American variety show: Sniper Elite

Chapter 1 Sniper Killing
"Ding."

The coin flicked from Beta's fingers, tracing a silver arc in the dim light.

"Ding."

The words and images flashed alternately, and the cold glint of metal flickered briefly in the air.

"Ding."

The flipping came to an abrupt end.

The black glove precisely gripped the coin, the knuckles making a subtle rustling sound as they closed.

03: 21.

The hotel windows across the river lit up.

Beta rose silently, the barrel of the TAC-50 scraping against the oak table with a dull thud. The moment the 12.7×99mm NATO round was pushed into the chamber by his thumb, the metallic clang of the bolt snapping back exploded in the darkness, like a snap of the fingers.

Raise the gun.

As the crosshair pressed down on the target, his breath caught in the gap between two heartbeats.

In the scope, a glaring red diamond appeared. That was the kill marker in Sniper Elite's easy mode. No need to calculate wind speed or humidity, no need to adjust bullet drop; the game mechanics marked the exact coordinates of a perfect hit.

In reality, sniping requires precise calculations, but at this moment, Beta only needs to hold his breath and let the flashing red aiming box become the mark of death.

The target was a typical American old-money: silver hair, a hooked nose, and a 65-year-old body sculpted by a personal trainer into the physique of a Wall Street upstart. The secretary in her pencil skirt had a serpentine waist and hip curve, and her 10-centimeter stilettos left shallow swirls on the carpet.

Six bodyguards formed a moving human wall to escort the two through a corridor covered with Persian carpets.

Beta's gun barrel remained motionless, the crosshairs always aligned with the oak door frame of the presidential suite.

Inside the room, the hot spring bathtub was filled with steaming vapors, the crystal chandelier was set to an aphrodisiac warm yellow, and the gauze curtains resembled a dancer holding a pipa.

The only window that was designed to showcase the night view of the Thames River became the perfect shooting position.

Beta just needs to wait patiently.

Time passed silently, the red diamond in the scope gradually shrinking, like a slowly closing pupil. With each passing second, the mark became smaller, and the bullet's impact point became more precise.

Beta's fingertip rested lightly on the trigger, and the barrel was adjusted by an almost imperceptible amount.

He doesn't need to think, he doesn't need to calculate. The game mechanics have already paved the way for him; all he needs to do is pull the trigger.

Beta wasn't in a hurry.

He was waiting, waiting for the carved oak door to open.

The door hinges turned, and two bodyguards in suits stepped into the suite first, their eyes scanning every corner. Only after confirming it was safe did the target slowly enter. Under the bodyguards' watchful eyes, the target and the female secretary maintained a respectful distance, as if they were merely ordinary business partners.

Until the soft sound of the door closing came.

Almost simultaneously, the secretary's pencil skirt slipped down to her waist, the silk fabric bunching around her high heels. The target's hand had already roughly slipped inside her clothes, his knuckles leaving red marks on her taut skin. In the halo of the crystal chandelier, two bodies entangled and crashed against the floor-to-ceiling window.

The gun was pointed directly at Beta.

In Beta's vision, the diamond-shaped mark firmly locked onto the target's brow.

The night sky over the Thames flowed before him, neon lights reflected on his sweat-dampened brow.

The crosshairs and the diamond mark are perfectly aligned. Now!

"puff!"

The sniper rifle, equipped with a silencer, emitted a muffled sigh as a tungsten-core armor-piercing bullet sliced ​​through 755 meters of night. The bullet pierced the misty haze over the Thames, grazed the rooftops of the low-rise buildings along the riverbank, and finally "banged" against the bulletproof floor-to-ceiling window.

The target was passionately thrusting its body towards the Thames, when suddenly...

"Snapped!"

A spiderweb-like crack suddenly appeared on the bulletproof glass just centimeters from his nose. At the center of the crack, a tiny bullet hole was clearly visible, and the surrounding cracks resembled the outstretched fingers of death.

The target shuddered, his movements halting abruptly. His eyes widened, and he instinctively reached out to touch the crack, his warm palm pressed against the cold glass, as if confirming that this was not an illusion.

In the instant he hesitated, the second tungsten-core armor-piercing projectile had already torn through the night sky.

"Snapped!"

The bullet pierced precisely through the hole left by the first shot, and the crack in the glass suddenly widened.

"boom!"

A burst of blood erupted from the target's brow. His head exploded like a ripe watermelon, skull fragments mixed with brain matter spraying out in a fan shape, creating a scarlet abstract painting on the Persian carpet in the corridor.

The target's body stiffened for a moment, then crashed to the ground like a severed mast, slamming heavily in front of the screaming female secretary.

In the halo of the crystal chandelier, drops of blood slowly slid down the bulletproof glass, outlining eerie patterns on the spiderweb-like cracks.

The neon lights on the Thames River still shimmer.

Beta bent down and picked up two shell casings that still smelled of gunpowder from the ground.

He skillfully packed them into an anti-static sealed bag, then stuffed it into a hidden pocket inside his clothes.

He glanced at the TAC-50 that had accompanied him on the mission; the thermite incendiary rounds were gently placed beside the gun. Then, he took out a can of hydrogen peroxide, making a slight hissing sound as he unscrewed the leak-proof cap.

The liquid traced a parabola in the air, first soaking the entire sniper rifle, then the folding chair he'd sat in for three hours. Finally, he picked up the tactical backpack containing the weapon and poured the remaining hydrogen peroxide into it. Tiny white foam immediately appeared upon contact with the fabric.

"Click."

The safety pin on the incendiary bomb was flicked open with his thumb. Beta took two steps back and precisely threw the incendiary bomb at the pile of equipment soaked in hydrogen peroxide. The thermite instantly burst into a blinding white light, and the temperature soared to over 2000 degrees Celsius within seconds.

In the firelight, Beta's figure disappeared into the darkness.

He was well aware of the power of modern ballistics; the rifling of every gun leaves a unique "fingerprint" on the bullet, and these traces, once entered into a database, can be tracked globally. After tonight, this TAC-50 would only leave behind a pile of unrecognizable metal debris.

Beta never reuses a weapon, just as a true artist never paints the same canvas twice. Every action is a fresh start.

Beta silently descended the stairs, deftly avoiding the two surveillance cameras at the corner. In the shadows at the end of the third-floor corridor, he gently pushed open an old window and leaped towards the fire escape, his movements as light as a falling leaf.

The rusty iron staircase groaned softly beneath his feet, but the night wind quickly dissipated it. He took two steps at a time to reach the ground and stepped into the damp alleyway without splashing a drop of water.

Ten meters away, an ordinary London black taxi lay quietly in the shadows where the streetlights couldn't reach.

Beta opened the car door and slid into the driver's seat, the leather seat making a slight scraping sound. In the rearview mirror, his disguised face perfectly matched the white-haired old man in the ID photo on the dashboard, down to the wrinkles at the corners of his eyes.

The key turned, and the engine emitted a deep hum. The taxi, blending into the London streetscape, slowly drove into the night, like a drop of water flowing into the Thames.

(End of this chapter)