American variety show: Sniper Elite

Chapter 45 The Hunt
Vigo and several bodyguards stood in the garden in front of the church, surrounded by the smell of burning.

Vigo asked in a hoarse voice, "How many can be saved?"

The bodyguard, head bowed, said, "All the documents were reduced to charcoal; not a single intact sheet of paper remained."

Vigo's gaze swept across the empty street, with only a rusty garbage truck parked not far away. A sanitation worker in a reflective vest slowly emptied the roadside trash cans, seemingly indifferent to the commotion at the church.

"Where are the gold coins?" Vigo asked, turning his gaze away.

The bodyguard's Adam's apple bobbed: "They're all gone. Not a single one was found in the ashes."

Vigo roared, "What the hell are we still doing here?!"

That bastard who called himself "Paul Ostrovsky" not only robbed him of his gold coins but also burned down the power empire he had painstakingly built over many years. Rage surged in his chest; he could almost taste the blood in his throat. That damned bastard had treated him like trash, burning away half a lifetime's worth of hard work.

He yanked open the car door and slammed heavily into the seat.

The bodyguards sprang into action, a series of brief instructions coming through their earpieces. Four black SUVs flashed their red taillights, their engines emitting a deep roar.

The lead reconnaissance vehicle made a U-turn, its tires rolling over the meticulously manicured lawn. Delicate tulips spurted their juices under the rubber treads, petals and soil getting caught in the tire tracks, leaving several black streaks on the grass. Vigo's vehicle followed closely behind, the rearview mirror reflecting the thick smoke swirling from the church steeple.

As the convoy drove out of the garden, it came head-on to the slow-moving garbage truck.

As the convoy moved along, no bodyguard cast a wary glance at the old garbage truck. After all, there was only a hunched-over, white-haired sanitation worker in the driver's seat who looked completely harmless.

After the lead truck and the garbage truck passed each other, an unexpected incident occurred.

Just as Vigo's vehicle was about to pass, the garbage truck suddenly swerved, its massive, steel-cast front end slamming into the left front wheel of Vigo's car. With a screeching, twisting sound, Vigo's vehicle was spun around, the driver's side completely exposed in front of the garbage truck.

The garbage truck's engine roared deafeningly, pushing Vigo's vehicle to the side and slamming it hard against the brick wall on the side of the street.

Vigo's vehicle was instantly sandwiched between four doors, deformed from the impact. Two escort vehicles behind braked sharply, a third crashed into the right side of the garbage truck, and a fourth rear-ended the third. The lead vehicle swerved and came to a sudden stop a dozen meters away, its tires leaving four charred marks on the road.

The garbage truck driver's door opened, Beta jumped out of the truck bed, and fired his AK-Alfa rifle. The four bodyguards who crawled out of the lead truck fell to the ground.

He turned around again, aimed, and pulled the trigger—three actions completed in one smooth motion.

Three spiderweb-like cracks appeared on the windshield of Vigo's car, and behind each bullet hole lay a bodyguard with a blown-out head. Inside the car, Vigo was curled up under the back seat, his hands tightly clutching his head, his expensive suit stained with splattered brain matter and broken glass.

Beta used the garbage truck's massive size as cover and quickly circled around to the rear of the truck.

He temporarily spared Vigo, who was trapped between the garbage truck and the brick wall; the old fox wouldn't be able to escape anytime soon.

At the corner behind the car, he collided head-on with an armed bodyguard. Beta's gun was almost pressed against the man's chest.

The bodyguard's finger had just touched the trigger—"Bang!"

Gunshots rang out in the narrow street. With a muffled thud as a bullet pierced his chest, the bodyguard staggered backward, crashing into a fire hydrant before slowly sliding to his seat, leaving a gruesome trail of blood behind him.

Beta took advantage of the blind spot at the rear of the garbage truck to launch another attack.

A flash of gunfire appeared, and another bodyguard clutched his chest and fell to his knees, blood gushing from between his fingers.

The bodyguards in the two cars behind reacted, and a hail of bullets rained down upon them.

Beta retreated to the back of the garbage truck, lying flat on the ground with his shoes against the rear wheel rims. He crouched low and aimed through the gap under the truck's chassis. Several precise bursts of fire followed, bullets whistling through the undercarriage, tearing flesh apart the bodyguards' ankles and calves. With screams of agony, the bodyguards, losing their leg support, collapsed to the ground.

Beta seized the opportunity and quickly finished off the fallen bodyguard, the spent cartridges clattering onto the asphalt.

Beta rolled onto the front of the garbage truck, the heavy engine compartment providing perfect cover. He removed the empty magazine, pulled a new one from his back waist, and reloaded it with a crisp metallic click, the sound of the bolt returning to its original position being exceptionally clear.

As he approached the mangled SUV with his gun raised, he found it empty, the trunk lid sticking up and swaying slightly in the wind. Through the shattered window, Beta saw the last two bodyguards carrying Vigo as they fled.

Without the slightest hesitation, Beta pulled the trigger. The bullet pierced through the carriage and struck a bodyguard precisely in the back.

The other man shoved Vigo toward the alleyway and turned to return fire. But Beta's rifle fired first, the 7.62mm bullet knocking him to the ground, blood splattering across the wall in a blinding fan shape.

Just as Beta's gun reached the alley entrance, Vigo's figure had already disappeared around the corner.

The next second, a piercing engine roar erupted as Vigo was slammed against the hood of a black Dodge Charger and hurtled out of the alley amidst the roar of its V8 engine.

The tires screeched violently against the ground, and the Dodge braked sharply. Vigo was thrown off and rolled several times on the asphalt before coming to a stop.

Beta raised his rifle, then lowered the barrel after seeing the driver clearly.

John Wick stepped out of the driver's seat, his signature black bulletproof suit gleaming coldly under the streetlights, holding his P30L pistol.

John strode over to Vigo, who was sprawled on the ground, dragged him up, and slammed him heavily onto the still-hot hood of the Dodge. With a dull thud of metal against flesh, Vigo groaned in pain, only to meet John's burning eyes.

John pressed his pistol against Vigo's forehead: "Vigo, where's your son?"

Beta stood guard on the perimeter, his rifle occasionally firing short "bangs" to reload the still-wriggling bodyguards on the ground, the spent cartridges constantly falling to the ground.

Vigo raised his trembling hands above his head, cold sweat trickling down his temples: "Can you promise you won't kill me?"

"Where is your son!" John's gun plunged deep into Vigo's skin, leaving a dent in his forehead.

"434 Franklin Avenue! The abandoned mineral screening plant!" Vigo shouted the address in despair, then added, "They...they've already laid an ambush for you."

John replied coldly, "Yeah."

Vigo slumped on the hood, the residual heat from it scorching his back, but unable to dispel the chill seeping into his very bones.

Beta returned to John's side, wisps of smoke still rising from the muzzle of his gun: "Did you get the answers?"

John nodded briefly: "Yeah."

Beta raised his hand and fired a shot.

With a "bang," a blood flower bloomed between Vigo's eyebrows, and his body slowly slid down the hood, leaving a bloody trail on it.

John was visibly taken aback: "You didn't need to kill him."

Beta removed the magazine, the metallic clang ringing out crisply. "Do you think he'll obediently accept his fate after we kill his son? He's already sent Perkins to take our lives. Are we supposed to say 'sorry' and then invite him for afternoon tea?"

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The illustrations are intended to enhance the reader's sense of immersion.

(End of this chapter)