American variety show: Sniper Elite

Chapter 174 A Live Action Blockbuster

Beta picked up his coffee cup, took a sip, and his face instantly scrunched up.

With a "pfft," all the coffee sprayed out.

The taste is almost like concentrated bile, bitter with a strange sourness.

"Damn it." He spat several times, grabbed the whiskey on the table, and took a big gulp, the liquor barely easing the bitter taste on his tongue.

Katalia, holding her coffee cup, laughed so hard she almost fell over, her black silk shirt trembling slightly with her laughter. She deliberately raised her cup to Beta in a toast, her expression full of smug satisfaction at having pulled off a prank.

Ashley watched the farce in astonishment, hesitatingly sipping her coffee. It was smooth and aromatic, a perfectly normal Americano. She had been certain that Katalia would use this opportunity to play a trick on her, given their long-standing rivalry over Beta.

Ashley, however, looked at the specially prepared "special drink" and Catalia's triumphant smile, realizing she might have misunderstood this woman.

Just as Beta was about to speak, the screech of tires came from outside the window, and the screech of brakes indicated that it was not a single car.

He immediately turned and walked towards the floor-to-ceiling window.

Like a cat, Katalia quickly reached the window and naturally leaned her back against Beta's chest. She leisurely held her coffee cup, sipping it and watching the street scene below.

Ashley walked to the window and gently placed her hand on Beta's arm.

The three of them looked down at the street through the glass.

A black Dodge Charger crashed into the street, its front bumper missing, and the sides of the vehicle covered in dents and scratches, clearly indicating a severe impact. Although the windshield was riddled with spiderweb-like cracks, it remained structurally intact, suggesting that the vehicle had undergone bulletproof modifications.

With a screeching sound of tires, the warhorse attempted to drift into the street through a sharp turn, but lost control and crashed into a parked car.

The loud bang shook the awning of the street-side cafe. But it immediately shifted into reverse, tearing metal as it forcefully broke free from the hood of the vehicle it had hit, leaving behind glittering shards of glass scattered on the ground.

The black SUV swerved to accelerate, when a Chevrolet Malibu suddenly appeared from behind. With a loud bang of metal tearing apart, the Malibu's deformed front end slammed into the wrecked rear end of the SUV.

The damaged chariot's rear end swayed violently, but the driver kept his foot firmly on the accelerator. The rear-wheel-drive, high-horsepower sedan teetered on the edge of excess power and loss of control, twisting less than ten meters to the left and right before crashing headfirst into the side door of a parked car with a loud bang.

The Malibu's engine roared. The tires scraped against the asphalt, leaving two trails of blue smoke, and with a piercing scream, it slammed into the side of the horse again with a loud thud.

The enormous impact sent the warhorse spinning 90 degrees on the spot, its shattered parts scattering like fireworks.

The black Dodge Strike stalled completely from the impact and lay slumped in the middle of the street.

Just then, a Ford F150 pickup truck roared out from the other end of the street, accelerating like a raging bull until it was almost upon a warhorse in the middle of the road before slamming on the brakes.

The tires screeched violently against the ground, but the immense inertia still caused the pickup truck to crash into the other side of the warhorse.

The deafening metallic clang of the impact was deafening. The warhorse's body was completely twisted and deformed under the attack from both sides, and the windows shattered but remained stuck together.

A few seconds later, the Ford pickup truck's door suddenly opened.

A man wearing a black mask and completely covered up jumped off the vehicle, nimbly leaping onto the roof of the war wagon with an AR-15 rifle in hand, the muzzle pointed directly into the vehicle.

At the same time, another man dressed similarly stepped out of the Malibu's driver's seat, holding a Remington M870 shotgun.

"F!" he hissed. "Switch to shotguns! Rifle bullets ricochet!"

Beta froze; the voice sounded so much like McCree's. And that code name "F"—Foldy's name started with F, and Fulton's with T. McCree did indeed often call them that.

The man on the roof caught the shotgun thrown to him by his companion. He cocked it with a "click" and fired three shots at the cracked laminated bulletproof glass. The loud bangs triggered the sirens of cars parked along the street.

The shotgun was clearly using armor-piercing slugs; three shots tore a hole in the bulletproof glass.

Just then, gunfire erupted from inside the carriage. Pistol bullets shot out from the holes, but the two men outside had anticipated this and quickly ducked behind the hood.

The ricocheting bullets left blinding sparks on the asphalt road.

The entire street was deserted; the moment the two armed men appeared, all the pedestrians had scattered in panic. The faint sound of police sirens could be heard in the distance, seemingly a block or two away.

Taking advantage of a lull in the gunfire, the man with the rifle quickly leaped from behind cover.

He pressed the AR-15 rifle against the broken glass and pulled the trigger, unleashing a burst of fire. The rapid-fire echoed through the ravaged street, and scorching spent cartridge cases rained down on the asphalt.

There was complete silence inside the car.

The man with the shotgun leaped onto the roof of the car. Through the shattered windows, he could see the driver riddled with bullet holes. But he calmly cocked the gun and aimed it at the head.

"boom!"

The power of the No. 12 slug is far beyond what a human skull can withstand.

Beta clearly saw the blood spurt out instantly, staining all the cracked glass on the chariot red like ink.

The two attackers calmly jumped out of the car.

Amid the ever-increasing sirens, Beta could vaguely make the distinctive "beep-beep" sound of a helicopter rotor.

As expected, a Bell 407 helicopter roared in from between the buildings a few seconds later. It drifted to slow down, hovered over the street, and then quickly landed on the road surface littered with car parts.

Two armed men leaped into the cabin. The helicopter's rotors spun rapidly, and amidst a deafening roar, it rose vertically, speeding away over the building before the first police car could appear at the street corner.

“What the fuck?” Beta couldn’t help but curse.

This is a complete copy of his tactics, and these guys have used it to this extent.

He was now 100% certain that the one driving the Chevrolet was McCree, the one driving the pickup truck was Fuldy, and the pilot was definitely Fulton. He just couldn't understand why they had abandoned their signature heavy-duty trucks and garbage trucks in favor of two civilian vehicles.

Katalia leaned against the window, tapping her fingertips lightly on the glass: "It's definitely the three of them, isn't it?"

Beta loosened his tie: "It's definitely them."

He pointed to the chaotic street outside the window: "But was it necessary to make such a big fuss? To carry out a decapitation operation in front of the Continental Hotel, isn't that obviously telling all of New York that I ordered it?"

He turned to the two women and spread his hands: "Only Colombian drug lords like to put on these bloody shows. Do I look like the kind of thug who likes to show off?"

Ashley took a sip of her coffee: "Isn't it good that the goal was achieved? I must say, that performance was quite spectacular. Tsk!"

Beta twisted her stiff neck and laughed.

He turned and slammed his hand on the floor-to-ceiling window, making the bulletproof glass vibrate: "Give those three lunatics more money! Another 50,000 each!"

His eyes gleamed with excitement: "Damn, I really love these bastards!"

(End of this chapter)