American variety show: Sniper Elite

Chapter 168 Chief Inspector Doyle's Farewell
The London sky is always overcast, pouring water endlessly down its face.

The rain today was exceptionally heavy, with torrential downpours flowing freely through the streets, as if to submerge the entire city.

Looking haggard, Doyle slowly brought the car to a stop, turned off the engine, and sat in the driver's seat for a while, lost in thought. The sound of raindrops hitting the roof was like tiny drumbeats, making his temples throb.

Finally, he pushed open the car door, and rainwater immediately soaked his suit. He strode to the small side door of the house, and the hinges creaked loudly as he pulled it open.

"pat".

He pressed the light switch, the light flickered twice, made a buzzing sound of poor contact, and then went dark again.

"Damn it!" Doyle cursed under his breath, throwing the car keys heavily into a glass bowl on the entryway cabinet. The clanging of metal was particularly jarring in the empty house.

He wiped the rain off his face and called out into the dark stairwell, "Mary! Didn't you know the power's out?" His voice echoed in the silent house, but there was no response.

Doyle pulled out his phone, the flashlight beam piercing the darkness. He carefully climbed the stairs, the wooden steps creaking under his feet. This house was one he had bought for his mistress, Mary; it wasn't his home.

Doyle is already overwhelmed with problems due to the recent terrorist attack. To make matters worse, the leak of the classified list has made him a target of public criticism.

Faced with a complex political vortex, this once spirited politician ultimately chose to resign, a decision that came hastily and reluctantly.

Doyle climbed the creaking stairs to the second floor and stopped. A sliver of light shone through the crack in the door to the study at the end of the corridor. He frowned, the beam of light from his phone flickering on the wallpaper.

This is so strange. The power is completely off on the first floor, so why is the light on only in the study?
"What the hell are you doing?" Doyle muttered in a low voice, his leather shoes leaving water marks on the carpet.

He rudely pushed open the study door, the door slamming heavily against the wall with a dull thud. He assumed it was Mary, that brainless woman, preparing some silly romantic surprise again; she always loved these pointless tricks like candles and roses, like scenes from cheap romantic movies.

The expected scent of roses didn't greet him; Mary wasn't there. Instead, there was his old acquaintance, Meva Lake, and two strange men.

Two burly men in civilian clothes were casually scattered throughout the study. One was flipping through his documents; the other stood by the window, raindrops dripping from his waterproof coat onto the carpet. Their taut shoulders and slightly forward-leaning posture revealed their true identities—well-trained professional soldiers.

Doyle's heart sank to the bottom. He instinctively turned to run away, but was restrained by two burly men who emerged from behind the door.

Their hands gripped his upper arms, and Doyle's legs kicked in vain as he watched helplessly as he was lifted up.

They carried Doyle to the center of the study like an animal. A gallows knot made of climbing rope hung from the brass base of the chandelier on the ceiling.

Doyle's Oxford shoes left messy marks on the carpet, and in the struggle, the shoes flew off and knocked over a celadon vase, shards of porcelain flying onto Medea Lake's shoes.

A knotted rope had appeared on the brass chandelier's stand on the ceiling, seemingly out of nowhere. Doyle twisted his body wildly, his suit collar ripping as he struggled, revealing a sweat-soaked shirt underneath.

But the two men worked together seamlessly; one raised his knee to press against his lower back, while the other grabbed his hair and forced him to look up.

As the noose slid across his Adam's apple, Doyle convulsed violently, letting out a desperate whimper, much like a wild beast trapped in a snare.

Medvedeva Reck slowly rose to her feet, drawing Doyle's standard sidearm from his waist. The metal holster scraped against the belt buckle with a hissing sound.

She handed the still-warm gun handle to the man beside her: "Former Superintendent Doyle, he killed his mistress and then committed suicide out of shame. Maybe he was under too much pressure lately?"

The man silently took the gun and walked to the next bedroom. Three seconds later, a loud bang shook the windowpane. The man returned to the study, skillfully wiped the fingerprints off the gun, pried open Doyle's stiff fingers, inserted the gun, squeezed it firmly twice, and then let the weapon clatter onto the solid wood floor.

With the rope around his neck, Doyle desperately lowered his head, his bloodshot eyes struggling to focus.

He saw Meva Lake's new hairstyle; her once iconic golden-brown ponytail had been replaced with short hair, and there was a purplish-black bruise at the corner of her right eye. Beneath her swollen eyelids, those familiar eyes held only coldness.

Doyle's Adam's apple bobbed laboriously beneath the noose, and fine beads of sweat glistened on his bulging neck. His hoarse voice, as if squeezed from a broken bellows, asked, "Why?"

"Because you leaked the list, the higher-ups are going to make you pay."

"I asked," Doyle coughed violently, "not that."

His bloodshot eyes stared at Medvedeva: "I'm asking you."

The rope creaked as he struggled: "Why...why are you doing this?"

Medvedeva was taken aback.

She slowly lowered her head, and when she looked up again, she deliberately exposed her face completely to the overhead light. Not only were there bruises at the corners of her eyes, but there was also a band-aid on her forehead, and a scabbed wound at the corner of her mouth that extended all the way to her jaw.

"I had no choice."

Medvedeva's voice was very soft.

Doyle grinned, forcing a twisted smile from his bleeding lips: "Yes."

Medvedeva kicked the chair violently.

The oak chair fell onto the carpet, and at the same time, the two burly men let go.

Doyle's body plummeted, the ropes taut and creaking. His toes traced futile arcs in the air, the fabric of his trousers rustling softly. The knot around his throat tightened, suffocating his last breath in his congested trachea.

Medvedeva turned and left.

She pulled open the car door forcefully, raindrops dripping from her short hair onto the seat. As the door closed, she slumped down as if all her strength had been drained, covering her face with her hands, hot tears seeping through her fingers.

Four strong men swiftly and efficiently handled the situation.

One of them used chemical spray to remove fingerprints, while the other gathered up the furniture that Doyle had kicked over during his struggle. They silently and professionally cleaned up the scene and filed out through the back door, where the rain immediately washed away the traces they had left on the steps.

As the last burly man climbed into the carriage, the wailing of police sirens could be heard in the distance.

Gunshots always sound particularly jarring in the rainy London night, and Scotland Yard reacted much faster than usual. The deep roar of the engine was drowned out by the rain as the black Land Rover slowly drove away from the scene. As it brushed past a police car with flashing lights, the rain streaks on the window refracted the red and blue lights into blurry spots.

Medvedeva curled up in the back seat, biting the back of her hand to stop herself from crying out loud.

(End of this chapter)