American variety show: Sniper Elite

Chapter 132 Three People

Los Angeles, USA.

Outside the airport, the scorching sun beat down on the asphalt. Beta, carrying a bag in one hand, scanned the taxi stand behind his black sunglasses. He weaved through the crowd, stopped at the designated area, and glanced at his watch; seven minutes remained until his appointment.

Beta remembered his promise to Katalia before he left, adjusted his sunglasses, and stood in the scorching heat, his peripheral vision fixed on the direction of the airport exit.

He glanced at his watch; the strap gleamed in the sunlight. There were still three minutes until the appointed time.

A black Audi A6 slowly came into view. The 2018 model had sun-protective film on its tinted windows, complying with California law. The car drove past him, circled around him, and then stopped again in front of Beta.

The car window rolled down, and the scent of cologne mixed with the cool air from the air conditioner wafted out.

The young Black man in the passenger seat was about twenty-five or twenty-six years old, sporting a trendy gradient haircut, wearing a Bluetooth earpiece in his left ear, and had a scar on his right index finger. He eyed Beta warily, the tattoo on his neck faintly visible at the collar of his T-shirt.

The middle-aged white man in the driver's seat was in his early forties, his somewhat out-of-shape physique visible beneath his grey-blue polo shirt. His wedding ring on his left ring finger was faded, and there was an old scar on the web of his right hand. When his gaze met Beta's, his light brown eyes neither flinched nor showed excessive enthusiasm.

The man in the back seat was the most conspicuous; he was around fifty years old, with sparse hair barely covering his shiny scalp. He kept licking his chapped lips, his bloodshot eyes darting around rapidly. Beta noticed his right pinky twitching unnaturally. The man wore a wrinkled plaid shirt with a few drops of dark red stains on the collar, whether from ketchup or something else, it was hard to tell.

The airport loudspeaker is announcing boarding for a flight, and the sound of luggage wheels rolling can be heard in the distance.

Beta stood in the shade, observing the three people in the car.

The young Black man in the passenger seat was about twenty-three or twenty-four years old, dressed in typical streetwear, and looked focused. The middle-aged white man in the driver's seat wore sunglasses and appeared to be around forty years old. He exuded an aura of control and was clearly the one in charge among the three. The bald man in his forties in the back seat had a sinister look in his eyes, and his nostrils twitched constantly, clearly showing the symptoms of long-term drug use.

Inside the car, Mike was sizing up the man standing outside. Around thirty years old, with dark hair and a sharply defined face, he had distinctly Germanic features. The man wore Ray-Ban sunglasses, and even through the dark lenses, his gaze was unsettling. Mike felt as if he were being X-rayed. Fulton, on the other hand, just felt incredibly uncomfortable with this stranger, even though the guy looked at everyone the same way.

Mike and Fuldi exchanged a brief glance. Having received his consent, Fuldi opened the car door and walked towards the man.

Beta stared at the young Black man who approached him. The man extended his hand: "Faldy Clinton, just call me Little Faldy. You're 'Mr. Hat'?"

Beta nodded slightly, his gaze passing over Fordy's shoulder and landing inside the car: "Are those two McCree DeSanta and Fulton Phillips?"

Fuldi glanced at it sideways and nodded to confirm, "That's right."

Fulton, in the back seat, suddenly flung open the car door, the metal hinges creaking loudly. He jumped out and stood on the asphalt.

Mike, in the driver's seat, leaned forward and shouted, "Fulton! Damn it!" Before he finished speaking, Fulton was already swaying and walking towards Beta. Mike cursed and pounded on the steering wheel, forced to shift into Park, the handbrake slamming shut.

Fulton walked like a baboon, swaying his shoulders from side to side. He deliberately rubbed the ground with the soles of his shoes, stopping two steps away from Beta, tilting his shiny bald head, and looking Beta up and down with his bloodshot eyes.

"Yo yo yo!" he drew out, laughing maniacally. "Our esteemed Mr. Hat? Huh?"

He spun around dramatically, his tattered leather jacket whistling in the wind. "Where the hell is your hat? Did you leave it on some whore's bed?" Fulton stepped forward, his right index finger poking Beta's left shoulder.

“Let me take a good look!” He reeked of a mixture of marijuana and alcohol, his bloodshot eyes pressed against Beta’s sunglasses. “I think you’re not some 'gentleman' at all, just a woman dressed as a man!”

Beta remained motionless, but Mike noticed that something was amiss.

The afternoon sun refracted a halo around Beta's Ray-Ban sunglasses, and the look in his eyes behind the lenses was freezing at a visible speed. Fordy unconsciously took a half-step back; he didn't know why, but he felt a little uneasy.

Mike stepped forward, reaching out to grab Fulton by the back of his collar, trying to smooth things over: "Listen, buddy, this guy's not quite right in the head."

Before the words were finished, a loud "crack" rang out.

Beta gripped Fulton's wrist with his right hand, his thumb precisely pressing against the styloid process of the ulna, and with a gentle twist, Fulton's thick, tattooed wrist was contorted into an eerie angle, the dislocated joints clearly visible beneath the bulging veins.

"Fuck you!" Fulton's curse caught in his throat, turning into a sob. Beta flicked his wrist slightly, and as he applied pressure, Fulton spun half a circle on the spot like a puppet on strings, his knees bending uncontrollably.

“Listen, gentlemen.” Fuldy stepped forward, trying to keep his voice steady, but a hint of tension still crept in at the end. He pointed to Fulton’s swollen, purple wrist: “This madman may be a bastard, but he still needs his hands to get things done.”

Beta looked at the three of them one by one.

He stared at Fuldy for three seconds, his gaze lingering on the young black face; then he turned to McCree, the middle-aged white man whose temples were beaded with sweat; finally, his gaze settled on Fulton, who was kneeling and panting, his bald head gleaming in the sunlight.

Beta said coldly, "Listen, my plan does require manpower. But it doesn't necessarily have to be you."

McCree raised his hands in a gesture of surrender: "We're just doing our jobs for money, and we know the rules."

Beta nodded, then with a forceful lift of his arm, twisted and released it, the clear "click" of the joint returning to its place was audible. Fulton was thrown two meters away, his back slamming heavily against the car door.

Surprisingly, the madman started laughing. Fulton staggered to his feet, his eyes gleaming with a morbid excitement.

"Damn!" he laughed hoarsely, his trembling fingers stroking his newly reattached wrist. "That's more like it! I hate those spineless employers the most!"

He yelled at the top of his lungs, "That's awesome! That's fucking awesome!"

He circled Beta like a wild beast, the soles of his shoes scraping against the ground.

"Wow!" Fulton yelled, his face contorted with fanatical adoration. "Brave! So fucking brave!"

(End of this chapter)