American variety show: Sniper Elite

Chapter 123 Development (Third Update, 6 words)

A subtle atmosphere filled the restaurant at dinner time.

The crisp clinking of cutlery sounded particularly jarring in the silence. Beta and Katalia both tried to maintain their composure, but they couldn't hide the evasive glances they exchanged.

Katalia practically buried her face in the salad bowl, mechanically chewing the lettuce leaves.

Beta looked at her and broke the silence: "I'm going back to Italy."

"Go back where?" Katalia looked up, her fork hovering in mid-air.

"Things in the US are settled, but there are other things to take care of," Beta said, swirling his wine glass.

"When?"

"In the next day or two." Beta paused. "How's it going on your end?"

Katalia said, "I will end him myself."

“Yes.” Beta nodded. “I need to go see John in the next couple of days. If you need anything before I leave the US.”

“Hmm,” she interrupted, poking at the salad with her fork.

Silence spread across the dining table.

After a long while, Beta looked up: "Today."

“Nothing happened,” Katalia replied quickly.

The two raised their glasses in tacit agreement, clinking them together to seal this unspoken conclusion.
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"Pretend nothing happened." He tapped his knuckles on the document. "The report is very clear: Bianca died in a jackal attack, and it has nothing to do with you."

The supervisor slowly pushed the report, which read "Bianca Pullman killed in attack," onto the table.

Medvedeva silently took the document, the paper rustling softly between her fingers. She lowered her eyes and scanned the cold, official language line by line.

The leather chair creaked as the manager stood up. He walked around the desk and closed the soundproof oak door. His hand lingered briefly on Medvedeva's shoulder, the taut muscles clearly visible. The gesture was both reassuring and carried an air of undeniable authority.

"Sit down and talk." He pulled out an armchair.

Medvedeva did not refuse and obediently took a seat.

The light streaming in from the window cast their shadows on the wall, with the supervisor's shadow completely obscuring Medvedeva's silhouette.

The manager slumped back into his large leather office chair, the back of which creaked. He took a silver-plated cigarette case from his drawer, the metallic click of it opening and closing ringing out in the quiet office.

“The Jackal case is now officially transferred to your team.” He slowly took out two cigarettes and pushed one toward Medea. The cigarette rolled on the table and eventually stopped beside Medea.

Medvedeva closed the report and picked up the cigarette. The supervisor snapped a lit kerosene lighter, the flickering flame casting shadows.

“Listen.” The supervisor took a deep drag of his cigarette, letting the smoke swirl in his lungs. “There’s one thing you need to understand: Jackals aren’t Moore’s men.”

Medvedeva paused slightly, her fingers pausing slightly as she held the unlit cigarette between her fingers.

"Do you understand what this means?" The supervisor squinted, and the smoke rings he exhaled slowly spread between the two of them.

Medea gently pressed the cigarette to her lower lip: "It means Moore is still waiting to kill me."

The supervisor took a deep drag on his cigarette, the gray ash falling softly between his fingers. He leaned forward, resting his elbows on the table.

“Medva, do you know that I’m standing on the edge of a cliff now because of you? The first time you slipped, I already gambled my future. This is the second time.”

The manager leaned forward, the leather chair creaking. "At yesterday's meeting of the conservative leadership, they brought up the issue of 'dealing with' you for the third time. Fewer and fewer people are speaking up for me." Medusa noticed the weariness in the manager's eyes.

“Moore is very unhappy. In his eyes, you should be a nobody who can disappear at any time. But because of my two interventions, now even I have become someone he doesn’t like.”

The cigarette between the supervisor's fingers burned silently, leaving a long trail of ash.

“I hope you understand,” he said, his voice heavy, “how much I’ve sacrificed to protect you, and to protect us.”

The cigarette ash finally gave way under its weight and fell into the crystal ashtray.

“Listen, Meva.” He leaned forward. “You must do a good job on the Jackal and Beta case. This is your last chance to prove your worth.”

The cigarette trembled slightly between his fingers: "The forces behind me are extremely dissatisfied with me. Do you know how many resources they spend cultivating a jackal? Go and investigate the cases the jackal has committed, the targets he has killed, and you will understand his value. Just to protect you, a pawn worthless in their eyes, I have to hand over the sharpest knife."

“Medva, I feel like a steak being seared on both sides. On the left is Moore’s conservatives’ dissatisfaction with me, and on the right is my own power putting pressure on me.”

"The key to breaking this deadlock lies in your hands. Link Beta and the Jackal to the same person, and put an end to the Downing Street case. This is your last chance, understand?"

Medvedeva looked into her supervisor's eyes and slowly nodded: "I understand."

The only sound in the office was the ticking of the wall clock.

Medvedeva's fingertips lightly traced the close-up photograph of Bianca's body on the report. The bullet hole between her eyebrows, the one she had shot, was particularly striking under the flash. The edges of the photograph curled slightly beneath her fingertips.

"Are you free tonight?" The supervisor's voice broke the silence.

Medvedeva raised her eyes.

"Today is Allen's birthday." The supervisor paused. "If you can come."

Medvedeva's gaze lingered for a moment between the supervisor and the documents. She put down the report and picked up the kerosene lighter on the table. With a "snap," a flame appeared. She lit a cigarette, took a clumsy puff, and then coughed lightly, choked by the smoke.

"Do you need me to prepare any gifts?" She exhaled a wisp of smoke.

The supervisor's lips curled into a slight smile: "Your presence is the best gift."

Medvedeva nodded knowingly, then tentatively took another puff of her cigarette, only to cough lightly as she was choked.

The supervisor considerately pushed the ashtray in front of her: "Don't force yourself if you don't like it."

Medvedeva stubbed out the cigarette in the ashtray, and the embers gradually died out in the glass container.

She hesitated for a moment: "Should I dress more formally?"

The supervisor shook his head, a gentle smile playing on his lips: "Just wear what you're most comfortable in, and pick a pair of shoes that won't tire your feet. It's just dinner, not a diplomatic banquet."

The office lights cast dappled patterns of light on the ashtray.

Medea looked directly into the manager's eyes: "So... I'm one of yours now?"

The supervisor gave a wry smile: "Medva, in the eyes of the forces behind me, your value rating is still negative."

He picked up his teacup, found it was empty, and put it down again: "They were willing to hand over the jackal as their trump card only because of me, not because of your value."

The office air conditioner was humming softly.

(End of this chapter)