American variety show: Sniper Elite

Chapter 36 Beverages
John Wick arrived sooner than Charlie had anticipated.

A black Cadillac Escalade drove into the factory, its tires making a slight screech as they rolled over the concrete.

The car door opened, and John Wick stepped out. He was wearing a simple white T-shirt, a suit jacket, dark jeans, and brown sneakers.

Charlie cleared his throat and stepped forward: "Hey John, I heard about Helen. It's a shame."

He paused, trying to ease the tension: "Your son's back recently? How's his business going?"

John didn't reply, but walked to Charlie's "office" and sat down in the slightly worn chair.

He picked up his wine glass from the table and asked, "Where's the car? Who did it?"

Charlie pursed his lips and sat down opposite John: "It's Vigo's son, Iosef."

He swallowed hard. "That kid drove up, and I told him it was your car. He was terrified and drove off. I don't know where he is now."

John's gaze darkened slightly, his voice low and clear: "Iosef? Vigo's son?"

Charlie nodded in confirmation: "Yes, Vigo's son, Iosev."

He picked up the bottle and poured the liquor into John's empty glass, the amber liquid swirling gently within. "What are you planning to do?"

John picked up his glass, took a sip, his Adam's apple bobbing, and then gently placed the glass on the hood of the Lincoln Continental, the metal and glass making a crisp sound.

"The wine is good," he said casually, then stood up to leave.

Charlie watched his retreating figure and couldn't help but ask, "How can I help?"

John opened the Cadillac's door, paused, and turned his head slightly. "Tell Vigo I was here."

As soon as he finished speaking, he got into the driver's seat and slammed the car door shut.

With a low growl, the massive black SUV slowly reversed out of the garage, its tires kicking up fine dust as they rolled across the ground. In the blink of an eye, the car disappeared into the night, leaving Charlie standing there, silently staring at the empty factory gate.

Charlie gripped the bottle, and after a long pause, he managed to squeeze out a "Fuck."

Silence fell over the factory, broken only by the occasional rustling of wind through the metal ceiling. Charlie's men closed the open factory doors and then silently dispersed, awaiting their boss's next instructions.

Charlie placed the bottle on the hood, took out his phone, quickly swiped his thumb across the screen, and dialed Vigo's number.

A few seconds later, the call connected, and Vigo's deep voice came through: "What is it?"

"John Wick came by."

"Hmm?" Vigo's response was devoid of emotion.

Charlie took a deep breath: "He knows who did it, and he knows who has the car. He came to me looking for the car, but Iosef has already driven it away. He asked me to tell you that he was here."

There was a two-second silence on the other end of the phone, then Vigo's voice remained steady: "Okay, I understand."

The call ended, and Charlie stared at the screen gradually dimming, a helpless smile creeping across his face. He shook his head, stuffed his phone back into his pocket, and glanced across the empty factory.

The bottle on the hood reflected the roof light, and condensation slowly slid down its surface. Charlie reached for the bottle, tilted his head back, and took a swig; the strong liquor burned his throat.

He knew a storm was coming.
-
A jet-black Audi A8 slowly pulled up in front of the Continental Hotel in New York, the tires making a slight screech on the pavement. The door opened, and Beta stepped out. He had completely transformed himself; his meticulously crafted disguise made him look like any wealthy businessman frequenting upscale establishments.

The parking attendant respectfully accepted the car keys he was handed over.

In everyone's mind, John's son was always the ordinary businessman who refused to follow in his father's footsteps as an assassin, choosing instead to run a high-end collectibles business in Europe. This carefully constructed identity was his most important camouflage—a respectable man with no connection to the underworld.

Aside from a very few people he could entrust his life to, no one else in the world knew his real name or background. Every time he appeared before outsiders, he had to ensure that this identity was unbreakable, as it was the foundation of his survival.

Beta walked into the lobby of the Continental Hotel, his shiny leather shoes making a steady sound on the marble floor.

The bald Black receptionist looked up, his gaze lingering briefly on the wealthy businessman who appeared to be in his early thirties, before a professional smile appeared on his face: "Welcome to New York Continental."

His words came to an abrupt halt as a gold coin appeared on the black marble countertop.

The receptionist looked up and re-examined the guest in front of her. He was dressed in an exquisite custom-made suit, had a meticulous hairstyle, and exuded the elegant temperament unique to high society in every gesture. There was absolutely no trace of the underworld.

"What can I do for you, sir?" The receptionist calmly put the gold coins into the counter.

Beta took out another gold coin and gently pushed it towards the front desk: "Arrange a car for me, and book a sommelier."

"It's a pleasure to serve you." The receptionist bowed slightly.

The elevator descended smoothly to the basement level, and with a soft "ding," the metal doors slid open slowly.

Beta was suddenly struck by what lay before him: this was no ordinary wine cellar, but a visually striking domed space.

Beneath the classical stone vaulted ceiling, the walls that should have been used to store red wine have been transformed into rows of illuminated display cases, with various fine firearms displayed on scarlet velvet linings, gleaming with a cold metallic luster under the soft spotlights.

Behind the transparent glass bar in the center, a man in a smart sommelier uniform bowed slightly. His snow-white shirt collar was adorned with a silver lapel pin, and his black vest accentuated his tall and slender figure. His long fingers rested lightly on the edge of the bar.

"Good evening, sir." The sommelier's voice was clear and crisp. "What would you like?"

His gaze was calm and professional, as if he were looking at an ordinary wine cellar rather than an underground arms shop.

Beta's gaze slowly swept over the surrounding weapon display shelves: "I need a big one that can penetrate concrete walls."

The bartender nodded knowingly: "It seems you prefer a stronger option."

He turned gracefully, as if selecting a bottle of fine vintage wine: "Let me recommend a newly arrived specialty, a gem from the Far East."

As the velvet curtain was gently drawn back, the bartender retrieved a gleaming black anti-materiel rifle from a specially made display case. He placed it carefully on the glass tabletop, as if handling a fine wine.

"The M99 semi-automatic, a masterpiece of Eastern military industry." His voice was like savoring fine wine: "It adopts a gas-operated automatic principle, bringing an unprecedented shooting experience. It uses 12.7×108mm Russian ammunition, a 10-round magazine, an 800mm cold-forged barrel, and a rotating locking mechanism."

The bartender leaned forward slightly: "Perfect for multi-target occasions. Weighing only 12 kilograms, it possesses an intoxicating destructive power."

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(End of this chapter)