American variety show: Sniper Elite

Chapter 33 Prepare for Action
The Queen.

As dusk settled, a black Chevrolet Malibu rolled over the potholed concrete road, its headlights piercing the underpass. The tires splashed muddy water as they churned through the cracked asphalt, finally coming to a stop before a rusty iron fence.

The car window slowly rolled down, revealing a rugged face with dark brown skin, a thick beard beneath a hooked nose, and cold, stern eyes. Beta looked up and scanned the scene ahead: the paint was peeling off the dilapidated exterior of the repair shop, the corrugated iron roof trembled slightly in the wind, and the only striking feature was the red-glowing camera above the door frame, silently watching him.

He honked the horn briefly—"Beep!"

After a few seconds of silence, the iron fence screeched as it slowly moved aside. Beta stepped on the gas, the car speeding through the overgrown clearing and heading straight for the factory. As the roller shutter creaked open, dim light seeped in from inside.

The tires rolled over the oil-stained cement floor, and the Chevrolet finally came to a stop in the center of the factory. After the engine was turned off, only the hum of the old-fashioned exhaust fan and the faint clanging of metal in the distance remained.

Beta tucked the Glock pistol into his waistband, opened the car door, and stepped into the dimly lit factory.

A heavy plastic curtain came into view, its once transparent fabric now mottled and blurred by years of grease stains. From behind the curtain came the piercing whistle of an angle grinder, and the blue-white arc of light from a welding torch cast swaying silhouettes on the plastic sheet, with several figures vaguely visible moving through the swirling smoke.

He lifted the sticky plastic curtain, and a wave of sweltering heat, carrying the smell of engine oil, rushed towards him.

This is an underground auto repair shop that operates on the fringes of the law, where stolen cars, smuggled vehicles, and all sorts of shady vehicles are given a makeover.

A sports car with its chassis number removed sits on a lift, license plates from various states are stacked in the corner, and a spray gun is applying a fresh coat of paint to a van. Whether it's the escape vehicle of an outlaw, the modification needs of underground racers, or even the "customized services" of certain special individuals, everything can be satisfied here.

The technicians, dressed in overalls, were busy at work, with occasional wary glances flashing between them amidst the sparks from their welding torches.

Charlie, the owner of the auto repair shop, a Mexican-American man, was leaning against the hood of his old Lincoln Continental.

He cleverly transformed the hood of this vintage car into a bar, displaying half-empty tequila bottles, empty whiskey bottles, and a set of gleaming crystal glasses. A small refrigerator next to it hummed and was crammed with chilled beer and ice.

This simple yet practical "office" allowed him to have a panoramic view of the entire factory and to receive visitors at any time.

When Beta lifted the greasy plastic curtain and walked in, Charlie was slowly squeezing a lemon into a wine glass with his rough fingers.

He looked up at the visitor and asked in heavily accented Mexican Spanish, "Qué se te ofrece?" (What brings you here?)
Beta sat down opposite Charlie and raised her hand to block the wine glass that Charlie was pushing towards her.

Beta lowered his voice and got straight to the point: "Someone in Paris wants a sniper rifle, and I've taken the order, but I don't have any connections in Europe. Same old deal, I'll use you as an intermediary. Name your price."

Charlie put down his glass: "Goran Mingo, are you kidding me? It's not like Paris doesn't have Continental Hotels. If you want any weapons, just order them there, right?"

Beta replied, "The client had special requirements. Once I received the money, I had to complete the order, without asking why."

Charlie asked thoughtfully, "If I take your money, can I arrange for someone to buy one directly at the Continental Hotel in Paris and then give it to your client? Would that work?"

Beta shook his head slightly: "Let me correct you. If you take this order, then you'll be our client."

He paused, then continued, "You arrange for someone to get a sniper rifle from a hotel on the mainland and deliver it to the client. We'll split the profits 4/6, you get 6%, I get 4%, how about that?"

Charlie smiled and nodded, saying, "Deal."

Beta didn't care about the specific source of the sniper rifle; he only needed to ensure that the source of the gun was convoluted enough to make it difficult for the Paris police to investigate.

Beta stood up and listed the requirements: "The client wants a CheyTac M200, equipped with .408 ammunition. The gun must be in good condition, and it must have at least 14 rounds of ammunition."

Charlie spread his hands: "What does he need a 10.36 caliber sniper rifle for? To shoot down armored vehicles?"

Beta shook his head: “I don’t care about the purpose. We just need to provide the equipment that meets the requirements and then collect the money.” Charlie nodded: “That’s right. Even if he wants to masturbate, it’s none of our business.”

He paused. "When do you need it?"

Beta asked briefly, "When can you arrive at the earliest?"

Charlie had already pulled out his phone: "I can arrange it right now."

Before quickly dialing, he asked, "Delivery location?"

Beta thought for a moment: "Have your people hold onto it first. The client will contact you, and your people will handle the handover. Payment and goods will be settled."

Charlie nodded in satisfaction: "A very reasonable process."

His thumb hovered over the dial pad: "I'll contact the people in Paris right now to make the purchases at the mainland hotel."

Charlie held the phone to his ear, waiting for the call to connect, before giving the order in Spanish: "Go to the Continental Hotel and get a CheyTac M200 in good condition, with 14 rounds of .408 ammunition."

Beta stood still, his gaze sweeping over the noisy factory.

This is a car conversion assembly line, with dozens of cars, most of them with their roofs cut off. Welders are bent over, sparks flying as they weld the convertible frame to the body. Next to several vehicles that have finished welding, workers are installing curved windshields.

At the other end of the factory, a cutting machine was making a piercing noise, neatly cutting off the roof of yet another car. The finished vehicles were quickly wrapped in thick protective film and skillfully transported by forklift operators onto wooden pallets, awaiting shipment.

The entire factory was filled with the smell of burning metal and machine oil.

Charlie hung up the phone and tossed it casually onto the hood bar: "Once the client arrives in Paris, I'll arrange for someone to complete the handover."

Beta nodded slightly: "Understood."

He paused, then added, "Also, get me a different car instead of the Chevrolet I drove here."

Charlie picked up his glass, took a sip, and casually waved his hand: "Pick whatever you like, whichever one you fancy."

"A short-wheelbase BMW M3," Beta casually named a car model.

Charlie turned to the worker beside him and shouted, "Go get a short-wheelbase M3 and replace that Chevrolet in the factory."

“Not now,” Beta suddenly interrupted.

Charlie raised an eyebrow: "What do you mean?"

Beta explained, "The exchange took place in Paris, in the parking lot of Charles de Gaulle Airport."

Beta needs to make some preparations in advance for the operation in Paris.

Charlie smiled knowingly: "Sure, just remember to pay the difference."

(End of this chapter)