American variety show: Sniper Elite

Chapter 154 Even Sniper Spots Can Become Tourist Attractions
In the arrival hall of New York's JFK Airport, Fulton was pushing his luggage cart like a wild horse.

The mute woman sat leisurely on a mountain of luggage, her platinum blonde short hair flying in the wind, holding a Starbucks cup in her hand, the straw flattened from being bitten.

The wheels of the luggage cart screeched on the smooth marble floor, causing passengers along the way to scramble out of the way in alarm.

"Make way! Make way! Accessible lane for disabled people!" Fulton yelled at the top of his lungs. In reality, the only "disabled" person on the luggage cart was probably his brain, which had been ruined by whiskey.

Twenty meters away, Fuldi and McCree kept their distance, pretending not to recognize the two lunatics in front of them. Fuldi was looking down at his phone, his baseball cap pulled low; McCree, on the other hand, had an unlit cigarette dangling from his lips, his eyes behind his sunglasses scanning the surroundings warily.

At the back of the group, Sterling leisurely drove his electric wheelchair, a disguise he had specially prepared for this operation.

In an open-air parking lot outside New York airport, an inconspicuous Ford Transit van sits quietly in a corner.

Beta, disguised, sat in the driver's seat. The idling engine hummed as the air conditioning compressor circulated cool air inside the car, keeping the summer heat at bay.

A commotion arose in the distance.

Fulton pushed his luggage cart into the parking lot, the rubber tires screeching against the asphalt. The mute remained unmoved atop the pile of luggage, even having the leisure to tidy his platinum blonde hair.

“Mr. Hat! Oh la la!” Fulton’s booming voice echoed through the empty parking lot.

He braked the luggage cart and pounded on the side door of the van with his oil-covered hands, so hard that the whole vehicle shook.

The car window slowly rolled down, revealing Beta's disguised face. Dark contact lenses altered his eye color, silicone nose pads reshaped his nose, and even his signature thin lips were thickened with special effects makeup.

Fulton burst into a deafening laugh, his dirty vest shaking with his exaggerated movements: "Hahaha! Old buddy, we meet again!" He opened his arms as if to hug him, but Beta subtly avoided him.

Beta opened the side door of the van, his voice tinged with a hint of mockery: "I didn't expect you all to come, even the mute."

His gaze swept over the mute man's delicate face: "The little budget I paid probably isn't even enough to buy you a cup of coffee."

The mute man lightly leaped off the luggage cart: "Don't get me wrong, this is just our team building activity. We're here in New York for a vacation and to earn some pocket money on the side."

At that moment, Fuldi and McCree also strolled leisurely into the parking lot.

Fuldy held a half-finished Frappuccino in his hand; McCree, as always, had a cigarette dangling from his lips. The two stood behind the mute man in perfect unison, like a pair of bodyguards.

A few minutes later, the faint hum of an electric wheelchair could be heard at the parking lot entrance. Sterling slowly drove his "transportation vehicle" over.

Beta extended his hand: "Welcome to New York."

Sterling stood up from his wheelchair and shook Beta's hand: "I'm here even if you're not welcome."
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Temporary base.

Beta pulled out a photograph, flicked the edge of the paper with her fingertip, and slid it onto the table in front of Sterling.

Sterling pushed up his glasses and picked up the photo to examine it closely.

In the photo, Stansfield is wearing a DEA uniform; his aquiline nose and thin lips exude a cold aura. Sterling's fingertips lingered on the photo for a moment before he turned and began typing rapidly on his laptop.

The keyboard clicked rapidly, and data streamed across the screen.

In less than three minutes, Sterling found all the information: "DEA narcotics officers, outwardly respectable."

He turned the screen to show a series of bank statements: "But these huge sums of money from unknown sources are not exactly respectable." On the screen were dozens of transfers from different offshore accounts over the past five years, totaling more than 20 million US dollars.

Sterling swiped the touchpad to bring up a satellite image: "What's even more interesting is that he also has an eight-million-dollar villa in the Bahamas, registered in his niece's name."

Fulton slammed his hand on the table, making the coffee cups jump: "Who cares if it's the DEA or the FBI!"

He grinned, revealing a toothless smile: "Since Mr. Hat is paying, let's send him to meet God!"

McCree raised his hand: "Yes."

The mute man spoke up: "Before we take action, shouldn't we make a pilgrimage to the Freedom Building?"

"That colleague who was shot dead set a world sniper record of 5687 meters there." The mute man's pupils gleamed with excitement: "Shooting off the target's ear with one shot—isn't that an artistic feat worth going to the scene to learn from?"

Beta chuckled softly. He hadn't expected that place to become a pilgrimage site for his peers. Although the title had been bestowed upon others, it didn't matter; Beta's identity had now been cleared.

Sterling pushed up his slipped glasses, his gaze behind the lenses turning to Beta with a hint of expectation: "Mr. Hat, what do you think?"

Beta made a "please" gesture: "Go ahead. I know that place very well, after all, I've been there many times."

These words made the mute man raise his eyebrows slightly.

The group filed onto the van.

Fulton excitedly grabbed the front passenger seat, adjusted it all the way back, and propped his dirty Doc Martens on the dashboard; McCree and Fowdy opted for seats in the back corner; the mute leaped into the middle of the cabin. Sterling was the last to board, not forgetting to fold up his "wheelchair" and stuff it into the cabin.

Amid the roar of the engine, Beta glanced at the group of strange "tourists" through the rearview mirror, a fleeting, unreadable emotion flashing in his eyes.

The van drove out of the parking lot and headed toward the now-legendary Freedom Tower.

Fulton clicked his tongue, his missing front tooth making his pronunciation slightly lisping: "I've never submitted to anyone in my life, but that β..."

He slapped his thigh: "Shoot down an ear from 5000 meters away? That's fucking insane!"

Foldi leaned out from the back row: "This record could go into the Guinness World Records."

Sterling adjusted his glasses: "It's not just about marksmanship. Wind speed, humidity, Coriolis effect, not to mention the need for a specialized sniper rifle. This level of shooting requires both luck and skill."

The carriage fell silent, with only the hum of the engine and the sound of the wind whistling past the window.

The mute man leaned against the window, his platinum blonde hair blowing in the wind.

The mute man suddenly asked, "Is Beta really dead?"

Beta's gaze met the mute's in the rearview mirror: "Of course, he's dead."

The mute turned his head and continued to look out the window at the rapidly receding street scene, his platinum blonde hair dancing in the wind.

(End of this chapter)