American variety show: Sniper Elite

Chapter 166 Everyone is a suspect

As the yacht slowly approached the shore, Blue's figure was already standing on the dock.

His towering two-meter-tall frame stood out from the crowd, and his futuristic attire drew even more attention. A custom-made all-black suit accentuated his almost exaggerated muscle definition, paired with gleaming pointed leather shoes and scarlet sunglasses.

Beta stepped down the gangway and got into the waiting bulletproof car. Blue walked to the car, his two-meter-tall frame casting a shadow by the window.

“Someone arranged for a sniper.” Beta rolled down the car window. “The body has been sent to the Continental Hotel. Name your price, and we’ll find out the whole story.”

Blue turned his head slightly, his gaze behind his sunglasses sweeping over the yacht in the distance: "Considering your status, Mr. Wick, 2000 million is a respectable figure. Anything less would probably damage your prestige."

Beta tapped the armrest lightly with his fingertips: "How long will it take?"

Blue pushed up his glasses: "That depends."

He paused for a moment: "Is it revenge from an enemy? Manipulation by a vested interest group? Or just a momentary lapse of judgment by some idiot?"

He leaned forward slightly: "At the fastest, a week; at the slowest, it might take three months."

Beta raised his hand to signal the driver to prepare to leave. Before the car window slowly rolled up, he left only one sentence: "The 2000 million will arrive in half an hour. Please do it as soon as possible."

Blue stood still, his gaze behind his sunglasses following the departing convoy. As the taillights of the last escort vehicle disappeared around the corner, he slowly turned, looking at the yacht, then at the direction it had come from, a direction for his investigation already in mind.
-
When Beta pushed open the oak door to Weston's office, the silver-haired old man was leisurely crossing his legs, the whiskey in his hand gleaming amber under the light.

On the curved television in the office, BBC News was broadcasting breaking news: "Breaking news: At 9:17 this morning, an empty double-decker bus was violently detonated in the middle of London Bridge. According to preliminary investigations by counter-terrorism departments, the attacker used military-grade plastic explosives."

The camera switches to an aerial view, showing thick smoke billowing from the middle of the bridge and the twisted bus frame burning.

"The incident resulted in the immediate death of the bus driver and injuries of varying degrees to 23 passengers in surrounding vehicles. As of now, seven people have tragically succumbed to their injuries."

Weston took a sip of whiskey, the ice balls clinking gently in his glass.

Without turning his head, he said, "Scotland Yard Chief Superintendent Doyle just held a press conference to announce his resignation. It seems our friend Charles will soon be getting engaged."

Weston didn't hear Beta's response. He turned his head and met Beta's expressionless face.

"What happened?" Weston put down his crystal glass, the amber liquid swirling inside.

Beta looked at the television screen: "A sniper shot at me today. Do you know who ordered it?"

Those icy blue eyes turned to Weston, and the old man felt a chill run down his spine. There was no anger, no suspicion in those eyes, only the calm of a apex predator locking onto its prey.

Just like a lion casually spotting a hare on the savanna, its life or death is entirely in the lion's hands.

Weston opened his mouth: "I think I should have someone investigate." Beta pursed his lips, slowly walked up to Weston, and when they were only half a step apart, he tilted his head slightly and uttered a meaningful "Oh?"

Beta picked up the ice fork from the champagne bucket and rhythmically tapped the ice with the metal tip, making a crisp "ding, ding" sound.

Fine beads of sweat appeared on Weston's forehead. Between the clinking of the ice fork and the ice cubes, his predatory eyes never left his face, measuring the flaws in his every micro-expression.

"Ding—" Another long, metallic tremor rang out.

Beta stopped moving, the ice fork hovering in mid-air. Silence was more oppressive than any threat, because in this stillness, the guilty could only hear their own increasingly uncontrollable heartbeat.

Beta slammed his wrist down, and with a "crack," he plunged the ice fork into the ice bucket. The ice shattered under the impact of the metal.

“You are a true professional, Weston.” Beta’s voice softened. “Being able to run this hotel proves your extraordinary nature. You are an artist of the underworld, a Leonardo da Vinci who paints with rules and blood.”

He slowly withdrew his hand, water droplets dripping from the tip of the ice fork spreading dark stains on the carpet: "So, please cherish your art."

Beta turned and walked towards the door, grasped the doorknob and looked back: "And this masterpiece built from countless corpses."

“Give me a meeting room. I want to solve this problem myself. As for that bastard who dared to shoot me, I’ll find him and slice him up piece by piece, like cutting a sausage.” Beta gently placed the ice fork on the silver tray behind the door, the metal and crystal making a crisp, resonant sound as they collided.

Weston stood alone in the center of the office, realizing one fact: Saul was no longer the lone assassin he once was. Standing before him now was the heir to the Antonio family, a prince who controlled a vast underworld empire.

The old man slowly removed his glasses and wiped the lenses with a silk handkerchief. This meant that this incident would not end as hastily as assassinations common in the underworld.

Whoever orchestrated the assassination will face a bloody reckoning. The hunt will never end until the Antonio family uncovers the true culprit.

The television news continued to broadcast:

Following the resignation of Scotland Yard Chief Superintendent Doyle, Downing Street sources revealed that the selection of the new chief superintendent may break with traditional selection methods. According to unnamed senior government officials, the pool of candidates will be expanded to include senior officers from the military, cross-regional police forces, and even elite personnel from MI5 or MI6 are not ruled out.

The scene shifts to a press conference in front of the Parliament building, where the spokesperson is surrounded by flashing lights: "This personnel reshuffle will ensure that the law enforcement system is equipped with a fresh approach to the current counterterrorism situation."

Weston glanced at the news screen. Charl Brooks, head of MI6's Special Operations Division, was standing in the corner of the frame. His dark gray suit blended almost seamlessly into the pillars of the press room, but Weston recognized the Spectre member at a glance.

Normally, Scotland Yard would be fully responsible for such domestic terrorist attacks, so the presence of the military intelligence system seems particularly abrupt, unless they already knew that the bombing would involve some "international factors".

Weston's gaze shifted between the office door and the television screen, his gray eyebrows gradually furrowing. His fingers traced the rim of his crystal glass, and droplets of water condensed on the glass rolled down his fingerprints.

In the news footage, Charles is seen taking the microphone and speaking: "Regarding this public safety incident..."

(End of this chapter)