.

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