After chatting with Owen, Jack left. He had only stopped by Omega HQ to check in and hadn't expected to run into Owen. Once Jack departed, Owen waved Ghost over, who entered the room with the members of Omega's main team.
"Guys…"
Owen motioned for everyone to take a seat. As Omega's commander, he maintained authority over the subordinate squads, but with the main team—his brothers-in-arms—he never put on airs.
"These are the files on the new recruits from the past few weeks. I figured you'd want to take a look. Not all of them are Tier 1, but their capabilities are solid, so I brought them in anyway…"
Ghost handed over a stack of folders. As Omega's deputy commander, Ghost had been handling recruitment, while Owen primarily focused on managing the main team. All responsibilities for teams A through F had fallen to Ghost.
They had already discussed this over the phone. Omega had originally set a strict requirement: all recruits must be Tier 1. But in practice, they found this standard too limiting—many excellent candidates were getting excluded. So they adjusted the bar: as long as someone was highly capable and had relevant experience, they'd be considered.
Ghost had expected Owen to shoot the idea down—after all, the President had sky-high expectations for Omega and was pouring in top-tier resources. Lowering standards could be seen as irresponsible.
But to his surprise, Owen had agreed almost instantly. His reasoning was simple—he had a benchmark. If ASH's team from FBI SWAT Los Angeles ever wanted to join Omega, Owen would welcome them with open arms. That team was widely regarded as the most elite strike group in L.A., outperforming even the CTU and police tactical units. And yet… not a single member was technically Tier 1. Clearly, Tier 1 status wasn't the end-all-be-all.
Owen skimmed through the files—five in total. Some were retired U.S. special forces, others from foreign units. One was even a former outlaw. Their résumés were solid, with action records that couldn't easily be faked. A quick background check would confirm everything.
As he flipped through, one file had a name circled in red ink: Bartosz Ferede, codename "The Diviner." The name sounded familiar. Then Owen remembered—Swagg had mentioned this guy before as a remarkable spotter.
Sure enough, his résumé listed him as a capable sniper observer, intel operative, recon scout, and medic. He had served in GROM (Poland's elite special ops unit). The rest of the file included a long list of training credentials and background checks—very impressive. Notably, the recommendation came from Simon Riley.
Owen looked up and asked, "You recommended him?"
"I did," Ghost answered without hesitation.
"Alright then, give me the full rundown."
Ghost nodded. "Back in my SAS days, I did joint missions with GROM. That's when I met Ferede. His military skills are top-notch—we all worked with him. Swagg especially speaks highly of him. He's undergone extensive training—not just from GROM and the Polish Army, but also from GSG9 in Germany. Plus, he's received training from the CIA and Delta Force…"
"Wait, CIA and Delta? What's the story there?"
Owen couldn't understand how a Polish operator had connections with those American agencies.
This time, Swagg chimed in. "GROM was established fairly recently. When it formed, it modeled itself after the best units in the world. Ultimately, it was built using the British SAS and U.S. Delta Force as its foundation. Its selection and equipment process took inspiration from GSG9. In fact, GROM's early training took place at GSG9's St. Augustin base.
When GROM was founded, initial training was handled by members of Delta and CIA. Their first sniper instructor was a CIA agent—also a retired Delta Force sniper and head instructor for JFK Special Warfare School's sniper course—Larry Freedman."
Now Owen understood: GROM had been built with heavy U.S. involvement.
He thought for a moment, then asked again, "What about his background? Is it solid?"
Owen had always been wary—his biggest gripe with the old CTU had been the number of moles. So when Omega was formed, he paid extra attention to background checks. Theoretically, anyone cleared for recruitment should be fine—but he had to ask.
This time, it was Heartbeat who responded. "Seems clean. Ferede's father is American, a retired U.S. Marine. His mother was a Polish schoolteacher. He graduated high school in Poland, then majored in mathematics at Jagiellonian University. He spent a semester as an exchange student at Princeton. After college, he joined Poland's Naval Combat Divers and was later recruited into GROM for outstanding performance. From his background and history, he's very pro-American."
Owen nodded and looked again at Ferede's résumé. The guy had participated in hostage rescues in Haiti, operations in Kosovo, protection detail for Pope John Paul II's visit to Poland, the Iraq War, and missions against the Russian mafia infiltrating Western Europe.
On paper, Ferede was near flawless. Nobody voiced it outright, but from the expressions in the room, it was clear everyone approved. Otherwise, someone wouldn't have circled his name in red.
But no one was perfect. Owen tilted his head. "Alright, he looks impressive. So, what's the catch? What's his flaw?"
At that, everyone in the room looked a little awkward. Finally, Ghost answered, "His strengths and weaknesses are equally obvious—he's a chatterbox."
"A what?"
Owen almost laughed. "I thought snipers were like Swagg—silent types."
The room burst into laughter. In truth, Swagg wasn't that reserved, but compared to others, he definitely talked less. It came with the job—most sniper missions were solo or with a partner, so there wasn't much talking.
Swagg shrugged. "Most snipers are quiet, yeah. But there are exceptions. Ferede is one of them. I'd bet money that he talks to himself during solo missions."
The room erupted again in laughter. Then Ghost seemed to remember something else. "Oh, and one more thing… I'm not sure if this counts as a flaw."
"What is it?"
Owen asked curiously.
Ghost looked down through the second-floor glass wall, then stepped aside. "See for yourself."
"Huh?"
Owen stepped forward and followed Ghost's gaze. They were looking down into the intel department. And there, leaning casually against Becky's desk, was a man putting on a suave act, talking nonstop. Becky didn't even look at him—just replied now and then while continuing her work. He, however, wouldn't shut up.
"He's hitting on Becky?"
"Yes."
Owen was stunned. Everyone else answered in unison.
"Wow…"
Owen let out a long exhale, feeling a strange mix of amusement and surprise. To be fair, Becky was gorgeous—always smiling, expressive eyes, the kind of "sweetheart" look Americans loved. But for some reason, she'd never had a boyfriend. According to Monica, Becky's IQ was just too high—ordinary guys didn't stand a chance.
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