American variety show: Sniper Elite

Chapter 151 Someone is taking the blame for Beta
Manhattan, New York.

The autumn sun bathed the red carpet in front of the Presbyterian Hospital, giving this important moment a golden glow.

Months later, the veteran politician who had narrowly escaped death in the shooting, the elderly man with his signature bald head and still red nose, finally returned to the public eye as a victor.

Beta's bullet not only took away half of his ear, but also left a permanent mark on his left cheek.

After a series of precise and complex repair surgeries, he now wears a priceless bionic prosthetic on his left ear, and half of his face is still wrapped in medical bandages, but this does not diminish his innate arrogance when facing the camera.

The area in front of the hospital was already packed with enthusiastic supporters.

The crowd surged like a tide, flags bearing his campaign slogans fluttered in the wind, and the rising and falling waves of cheers threatened to overturn the entire Manhattan.

The old man stood on the makeshift stage, bathed in the flashing lights. His intact right ear listened to the thunderous cheers, while his missing left ear was perfectly hidden under an advanced bionic device.

"Why did they want to kill me?" the old man asked into the microphone, his hoarse voice trembling slightly with excitement: "Because I dared to reveal the truth!"

He pointed to his bandaged face, a gesture that immediately ignited another wave of frenzied cheers.

Countless cameras captured this heart-wrenching scene: the image of a tragic hero "fighting for truth" was sweeping across the entire North American continent through live broadcasts on major news channels.

In front of the floor-to-ceiling windows in the hospital corridor, the white-haired attending physician gazed at this scene and couldn't help but let out a heavy sigh.

Three months of round-the-clock care and countless meticulous surgeries ultimately resulted in nothing more than the grand opening of yet another carefully orchestrated political drama.

A few blocks away, on the top floor of an unassuming office building, Alexander Dugan, a man known in the intelligence community as "The Jackal," was lounging in front of the floor-to-ceiling window.

His index finger rested lightly on the trigger guard, his right eye was pressed against the scope, and his left eye was half-closed, observing the reading on the anemometer.

2852 m.

The red numbers flashing on the laser rangefinder were projected onto his gray-blue irises. This distance would be unimaginable for an ordinary person, but for a jackal, it was just another pleasant hunt.

"What a wonderful man," he muttered to himself, his voice so soft it was as if he were afraid of disturbing the old man gesticulating wildly in the scope.

Sunlight streamed through the half-open blinds, casting long shadows on the floor.

The anemometer needle in the left eye trembled slightly, and the jackal's breathing slowed accordingly.

His body became one with the teak floor beneath him, and even his heartbeat seemed to have temporarily stopped. At this distance, every slight change in the airflow could cause a bullet to miss its target, but the jackal reveled in the thrill of dancing on the edge of a knife.

As for how they were able to sneak into the core area of ​​the three-kilometer cordon without being detected despite such tight security?
The answer lay quietly in the inside pocket of the Jackal's suit—his FBI badge.

When the highest-ranking officer in the New York precinct personally opens a back door for you, all those so-called "impregnable fortresses" are nothing but a joke.

Downstairs, a black Chevrolet Suburban was parked quietly next to a fire hydrant, its engine idling, ready to help the jackals escape after completing their mission.

The blinds swayed gently in the breeze, making a soft rustling sound.

Through the scope, the old politician was still waving his arms frantically, completely unaware that death had already locked the crosshairs on his head.

The jackal's index finger slowly pulled the trigger. "Pfft!"

The gunshots were swallowed up by the silencer system, with only the crisp sound of spent cartridge cases hitting the ground echoing in the empty building.

1 second. 2 seconds. 3 seconds.
The bullet traveled a distance of 2852 meters.

4 seconds. 5 seconds.
Through the scope, a burst of crimson blood erupted from the old politician's head. His body tumbled to the side; this time, it wasn't his ears that mattered—the jackals wanted his life.

The jackal nimbly stood up, his fingers quickly disassembling the sniper rifle's silencer.

This was never his usual method, but in order to perfectly replicate the killer codenamed β and his signature style of operation, he strictly followed even the smallest details.

He bent down, pinched the still-warm bullet casing between his fingertips, and carefully put it into his pocket—another of β's signature habits.

The jackal took out a bottle of high-concentration hydrogen peroxide from his backpack. The transparent liquid poured down, first onto the gun barrel, making a slight hissing sound; then it spread on the ground, completely erasing his traces.

Every single detail is a replica of β's modus operandi.

The jackal calmly walked through the building's lobby. As he passed the security cameras, he deliberately slowed down and turned sideways past the gleaming stainless steel square trash can.

The mirror-like metal surface clearly reflected his profile, a scene that would undoubtedly be faithfully recorded by the surveillance system, leaving a "just right" clue for subsequent investigations.

He pushed open the heavy glass door, and the autumn sunlight poured in instantly. The jackal's figure flashed past the street corner and disappeared into the crowd.

The jackal silently turned into the alley on the right, where a black Chevrolet Suburban was waiting as promised next to the third fire hydrant.

The jackal scurried into the vehicle, and before the doors were even fully closed, the V8 engine roared to life. The tires scraped across the asphalt, leaving trails of blue smoke, and the SUV plunged into New York traffic.

In the rearview mirror, the outline of the building was shrinking.

The jackal removed his gloves, took the spent cartridge from his pocket, and gently toyed with it between his fingers. Sunlight streamed through the car window, casting dappled patterns on the brass cartridge.
-
Beta nestled in the leather sofa, her fingers lightly gripping a bone china teacup.

Matilda's freshly brewed Darjeeling tea exuded a subtle fruity aroma, its steam rising in wisps around the rim of the cup. Outside the floor-to-ceiling windows, the Los Angeles sunset bathed the entire living room in an amber hue.

Matilda placed a glass of chilled lemonade on the coffee table, fine droplets of water condensing on the glass. She nimbly jumped onto the sofa, naturally leaning against Beta, and sat down with her legs crossed.

She twirled the remote control between her fingers, and the TV screen lit up.

"Breaking news—" The female news anchor's voice broke the pleasant atmosphere in the living room.

The scene then cuts to the chaotic scene in front of New York-Presbyterian Hospital, with the flashing lights of sirens filling the frame.

"At 4:17 p.m. today, prominent politician Johnson was assassinated by a sniper during his discharge speech from the hospital and died on the spot." The camera panned across the pool of blood on the ground, which had not yet congealed: "The FBI's New York field office announced that it has identified the killer as an internationally wanted criminal, a professional assassin codenamed β."

"puff--"

Beta spat out the red tea he was drinking, which splashed onto the carpet.

(End of this chapter)