American variety show: Sniper Elite

Chapter 110 Black Orchid (Two Updates)

Medvedeva faced off silently against her reflection in the mirror.

As she took a step forward, the entire mirror slid to one side.

A blond man emerged from behind the mirror, his gaunt face dotted with light freckles, and a dangerous lurking beneath his seemingly calm, grey-blue eyes.

“Alexander Dugan.” Medvedeva took a step back. “Or rather, the jackal.”

The man gave a cold smile: "Meva Lake. Or Miss Mushroom?"
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Beta held the freshly printed satellite map, the ink still warm. Amidst the lingering hum of the printer, the sound of Katalia's bare feet crunching on the wooden floor grew closer.

She placed the glass heavily on the corner of the table, the bottom of the glass making a crisp sound as it struck the solid wood surface.

The elastic fabric of her sports vest clung to her slender waistline, a smooth line sculpted by years of high-intensity training. Beneath her short skirt, her honey-colored legs had a matte finish, and her calves, when taut, revealed the perfect curve of her gastrocnemius muscles.

"Tsk." Beta took a sip of coffee, his brow furrowing. "Are you brewing asphalt?"

He held the glass up to the light source; the dark brown liquid was almost opaque. "This color is almost as dark as your skin tone."

Upon hearing this, Katalia grabbed the sugar jar, and a sugar cube flew in an arc, hitting Beta in the temple.

"Take it or leave it." She turned around, the scent of citrus shampoo lingering in her air. "I'll cook it myself next time."

Sunlight streamed through the gaps in the curtains, bathing Katalia in a golden-brown hue that tinted her Latin and African skin, making her look like a carefully baked crème brûlée, with a dangerously alluring sweetness.

Beta always had a knack for teasing Katalia, even with these skin-colored jokes that teetered on the edge of offense.

But the current Kataria is no longer the easily frightened rookie she once was. Under Beta's "language training," she has perfectly evolved antibodies. Like an immune system repeatedly injected with trace amounts of toxins, she can now calmly continue drinking her coffee even amidst Beta's most outrageous teasing.

Beta tilted his head back and downed his iced coffee in one gulp, the ice cubes clinking in the glass. He stood up, the fabric of his trousers rustling softly. "I have some errands to run in Central Park."

Katalia crossed her arms and leaned against the table: "Wait, you still haven't explained why you suddenly came here instead of going back to your own safe house?"

Beta didn't answer immediately, but slowly stuffed his phone into his pocket, then pulled a pen from the pen holder and clipped it to the edge of his pocket: "This is too much trouble to explain."

He picked up his coat from the back of the chair and pulled out a driver's license with scabs of blood on the edges from the inner pocket.

“But you can take a look at this.” He tossed the documents to Katalia.

Catalia flipped open the driver's license, repeatedly checked the photo, then looked up: "You killed him?"

Beta slowly raised his head: "You know this Jason Bourne?"

Katalia threw the blood-stained driver's license onto the table with a sharp "thud".

She strode to the oak bookcase, her fingertips brushing against a row of folders, pulled out a wanted poster with curled edges, and handed it to Beta.

“A global arrest warrant from the CIA.” She tapped her fingernails on the $300 million figure: “I want to see him alive or dead.”

Beta took the wanted poster; the paper rustled in his hands.

His gaze swept back and forth between Bourne's photographs and captions, and he scoffed, "No wonder this madman attacked me like a rabid dog."

He flicked the wanted poster with his finger: "They probably think I'm Langley's janitor."

Katalia snatched the wanted poster, the paper crumpling between her fingers. "So you were attacked and killed in self-defense, only remembering me after the safe house was exposed?" Her voice was clearly displeased. Beta pulled a flattened black orchid from his jacket pocket, rubbing his fingers together to try and restore the petals' curve. "Not entirely."

He handed over the wretched flower: "Of course, that's not the only reason."

He drawled, "I mainly wanted to see you. After all, we're the kind of friends who used to fight naked in the bathtub."

Katalia grabbed the poor flower and rolled her eyes: "It was when I was four! five! years old!"

She emphasized each word: "Please state your age clearly next time, so people don't think we have some kind of improper relationship."

Beta blinked his right eye: "Understood."

Catalia tucked the black orchid into a thick copy of "On War." This hardcover book, at least five centimeters thick, had long since become her personal collection of specimens, its yellowed pages crammed with various flattened dried flower specimens.

“Let’s go, I’ll take you there.” Catalia picked up her coat and car keys.

Beta said, "Is it convenient? Don't let your boyfriend see this. Why don't you lend me the car instead?"

Katalia gestured for Beta to shut up: "Shut the fuck up and get in the car."

Catalia's BMW was red, a red BMW M3. The leather seat made a slight rustling sound as Beta climbed into the passenger seat.

“I suddenly thought of someone you’d definitely click with,” Beta said, fastening his seatbelt. “That girl is also obsessed with red, from tableware to curtains, even that red Cadillac Escalade she named ‘Strawberry General.’”

The roar of the engine interrupted him.

Catalia slammed on the gas, the tachometer needle tumbling wildly: "If you dare say that's your girlfriend, I'll kick you out right now. By the way, my car is called 'Flame Cannonball'."

Beta made an exaggerated vomiting face: "This lousy name is ten times sillier than 'Strawberry General'."

Katalia's fingers tightened on the steering wheel: "Jump out of the car or shut up?"

Beta wisely turned his head, feigning great interest in the view outside the window. The tires screeched against the pavement, and the red BMW sped out of the garage.

The red M3 cruised through the streets of New York, its deep engine roar drowned out by the city's hustle and bustle. Silence fell over the car, broken only by the faint hissing of the air conditioning vents.

A few minutes later, Katalia tapped her fingers impatiently on the steering wheel: "So... who exactly is that person?"

Her gaze was fixed stubbornly ahead, as if the problem were floating out from the windshield.

Beta chuckled softly: "I knew you couldn't hold it in!"

Katalia's lips twitched, her jaw tightened, and she stared intently at the road ahead, pretending that the question she had just asked had never happened.

Beta gazed at the fleeting street scenes outside the window, her voice becoming serious: "My stepmother has a younger brother who adopted a little girl. Now that child lives with John Wick."

Katalia's eyelashes trembled almost imperceptibly, but her gaze remained fixed on the traffic ahead. Only the slightly white knuckles on the steering wheel betrayed that she was processing this information.

Silence fell again in the carriage, with only the deep roar of the engine echoing between the two men.

(End of this chapter)