American variety show: Sniper Elite

Chapter 4 Medea Lake
The killing of a journalist in front of 10 Downing Street, with a single shot to the head right on camera, is undoubtedly one of the most sensational news events of this century.

Beta leaned back in his seat. The passenger in front of him was playing a news video, the anchorwoman's voice echoing through the cabin. He glanced absently out the window; ground crew were mechanically loading and unloading luggage.

Beta's destination was Munich, from where he would travel to Paris.

He needed to log into his encrypted account in Paris to urge the long-overdue final payment, even though his employer had sent a "Good job" confirmation, the money still hadn't arrived.

After confirming the final payment, he will fly directly to Milan.

My phone suddenly vibrated, and the notification sound was unusually loud in the quiet cabin.

Beta took out his phone, and a familiar number flashed on the screen: John Wick.

He pressed the answer button, held the phone to his ear, and remained silent as usual.

There was a few seconds of silence on the other end of the phone, followed by a hoarse, deep male voice: "Helen is gone. She passed away peacefully."

Beta still did not respond; only her steady breathing could be heard through the microphone.

John Wickton paused, his voice tinged with restrained weariness: "May 25th, Senta Cemetery. She always treated you like her own child. You should come."

The call was abruptly cut off. Beta put away his phone, looked out the porthole, his face expressionless.

John Wick, the legendary assassin of the Continental Hotel, a ruthless presence. Beta didn't want to delve into their past, but Helen... that naive woman to the point of being foolish, was someone he couldn't avoid.

She was naive to the point of being laughable, and kind to the point of being almost mentally challenged. But it was precisely this unguarded purity that forced even someone like Beta to admit: she was fucking unforgettable.

This longing is like a piece of red-hot coal, stuck in my throat, impossible to swallow or spit out.

Beta tensed his jaw, trying to suppress it, but the burning sensation rushed up his brain through his veins, eventually turning into a sharp, aching feeling in his nose. He blinked, and a barely perceptible dampness appeared under his eyelashes.

"What an utterly stupid woman."

Beta squinted, forcing himself to focus on the blinding sunlight reflecting off the wing. The flickering light cut through his thoughts; he needed this sharp pain to completely erase a certain gentle figure from his mind.

When he opened his eyes again, all the turmoil had subsided. He skillfully put on his noise-canceling earplugs and adjusted the seat to a comfortable recline, neither too relaxed nor too vulnerable to react instantly in an emergency.

The hum of the cabin gradually faded away, and his breathing became long and even. At 3 feet, the man who had just completed the century's sniping mission drifted into a light sleep like an ordinary passenger.
-
London, 30,000 feet below, is currently in chaos.

After four hours of investigation, the police ballistics team finally found Beta's abandoned equipment on the rooftop of the abandoned building. The guns, which had been soaked in hydrogen peroxide, were already corroded, and all possible traces pointing to the killer had been completely erased.

This is not due to police inefficiency.

Initial ballistic reconstruction results indicated that the bullet appeared to have originated from a nearby high-altitude mobile platform, leading investigators to focus all their efforts on reviewing the flight logs of all helicopters that day.

It wasn't until forensic experts reviewed the data a second time that a chilling truth surfaced: the fatal bullet had been fired from the top of a 60-story commercial building 3800 meters away. When the ballistic analysis report was submitted to MI6, the entire nature of the case changed dramatically.

A sniper who can accurately hit someone between the eyebrows from 3800 meters away poses a threat level far beyond the scope of ordinary police investigations.

With the seal on the red file folder being slashed open with a sharp blade, the case was officially transferred from Scotland Yard to the Special Operations Unit of the intelligence service.

On the monitoring list, a code name was carefully entered into the system.

Medvedeva Reik tied her long, sleek, golden-brown hair into a high ponytail, and at 38 years old, her sharp edge remained undiminished.

Dressed in a tactical jacket and slim-fitting athletic pants, with lightweight combat shoes, she exuded an aura of competence. Her grey-blue eyes, like precise scanners, always captured crucial details instantly.

As the leader of the special operations team, her natural aura made every team member involuntarily tense up.

Medvedeva Reik stood at the sniper position Beta had once used, her hands gripping the high-powered binoculars tightly. 3800 meters away, in front of 10 Downing Street, the bright red human-shaped target swayed slightly in the wind.

The howling wind on the rooftop tore her ponytail into a mess, and a few strands of golden-brown hair kept slapping against her cheeks. She frowned, repeatedly adjusting the focus of her binoculars, and finally had to lean over and lie on the cold concrete floor to try to get a more stable angle of observation.

Even so, the striking red target remained blurry in the field of vision. At the highest magnification, the head of the target was only the size of a coin, and the number on it could be barely discerned.

Medvedeva put down her binoculars, her face terribly grim.

In front of 10 Downing Street, in front of Scotland Yard's top officer and the cameras of global media, a bullet from 3800 meters away precisely pierced the target's forehead.

The moment blood splattered on the live broadcast, this case transcended the realm of an ordinary shooting; it directly shook the national dignity of the entire United Kingdom. Buckingham Palace and Westminster made a series of urgent calls, but the investigation remained stalled.

Medvedeva braced her hands on the railing, her knuckles turning white from the effort.

“This is simply not a shot a human could do,” she told her deputy. “That shooter is superhuman. The current world record is 3500 meters, using a .50 caliber anti-materiel rifle. But that was in the Middle Eastern desert, with constant temperature, stable airflow, and unobstructed visibility. It took the sniper a full three hours to complete the shot.”

Medvedeva gazed at the city below: "Sixty stories, 240 meters—this is the sniper's vantage point, and also the starting point of the bullet's trajectory. From pulling the trigger to hitting the target, the bullet undergoes a temperature change of 2.35 degrees Celsius."

“And here…” Medvedeva gazed at the distant, fog-shrouded London skyline: “Every building distorts the airflow, the moisture of the Thames makes the bullet trajectories like they're passing through syrup. 3800 meters. To be able to kill with a single shot in this environment… This isn’t a sniper, this is a sophisticated killing machine.”

She turned to face her deputy, her fingertips tracing a downward arc in the air: "This isn't a simple planar ballistic calculation; it's about predicting the combined effects of temperature, humidity, and airflow on the warhead in three-dimensional space. And that madman calculated all the variables and delivered this 'impossible' sniper kill."

"Fake!"

　John Wick and Helen, from the movie *John Wick*.

　　
　
(End of this chapter)