American variety show: Sniper Elite

Chapter 156 Drug Overdose
Stansfield struggled to open his eyes amidst the tinnitus.

The first thing I felt was a burning pain in the back of my neck, as if someone had driven a red-hot nail into my spinal cord.

His vision blurred for a few seconds before gradually focusing. What came into view was a pitch-black space, with only an industrial spotlight shining directly down on his face from above.

The blinding white light forced him to squint.

He instinctively tried to raise his hand to shield himself, only to find his wrists handcuffed to the iron chair. As he gradually regained consciousness, Stansfield smelled the pungent odor of engine oil and rust mixed in the air, along with the fishy smell of the evaporating rainwater on his body.

In the shadows surrounding the spotlight, the outlines of rusty steel frames and stacked wooden crates could be vaguely seen.

The sound of water droplets striking metal echoed from afar, creating an eerie sound in the empty factory.

Stansfield tried to move his feet, but heard a screeching sound as the chains dragged on the ground; his ankles were also firmly locked.

"woke up?"

A voice came from the depths of darkness.

As the sound of leather shoes tapping on the concrete floor rang out, the bald "police officer" strode into the circle of light, tossing in his hand the cash package that Stansfield had thrown into the trash can.

Stansfield struggled to lift his head: "Who are you?!"

“Money…” Fulton took a deep sniff of the banknotes, his missing-toothed grin appearing particularly menacing under the spotlight: “What a captivating fragrance!”

He examined the package as if it were a work of art, then suddenly slapped Stansfield across the face.

"Snapped!"

The edge of the paper package scraped hard across the bridge of his nose, and Stansfield's vision was instantly filled with a burst of stars.

He tasted the blood between his teeth, and his eardrums throbbed with pain from Fulton's sudden roar: "Who gave you permission to ask a question?! You son of a bitch!"

Fulton's spittle sprayed all over Stansfield's face, and the stench of rotten whiskey hit him hard.

He grabbed Stansfield by the hair and forced him to look up and stare directly at the spotlight: "Now, we'll ask questions, and you answer."

Fulton suddenly paused, tilting his head towards the darkness: "Damn, what was the first question again?" He scratched his bald head.

Sterling's voice came from the shadows: "Ask him how many innocent people he has killed."

“Oh right!” Fulton whirled around, his face contorted with madness. “How many innocent people have you fucking killed?!” His spittle landed on Stansfield’s blood-soaked face.

Stansfield spat out a mouthful of blood: "I'm a DEA agent."

He grinned, revealing his blood-stained lips: "I only killed drug dealers."

Fulton swung the bag of cash and smacked Stansfield on the other cheek with the motion of a baseball home run.

The sharp edges of the banknote tore through the flesh, and blood immediately soaked through the newspaper that was wrapped around it.

“Bullshit!” Fulton roared, “You scum in uniform!”

He grabbed Stansfield by the tie, pulling the man's face into the spotlight: "Using your position to resell chemicals is one thing, but you even dared to kill someone to cover it up?!"

Stansfield gritted his teeth and forced out a hoarse denial: "I didn't!"

Fulton grinned maniacally, weighed the blood-soaked cash in his hand, and swung his arm around.

"Snapped!"

The hard, dry cash package slammed heavily against Stansfield's groin with a dull thud.

"Aaaaah!" Stansfield screamed in agony as he arched his back like a boiled shrimp, but was firmly handcuffed to the iron chair. Cold sweat mixed with blood rolled down his forehead and dripped onto his violently trembling thighs.

Gasps of surprise rose and fell from the darkness.

Fuldy instinctively squeezed his legs together, his voice trembling: "Damn, it looks so painful!" McCree silently rubbed his temples; Sterling's glasses reflected the light; even the mute raised an eyebrow.

Only Fulton was still excitedly waving the "murder weapon," like a mental patient who had just discovered a new toy.

Fulton's roar echoed through the empty factory as he grabbed Stansfield by the hair.

“Think of all the innocent people you’ve killed!” Fulton spat as he spoke: “The laundry worker, the driver, the nurse who was three months pregnant.”

With each name he mentioned, he slapped Stansfield's temple hard with a bundle of cash: "They just accidentally saw your deal!"

Stansfield's jaw trembled, and blood dripped from his nostrils onto his clothes.

Fulton loosened his grip on his hair, took two steps back, and opened his arms wide: "And you!"

His voice rose: "Wearing this dog skin, counting dirty money while stamping 'drug overdose' on the files of the dead!"

"Fuck!" Fulton roared, slamming the cash package against the corner of the wall, sending banknotes flying everywhere. "You like seeing people die from overdoses, don't you?"

His eyes were bloodshot, and his mouth twitched: "Fantastic! Absolutely fucking fantastic!"

He strode into the darkness outside the spotlight, where rustling sounds of rummaging could be heard.

“Where is it?” Fulton shouted.

"Here you go," the mute voice rang out.

Fulton, holding a whole box of pre-filled syringes, stepped back into the light, the plastic box clicking between his fingers.

"Don't you like 'overdosing' the most?" He disassembled a syringe with each word, the sound of the needle cap popping off was particularly crisp.

Fulton clutched the three vials of transparent liquid in his hand, leaning close to Stansfield's terrified, dilated pupils: "These three!"

The needle tip pressed against the vein in Stansfield's trembling thigh: "It's for those innocent people you've injected to death!"

"Pfft!" The needle pierced the skin.

Fulton applied pressure with his thumb, and the three vials of medication were injected in succession, forming a visible bulge under the skin from the clear liquid.

Stansfield's pupils constricted; he knew all too well what this dose meant: hypoglycemic shock, organ failure, and ultimately, suffocation in excruciating pain.

“Enjoy your ‘overdose,’ you bastard,” Fulton whispered in his ear, his voice as gentle as if he were lulling a child to sleep.

Fulton grabbed three more vials of medicine, bit down on the plastic protective caps, and yanked them off with a "pop."

“These three!” He pressed the needle against Stansfield’s other thigh, his voice trembling with excitement: “They’re for the innocent souls you caused to die because of your dereliction of duty!”

Stansfield struggled wildly with his handcuffed wrists, the metal handcuffs scraping against the iron chair with a screeching sound.

His pupils were dilated, and his lips trembled uncontrollably: "No waiting."

Fulton ignored him, inserted three needles into his skin, and pressed the plunger all the way down without hesitation.

The excessive amount of drug surged through his blood vessels, and Stansfield's breathing immediately became rapid and erratic, his chest heaving violently like a broken bellows.

"Whoa!" Fulton let out a beastly howl as he picked up the last three vials of medication.

“These three! They’re for Mr. Hat’s employer!” The needle was pressed against Stansfield’s carotid artery.

Fulton slammed his thumb on the lever, his face contorted with rage: "You bastard! You didn't even spare a two-year-old! The child was still in his crib when your employer's parents were burned alive!"

Three needles were simultaneously inserted into the jugular vein, and the transparent liquid was violently pushed into the blood vessel.

Stansfield's body began to convulse, foaming at the mouth, but Fulton held his head down until the last drop of medication was injected.

(End of this chapter)