American variety show: Sniper Elite

Chapter 147 New Seats Need to Be Struggled For

Just as Catalia set foot on Italian soil, Beta's phone started vibrating incessantly.

The words "Ashley" kept flashing on the screen, and Beta, who was usually calm, felt a cold sweat trickle down her back.

The moment the call connected, Ashley's voice pierced the eardrums: "I heard you sent a 'gift' to Italy?"

She bombarded him with a barrage of questions. Beta gripped his phone, knowing all too well the unspoken message: if he answered even half a word wrong, this woman would immediately book a flight to America and personally give him a good beating.

Ashley's roaring echoed in Beta's ears for a full thirty minutes, and his temples were still throbbing even after the call ended.

Before he could catch his breath, his phone vibrated again; this time it was Gianna.

“I’ve assigned Katarina to my side,” Jaina said calmly. “She’s quite skilled, so she’ll be in charge of my security.”

The crisp sound of a lighter came from the other end of the phone, and the voice continued, "She can stay in Italy, and I won't interfere with your relationship."

Just as Beta was about to breathe a sigh of relief, Jaina changed the subject: "But remember, this is the end. I won't allow it to go any further."

“Okay, I understand,” Beta replied.

Gianna paused for a moment on the other end of the phone: "There's one more thing that you must handle personally, my child."

"What is it?" Beta asked.

“We’ve secured seats on the High Table in the eastern United States,” Gianna said. “But Santino has sensed the danger. He’s sent his confidants to Montana to try and re-establish contact with High Table members in the United States to try and win a few more seats to counter us.”

Beta tapped his knuckles lightly on the table: "Specific arrangements?"

Jaina's voice came through the receiver: "Montana needs you to go there."

She paused, then said, "Make sure Santino's right-hand men disappear forever. Do whatever you want."

“Understood,” Beta replied briefly. After a short silence, he hesitated slightly before asking, “How is Ashley?”

Jaina chuckled knowingly from the other end of the phone: "Interesting. I thought you'd be more concerned about that little wildcat, Katalia, who just arrived here. I didn't expect this."

She deliberately dragged out her words: "The first person to ask was Ashley."

Beta leaned against the windowsill, watching the New York nightscape.

“Ashley and I…” He thought for a moment, “It was pure love.”

The neon lights outside the window cast shifting shadows on his profile. He paused for a few seconds before continuing, "And Katalia... is like encountering a wounded cheetah. Knowing the danger, you can't help but want to give her a place to shelter from the rain."

Gianna chuckled softly on the other end of the phone, the click of her lighter clearly audible: "Oh, my dear son, I never imagined you were a man who could so clearly distinguish between matters of the bedroom and emotions."

She exhaled a puff of smoke: "You've done everything you were supposed to do, and now you're spouting such nice-sounding but sarcastic remarks?"

Beta remained silent for a few seconds.

"Let's get down to business," he abruptly changed the subject.

Jaina chuckled and said, "That's all. Go and get some rest."

Her voice carried a hint of warning: "Remember, it's already lively enough with just one stray cat here. If you cramm any more kittens or puppies in, this isn't an animal shelter."
-
New York, FBI New York office building, 17th floor conference room. The tempered glass windows framed the Manhattan skyline, and the air conditioning inside was blasting. FBI agent Wilson, responsible for reception, closed his gold-embossed folder, his gaze sweeping over the eight British agents opposite him.

The team leader was Meva Lake, a woman in her early forties with blond hair. Beside her sat her deputy, and behind them were six special agents, all dressed in black suits, sitting upright with M16 badges pinned to their lapels.

"That's all the points to note." Wilson placed the folder on the conference table with a crisp sound. "As for your sidearms, we won't be checking them. After all, it's a contest of numbers."

He pointed out the window: "Any random person on this street might be carrying a weapon."

The British agents exchanged glances.

“But please remember,” Wilson said sternly, tapping his knuckles on the table, “this is America, not Buckingham Palace. You may carry your weapons, but only after they’ve been fired.”

He pushed a stack of blue forms over: "You have to fill out this 'Explanation of Reasons' form."

Medea Lake nodded slightly: "Please rest assured, we are not here to stage a Western on the streets of your country."

Wilson adjusted his glasses and nodded in response, "That's for the best."

He gestured for him to stay: "Team Leader Lake, could you please stay for a moment? Our director would like to speak with you privately."

He then turned to the other agents: "The rest of you can rest here for a while. There are staff on duty outside. Please feel free to ask for any food or drinks you need."

His gaze swept over everyone present: "Please refrain from moving around unnecessarily. After all, this is FBI headquarters, not MI6's office. Some classified information needs to be kept at a distance."

Medvedeva followed Wilson through the corridor to the door of the director's office.

Wilson knocked three times on the door, and after receiving permission, he pushed the door open and entered. Less than ten seconds later, he reappeared in the doorway, turning to the side and gesturing for him to enter.

When Medvedeva stepped into the office, she was greeted by the rich aroma of cigars and leather. It was a typical American bureaucratic office.

The left wall is lined with walnut filing cabinets, crammed with numbered file boxes, while the right floor-to-ceiling window offers a view of the Manhattan skyline.

Behind the desk sat the New York bureau chief, a man in a custom-made gray three-piece suit.

His graying sideburns were meticulously trimmed, and his sharp eyes scrutinized the visitors behind his frameless glasses. Despite being nearly sixty, his straight back and gaze still exuded authority.

"Please have a seat, Chief Rick." The director gestured to the black leather visitor chair in front of him, on which lay two open files and a half-glass of bourbon whiskey.

Medvedeva sat down, her black suit trousers making a slight rustling sound on the leather seat: "Thank you for your hospitality."

The director took a Locker from the liquor cabinet and filled it with amber-colored liquor.

“No need to thank me.” He pushed his glass toward Medea, the ice clinking together. “If you want to thank someone, thank your boyfriend in London.”

A meaningful smile appeared on his lips: "If it weren't for your supervisor boyfriend's special request, the only person you would be meeting today would be a manager of Wilson's level."

He swirled his glass, the sunlight streaming through the window reflecting off the whiskey: "You know, in the New York bureau, between the supervisor and the chief..."

The bottom of the glass gently tapped the mahogany tabletop: "There are more than three layers of security clearance."

(End of this chapter)