American variety show: Sniper Elite

Chapter 10 Testing the Gun
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After some haggling, Beta finally managed to purchase the Mauser 98 rifle for 30% more than the market price.

Touched by "Mr. Forman's" passion for firearms, the collector gifted him an extra fifteen rounds of specially made 7.92mm high-charge ammunition. "Enough to take down a grown wild boar," the collector assured him, patting his chest.

After leaving the first museum, Beta quickly changed his appearance.

Donning gold-rimmed glasses and a sophisticated suit, he transformed himself into a Swiss arms historian. From a second collector, he acquired a 1911 pistol under the guise of research; and from a third, he found a similar antique gun that supposedly belonged to the U.S. Office of Strategic Services (OSS).

At his lodgings, Beta meticulously disassembled these "collectibles" like a watchmaker. He replaced the clogged original barrel with a working OSS pistol barrel, re-polished and reassembled the missing firing pin, and finally installed the silencer "legally imported" from the United States. After a sleepless night, a fully functional 1911 with a silencer was born in his hands.

At the same time, he also completed the modification of that Mauser rifle.

In this way, Beta successfully cobbled together two fully functional professional weapons right under the noses of MI6.
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Firearm calibration is the next crucial step.

Even with a diamond-shaped aiming frame, if there is a deviation between the scope axis and the barrel trajectory, the most perfect aiming mark is useless.

Beta searched online for suitable shooting locations and eventually settled on a private hunting ground outside London.

This area was originally a swampy wetland on the edge of a farm. Because the soil was barren and uncultivable, the farm owner transformed it into a paid duck hunting area. Wooden shooting platforms were set up among the reed-covered puddles, which were both concealed and met the various requirements for gun testing.

Beta skillfully completed his disguise, donning a meticulously crafted bald wig, attaching fine wrinkle patches to the corners of his eyes and mouth, and using special cosmetics to deepen the nasolabial folds and signs of aging on his neck.

The final image in the mirror showed a typical middle-class retired engineer: a slightly hunched figure, a worn-out Barbour hunting coat, and mud-splattered Hunter rain boots—a perfect image of a fifty-year-old British gentleman obsessed with hunting.

He deliberately stuffed a worn-out birdwatching manual into his backpack, and also prepared a forged retired member's certificate from the Institute of Engineers in his wallet.

The gamekeeper, with a half-smoked cigarette dangling from his lips, tapped the price list nailed to the outer wall of the wooden hut with his rough fingers: "One hundred and fifty pounds a day, guns and ammunition not provided. Wild ducks are free to hunt, but deer and protected birds are strictly prohibited."

He looked Beta up and down: "You can choose to take the prey with you, or sell it back to the hunting grounds at market price. If you're too lazy to deal with it..."

He gestured towards the small house with smoke rising from its chimney not far away: "The kitchen charges an extra twenty pounds; they can make you smoked meat or stew."

Beta pulled three fifty-pound notes from his wallet and handed them over. The guard took them with his muddy fingers and tore a handwritten voucher from the crumpled book of receipts.

“You’re the only one here this morning.” He said, handing the ticket to Beta. The yellowed paper still smelled of gunpowder. “A few regulars will be here around three in the afternoon. If you want to join the fun and hunt in groups, you can stay until evening.”

The guard pointed to a two-story red brick farmhouse in the distance: "The restaurant serves hot food, and the lounge has beer for those staying overnight."

He rubbed his fingers together, revealing a smile with a missing front tooth: "It'll cost extra."

Beta nodded slightly: "Very reasonable rules."

The guard pushed open the creaking pine door, the rusty hinges making a harsh scraping sound.

"Have a pleasant hunt." He paused, his expression turning serious. "But I must remind you of the safety rules again."

He gestured with his rough fingers to indicate a height: "You are only allowed to shoot at prey that flies higher than two meters. Anything that flies close to the ground or is not high enough"—he made a throat-slitting gesture: "Not a single bullet is allowed. This is for your safety and the safety of the other guests."

The guard grinned, revealing his uneven teeth: "Rules are rules. Nobody wants to get their head cracked open by a stray bullet."

He casually took an orange-yellow reflective vest from a hook on the wall of the wooden house. The fabric still had mud spots left by the previous guests: "This is a free safety equipment. You have to return it after you're done wearing it."

He shrugged. "Honestly, nine and a half out of ten people would take it. After all, they spent 150 pounds on hunting, who cares about a pound or two of trinket? My boss doesn't care either; he just lets the customers take it."

Beta put on a reflective vest, its fluorescent orange color standing out starkly in the morning mist.

The guard, with a half-smoked cigarette dangling from his lips, slowly accompanied him for twenty or thirty meters, his boots crunching on the soft, wet mud.

“Go straight along this path.” He pointed into the depths of the reeds: “There’s a duck hunting platform at the end; it might have been flooded a few days ago after the rain.”

He shook the cigarette butt between his lips: "But the cover is intact, you can definitely squat inside."

As if suddenly remembering something, he added before turning around: "If you don't have enough bullets, just come back and buy more. I have all kinds of calibers, from .22 to 12-gauge shotgun shells, plenty to go."

The guard suddenly stopped, cigarette ash falling onto his boots: "I almost forgot to ask, what kind of gun are you carrying? Large-caliber rifles and automatic weapons are prohibited."

Beta unzipped the gun holster, revealing just the right corner of the wooden stock: ".22 bolt-action rifle, an old relic."

"Wow!" The guard squinted and glanced at the mottled gun barrel. "It's not often you see guests using rifles to hunt wild ducks."

He gestured a shooting posture with his rough fingers: "Everyone loves to use the 12-gauge double-barreled shotgun. 'Bang!' and a hail of iron pellets fills the air. You can always hit a few."

Beta's lips twitched slightly: "Last time, in the stewed duck at the Hunting Ground Restaurant, I chewed up two steel balls."

He pointed to his back molar: "This tooth cost three hundred pounds to fill."

The guard let out a hoarse laugh, his missing front tooth gleaming in the morning light: "Hahaha! Old buddy, this experience is worthy of a hunter's medal!"

He wiped away the tears of laughter from the corners of his eyes: "Every veteran shotgun user will eventually find treasure in their dinner."

The guard patted his mud-splattered trousers, the cigarette butt in his mouth glowing dimly in the morning mist: "I'll leave you here. I have to go back and keep an eye on the gate."

He waved casually, and as he turned, his boot crushed a pine cone on the ground: "Have a pleasant hunt, sir."

Beta stood still, a formulaic smile on his face. Only when the guard's hunched back completely disappeared around the corner of the ivy-covered hedge did his relaxed shoulders suddenly tense up.

Those eyes, which were originally cloudy and lifeless, seemed to have had their mist wiped away, and their sharp gaze was like a dagger, gleaming with a cold edge in the morning light.

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Thank you so much to all the readers who voted for me with recommendation tickets and monthly tickets.

Dear readers who have collected and read this book, please remember to check back every day and leave your comments and feedback.

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(End of this chapter)