American variety show: Sniper Elite

Chapter 48 Awaiting Reply
This bloody revenge has come to an end. Vigo is dead, Iosev is dead, and the gang members who broke into the villa and killed John's dog also paid the ultimate price.

This villa, now completely destroyed, needs a complete renovation.

The bad news was that the DV camera recording the footage, left behind by Helen, was missing. Fortunately, Beta's planning room in the basement was protected by a password door, and all the action plans were kept secret.

The two men rummaged through the mess. Beta tossed a broken picture frame and a warped lamp into a trash bag, his shoes making a screeching sound as he stepped on shards of glass.

Beta picked up a broken porcelain ornament and threw it into a trash bag: "The last gift Helen left you, and you just leave it in your bedroom drawer like that? You can't even bear to use the safe?"

His question echoed in the empty villa. John's back stiffened for a moment before he continued searching through the ruins for the silver DV camera.

As he lifted a rug, his movements stopped. Underneath the corner of the rug, the silver DV camera lay quietly, its screen shattered, but the memory card slot intact.

John gently pulled out the memory card; the metal card was intact under the light. Beta walked over, took the card, examined it against the light, and handed it back: "Put it in the safe later."

John put the memory card into his shirt pocket and tapped his fingers lightly on the pocket.

Beta surveyed the ravaged living room: "I'm flying to France in a few days; the orders from there need to be prepared."

He kicked away the broken glass at his feet: "Contact the 'cleaners' at the mainland hotel; they can restore this place as if nothing ever happened."

A series of rapid vibrations came from his pocket.

Beta frowned and took out his disposable phone. A message popped up on the screen: "Contact awaits reply. No response in 24 hours. This is a reminder."

Beta snapped his hands, and the plastic casing broke in two. He took out the SIM card, threw it into the toilet, and flushed. The tiny chip spun and disappeared into the vortex.

Beta pushed open the bedroom door. Compared to the devastation in the living room, this place was relatively intact, except for the torn pillows and the laptop smashed in two. Feathers were scattered from the ripped pillowcase, like a blizzard. The laptop was broken in half, the screen separated from the keyboard.

He walked to the wall and lightly pressed his fingertips on the checkered wallpaper, which appeared normal on the outside.

With a soft click of the mechanical lock, a wall panel slid open, revealing an embedded safe. After entering 12 digits on the keypad, the safe popped open, revealing its contents: an encrypted laptop, two Glock 19 pistols, neatly stacked magazines, and more than a dozen stacks of banknotes from different countries.

Beta took out his laptop and inserted the USB drive. After the screen flickered a few times, the original system was overwritten and replaced by a completely black chat interface.

"Ding!"

Upon logging into my account, three unread messages popped up.

The cursor blinked on the screen as Beta stared at two unfamiliar accounts. The prefixes were system-generated IDs, with no notes or history.

Only two were unfamiliar accounts, and one account belonged to the employer he had previously eliminated.

Beta rubbed his stubble with his thumb, the cursor hovering over that familiar account before finally clicking it.

The message unfolds on the screen: Someone is deliberately delaying the final payment, plotting to have you use a deposit to eliminate two targets. I want to hire you again to take them out. Please reply to my message.

The screen light shone on Beta's face. He stared at the words for a full ten seconds, his fingers hovering over the keyboard before falling back down. The previous task was finished; there was no need to waste time on past missions. He closed the chat window. Some games, once over, are best left unplayed.

Beta tapped his fingertips lightly on the touchpad. The precise sniping at Downing Street must have prompted a manhunt by MI6, and they must be eager to catch him as the murderer to save face for the British security services and government.

This contact account received three offers in just one month, an unusually high activity. In the past, this account only had three or four deals a year. These orders must have mixed two types of clients: one type was genuine employers who came because of his reputation, impressed by his "masterpiece" in Downing Street and urgently needed him to solve their problems; the other type was a carefully set sting trap by British intelligence, where every message might contain a hook, waiting to lure him out and lock him up in a cell.

Beta narrowed his eyes slightly. He was familiar with this cat-and-mouse game; every seemingly tempting order could be connected to a tightly monitored dead end. Like a campfire suddenly lit in a dark forest, it could be a traveler's kindness, or it could be bait for a hunter.

Beta clicked on the first message, and the numbers on the screen made him raise an eyebrow: The order price is now $2000 million. A $200 million meeting fee will be credited to your account immediately. You can specify the meeting method; we need your expertise.

This quote is double the price I paid when I contacted him in France two weeks ago.

Beta tapped the laptop's metal casing lightly with his index finger. What kind of goal could make an employer so persistent, even willing to offer astronomical sums of money?

He closed the chat window. The ironclad rule of no face-to-face contact was ingrained in his bones from the very first day he picked up a gun. No matter how tempting the offer, it couldn't compare to a bullet flying from the shadows.

Beta clicked on the third message: Professionally trained personnel. $400 million reward. Please reply to accept the order.

“Professionally trained personnel?” Beta repeated the intriguing description in a low voice. This meant the target might be a fellow agent, or a defector? But now was not the time to delve into it.

He closed the chat interface and unplugged the USB drive. The screen returned to its original operating system, reflecting his thoughtful expression. The order from Paris was not yet completed; he didn't have the habit of taking on repeated orders, especially since his recent activity frequency had been quite risky.

He believes that the British intelligence network is tightening, and each mission adds to the risk.

Beta put the USB drive back in the compartment, deciding to pause his work once the Paris order was completed. In this industry, those who survive the longest are never the most active, but rather those who best know how to lie low.
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On a rainy London night, Doyle sat alone in his dimly lit study.

The cold light from the computer screen made his haggard face appear deathly pale. The black chat interface had been frozen for 24 hours and 17 minutes, and β had not replied.

The computer was logged into the account Elliott used before his death. However, the encrypted communication software was designed not to save any chat history; all traces of conversations would disappear without a trace after logging out.

Doyle's withered fingers hovered above the keyboard; he didn't need to check the records to guess. Given Elliott's arrogant nature, those conversations must have been filled with arrogance and threats. A hitman who had been cheated out of his wages, if he were to suffer further insults from his employer...

“Fool.” Doyle cursed at the air, unsure whether he was cursing his son or himself.

The screen remained silent, like a stagnant pool.

Doyle suddenly slammed his hand down on the keyboard, the metallic clang echoing in the empty study.

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I would be extremely grateful for your monthly tickets, recommendation tickets, and continued reading!

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(End of this chapter)