American variety show: Sniper Elite

Chapter 134 Procurement (Third Update, 6 words)

The dim streetlights cast halos of light on the wet asphalt.

A completely black Mercedes-Benz Sprinter van was parked on the side of the road, hidden in the shadows where the streetlights couldn't reach.

Beta sat in the driver's seat, his left hand on the steering wheel, his right index finger lightly tapping the dashboard, making a soft "tap-tap" sound.

The car was filled with the mixed smell of leather seats and cigarettes.

In the passenger seat, Fordy leaned forward slightly, his gaze sweeping around through the tinted windows. His right hand remained firmly on the pistol at his waist.

Outside the car window, the night wind whipped up a few scraps of paper, swirling them in the empty street. A few barks echoed in the distance.

This is a slaughterhouse district controlled by Mexican gangs. A faint smell of blood mingles with the distinctive odor of preservatives found in meat processing plants.

Most of the buildings on both sides of the street had their doors and windows tightly closed, and the mottled walls were covered with faded graffiti and bullet holes. Occasionally, a few broken neon signs flickered, illuminating the street like a scene from a horror movie.

Beta glanced at her watch; the dial glowed in the darkness. Twenty minutes had passed.

The low concrete building not far away was the transaction location—a slaughterhouse with a sign that read "Premium Meat Processing," but it was actually a Mexican gang's hideout. McCree, with Fulton and a briefcase full of cash, had been inside for some time.

Outside the slaughterhouse, the silence inside the train carriages grew increasingly suffocating.

Fordy lowered his voice: "It's been too long."

Beta did not respond, but reached for the ignition switch, ready to start the engine at any moment.

A muffled bang suddenly came from deep within the slaughterhouse. Fuldi drew his pistol, and just as he was about to push open the car door, he saw the rusty iron gate of the slaughterhouse trembling.

"Bang—" Accompanied by the groaning of twisting metal, the heavy iron door was violently smashed open by a brute force.

Fulton appeared behind the door, his back hunched like an enraged bear, one hand gripping an AKM rifle, its muzzle spitting fire, spent cartridges bouncing and clanging against the concrete floor. Smoke swirled around him, his smiling face resembling that of a demon.

McCree's figure appeared and disappeared in the smoke. His left hand gripped the money box full of US dollars, while his right hand fired continuously from the AR rifle. Each time the butt recoiled, it slammed hard against his shoulder. Blood trickled down from the wound on his forehead, leaving several red streaks on his greasy face.

"Fuck you Fulton!" McCree roared as he staggered back, spittle splattering with blood. "Get backup! Get backup now!"

The roar of the engine filled the air.

Beta slammed his right foot on the accelerator, and the tachometer needle shot into the red zone. The van's rear wheels spun freely on the wet asphalt, the white smoke from the intense friction between the rubber and the pavement carrying a pungent, acrid smell.

Fordy was shoved hard into his seat by the sudden inertia.

A black van emerged from the shadows. Its headlights drew two bright beams in the darkness, illuminating the flying shell casings and scattered gravel ahead.

Beta's hands moved rapidly across the steering wheel. Less than eight meters from the two men, he yanked on the handbrake and simultaneously turned the steering wheel all the way to the left. With a screeching sound, the heavy vehicle began to skid. The tires left four charred, arc-shaped tracks on the road, and the stench of burning rubber filled the entire cabin.

The rear of the car narrowly missed Fulton's clothes as Beta released the handbrake, and the car completed a textbook drift.

With a thud, McCree pulled open the tailgate with his blood-stained hands, and the cash box slammed onto the carriage floor. He leaped into the carriage, and a stray bullet shattered the rear window with a snap, scattering glittering shards of glass.

McCree knelt on one knee in the swaying carriage, the butt of his AR rifle against his shoulder, each shot making his hair tremble in the smoke.

"Fulton! What the hell are you waiting for?!" McCree's roar echoed in the confined compartment, making everyone's eardrums ache. Shell casings bounced out of the ejection window, leaping around the compartment, with a few rolling under the driver's seat.

Fulton laughed as he emptied the last magazine, hot cartridge cases scattering at his feet.

"Go! Go! Go!" Fulton roared as he jumped into the carriage, the suspension creaking under the strain the moment he stepped in.

The tailgate was still clanging as Beta floored the accelerator. The van lurched forward, the momentum nearly throwing Fulton and McCree out of the back.

McCree grabbed the handrail of the carriage, slammed a tailgate shut with his other hand, set up his AR rifle, and opened fire on the Mexicans chasing him out of the slaughterhouse.

Fulton was screaming like a madman in the back of the train, holding an empty AKM rifle in each hand, dancing around in the bumpy carriage, his heels stomping on the metal floor like a primitive tribal warrior on a drug overdose.

Bullets whizzed in from outside the vehicle, piercing the metal of the carriage with a crackling sound, and shrieked in the confined space.

"Whoosh—bang!" A bullet pierced through the thin steel plate of the compartment, carrying a scorching airflow as it passed between Fulton's legs, carving a smoking hole in the floor between the cockpit and the rear compartment.

Then came two more "bangs," and the second bullet pierced the rear right window, leaving spiderweb-like cracks all over the entire window.

The third bullet entered through the tailgate, ricocheted twice against the interior wall of the carriage, and then pierced the windshield with a "pop." Fuldi felt a burning sensation in his right ear as the bullet grazed his temple, leaving a charred bullet hole in the rearview mirror.

"Fuck! These sons of bitches almost blew my head off!" Fuldi curled up, clutching his head. He smelled the burnt smell of his hair at his temples, and warm liquid was flowing down his earlobes.

Beta gripped the steering wheel tightly, glancing in the rearview mirror as the pursuers grew smaller and smaller, but bullets continued to fly erratically in the night.

He jerked the steering wheel, swerving the car erratically through the street to disrupt the enemy's aim. The car reeked of gunpowder mixed with the acrid smell of burning tires.

At the end of the road, a near-right-angle bend appeared. Beta stomped his right foot on the brake pedal, and the heavy van lurched under the force of inertia, the front suspension compressed to its limit, and the front of the van almost kissed the ground.

The car's center of gravity shifted forward. Beta pulled the handbrake with his right hand and turned the steering wheel all the way to the right with his left. The tires emitted a piercing screech, and blue smoke from the intense friction of the rubber gushed out from the wheel rims. The nearly three-ton vehicle slid to the side, the rear wheels leaving two charred tracks on the road.

With a creaking sound, the van swerved sideways and drifted around the corner.

As the car aligned itself again with the exit of the bend, Beta released the handbrake and floored the accelerator. The engine roared, leaving the pursuers and gunfire far behind in the night.

(End of this chapter)