American variety show: Sniper Elite

Chapter 47 Ending
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Thanks to book friend 160502151501114 for the reward

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Doyle stood by the window, his heavy breathing condensing into white mist on the glass. London in the rain looked like a pencil drawing submerged in water, its outlines blurred and indistinct.

This is a duel to the death. Either he will be utterly disgraced and retire in a sorry state like an old dog, or he will let those people know that even a lion with its teeth pulled still has poison on its claws.

His thin fingers traced the window frame.

The distorted neon lights in the rain reminded him of someone: a ghost lurking in the underworld, the assassin codenamed "β". It was this person who first killed the female reporter and then took his son's life.

A glint of light flashed in Doyle's cloudy eyes.

He wanted to contact the hitman and tell him an interesting fact—his employer had only paid a deposit but had orchestrated for him to exceed two objectives. That wasn't right. More importantly, he wanted Beta to know that Doyle was now willing to pay him to find those who had tricked him and get justice with bullets.

Rainwater meandered down the glass.

Doyle turned and walked toward the safe, still holding his last trump card: the true identities of those people.
-

Beta, backpack in hand, stepped out of the car and turned to John in the driver's seat: "Are you sure you want to do this? I propose I'll storm in and you provide cover, or we can both charge in together."

John shook his head: "I'll deal with Iosef. I must do it myself."

Beta nodded: "Your injury?"

“I won’t die,” John replied briefly.

Beta grinned. "That's not what I'm worried about. I'm thinking, if we dig up Helen's ashes and put you in there too, wouldn't that be disrespectful to the deceased?"

John stared at Beta for a long time before slowly uttering a single word: "Yeah."

Of course, Beta was just joking.

Carrying a heavy backpack, Beta silently climbed the iron fire escape ladder of the abandoned chemical plant. This rusty building, nearly three stories higher than the mineral screening plant opposite, was an excellent sniping spot. His shoes trod on the rusty metal stairs without making a sound.

Upon reaching the top floor, Beta put down his backpack, unzipped it, and took out an M110 semi-automatic sniper rifle with a desert yellow paint job.

He began his preparations. He screwed the folding bipod into the Picatinny rail below the barrel; finally, he attached the suppressor to the muzzle, the metal threads making a soft "click" as they engaged.

The backpack was fully opened and laid beneath him. Beta lay prone on the backpack, gently resting the gun barrel against a gap in the factory's parapet. This angle allowed him to overlook the entire screening area while ensuring the muzzle wasn't exposed against the building's edge.

He adjusted his breathing rhythm, his right eye looking through the scope, the crosshairs slowly sweeping across every possible gunner's position on the opposite building. His left eye opened, observing the movement within the building.

John's figure appeared in Beta's scope.

The man in the signature black bulletproof suit was stealthily moving along the outer wall of the screening area. Beta's crosshairs caught the top of the wall directly above John, just as an armed guard was passing by.

Beta's finger gently pulled the trigger. With a muffled "whoosh," the silencer emitted a wisp of blue smoke. The guard on the wall jolted violently, then collapsed forward.

John, below, spread his arms wide the instant the body fell, catching this unexpected "gift" steadily. He placed the limp body at his feet, flipped over and leaped onto the wall, disappearing from the scope's view.

Beta's scope moved slowly, the crosshairs sweeping across every corner of the selection field.

The piles of ore left behind before the screening plant was abandoned, and the towering, rusty conveyor belts cast intricate shadows in the sunlight, while the remaining glass of a few control rooms reflected a cold light. The scope moved along these buildings, and finally, in an open factory building, three black Saabbans were spotted, neatly parked together. On a wooden tray nearby, a gunman sat lazily, fiddling with his phone, probably chatting with someone.

Beta's gaze moved upwards along the factory structure.

On the second floor, a perfectly intact window stood out. Through the scope, Beta could clearly see the blond target: Iosev was pacing back and forth in the room with his back to the window, occasionally yelling into his phone.

Beta gently rubbed his index finger against the trigger.

In the center of the crosshairs, Iosev's back of the head was clearly visible; pulling the trigger now would end it all. But John's insistence still lingered in his ears, and Beta finally moved the scope away.

The camera pans down, and John's figure re-enters the field of view.

He was climbing up the rusty conveyor belt, the steel frame beneath him groaning softly. Beta noticed a gunman moving toward the edge of the roof in the shadows to John's side.

Beta's breathing gradually slowed, and his heartbeat was clearly audible in his ears. The pre-aimed red box steadily covered the target; with slight adjustments to the muzzle, the red box gradually shrank to a precise dot.
The muffled sound of the bullet piercing the skull was exceptionally clear.

The figure on the distant rooftop suddenly leaned backward and fell. John glanced to the side, but didn't stop climbing the conveyor belt, leaving behind a trail of rusty handprints.

Beta's scope slowly moved up the rusty red slope of the conveyor belt.

In the control room at the top of the conveyor belt, a gunman was lazily leaning against the windowsill, binoculars dangling casually in front of his chest. Suddenly, the gunman froze; he had noticed his comrade on the wall was missing. He raised the binoculars, carefully observing the location of the wall, then looked towards the distant factory buildings across the wall.

The instant he pointed the lens at Beta's direction
"puff"

The bullet pierced the eyepiece of the binoculars with pinpoint accuracy, sending shards of glass and spray of blood flying. The gunman fell backward, his head slamming heavily onto the metal floor with a loud thud.

Almost simultaneously, John's figure flashed into the control room. He knelt on one knee, his eyes scanning the rooftops of the distant factory buildings, and pulled the walkie-talkie from the corpse's waist.

Through Beta's scope, John gave the pistol one last check before turning and disappearing into the darkness deep within the control room, like a drop of ink merging into and vanishing there.

Beta turned his gun towards the target inside the open factory. The gunman sitting on the wooden pallet was still fiddling with his phone.

"puff"

The bullet pierced his temple, and blood splattered. The gunman's body collapsed, his phone falling to the ground, the screen displaying unsent chat messages.

Several gunshots suddenly rang out inside the factory.

Beta quickly moved his scope up and, through the intact glass window, saw John had already stormed into the room. Several gunmen fell one after another, and spent shell casings bounced on the floor.

In the center of the crosshairs of the scope, Iosev's face was contorted with fear. Sweat clung to his forehead, and his lips trembled as he uttered words of pleading.

But John did not hesitate.

"Bang! Bang!" Two bullets ended everything.

Iosev's head splattered crimson blood across the glass window. His body fell backward, knocking over the chair behind him and leaving a gruesome trail of blood on the white wall.

(End of this chapter)