American variety show: Sniper Elite

Chapter 64 Clues
Medvedeva, with a half-smoked cigarette between her fingers and a USB drive clutched in her hand, slowly walked towards her office. This cramped, five-meter-square glass partition was a rare private space in the entire office area.

A simple desk, a few black swivel chairs, and a row of iron-gray filing cabinets against the wall almost filled all the empty space. However, compared to the team members crammed together in the open-plan office area outside, at least there was a separate air conditioning vent here, so they didn't have to suffer in the fluctuating temperature of the common area like the others.

Medvedeva sank heavily into her office chair, the back of which creaked as she leaned back.

She stared blankly at the square air conditioner vent on the ceiling, cold air pouring down. Her supervisor's meaningful words kept echoing in her mind. Everything that had happened today was too chaotic and sudden; she needed time to sort it all out.

She mechanically flicked the extinguished cigarette butt into the trash can and held up the USB drive to examine it repeatedly under the light.

After hesitating for a moment, she opened the drawer to put it away, but then changed her mind. In the end, she got up and walked to the corner of the office, where she locked the USB drive in a small safe.

The deputy walked quickly to Medvedeva's glass office and knocked three times urgently.

Medvedeva turned around, frowning, and asked, "What happened?"

The deputy pointed to her computer screen: "Sir, you have to take a look. There was just a long-range assassination at Charles de Gaulle Airport in France. An Indian businessman was killed in broad daylight, just an hour ago."

Medvedeva slumped back into her office chair and quickly woke up her computer.

As soon as the screen lit up, a series of trending international news items popped up: the top one was a live broadcast of the French assassination, with the bright red word "BREAKING" standing out starkly; the second one read "Shooting at Downing Street in the UK"; and the third one was titled "German presidential candidate assassinated in Munich."

Medvedeva's fingers tapped rapidly on the touchpad, opening the pinned live stream link.

The scene shifts to a chaotic scene at Charles de Gaulle Airport terminal. Blinding police lights flash incessantly, and uniformed officers form a human wall to maintain order. In the background, an A380 passenger plane taxis slowly down the runway, contrasting sharply with the tense atmosphere.

The camera zooms in, focusing on the center of the incident: a long, armored limousine is surrounded by more than a dozen white police-issued smears, and through the gaps, you can vaguely see the mottled bloodstains scattered on the car door and around it.

Medvedeva squinted slightly, intently listening to the French-language reporter's on-site report. When she heard "this is an assassination attempt from an extremely long distance," she leaned forward, her fingers tapping on the table.

Amid the noisy background noise during the live broadcast, the police spokesperson repeatedly emphasized that "at a shooting distance of over 2000 meters, we were equipped with anti-sniper equipment with an effective range of 3000 meters, but we did not find any suspicious targets throughout the entire process."

After a full minute of silence, Medvedeva turned to her deputy: "Who comes to mind when you think of this long-range sniping technique?"

The deputy blurted out almost immediately: "β".
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Beta slowly emerged from the shadows of the street, his gaze sweeping over the police encirclement surrounding the building. He confirmed the composition of the personnel guarding the building: all were ordinary police officers; no National Security Bureau agents were present.

He quietly walked around to the back of a Renault police car parked on the side of the road, adjusted his posture, and calmly walked towards the police line, as if he had just gotten out of the car.

As he approached the police officers on duty, he flashed his badge: "National Security Bureau, Bertrand." His French pronunciation was standard and steady.

The officer on duty warily eyed the suddenly appearing detective, his gaze darting back and forth between the photo on his badge and Beta's face. After a moment, the officer nodded slightly, bent down, and lifted the police tape: "Go in, Detective. Your colleagues are upstairs." Beta put away his badge and replied naturally, "The airport needs manpower too. If it weren't for the traffic jam, I should have arrived at the same time as them."

His tone carried just the right amount of helplessness, as if he were complaining about the terrible traffic in Paris.

"How's the situation at the airport?" the policeman asked casually.

Beta didn't answer immediately, but gave him a meaningful look: "Are you sure you want to ask me?"

He waved his badge: "If I were your colleague, I'd be happy to tell you."

The police officer immediately understood and shrugged: "Got it. It's classified information, I can't disclose it. You National Security Bureau people are always so secretive."

His tone was slightly teasing, but he wisely refrained from pressing the matter further.

Beta didn't say anything more and walked straight into the elevator under the watchful eyes of the police.

The elevator doors slowly closed, and the metallic scraping sound was particularly clear in the confined space.

With a slight jolt, the elevator began to ascend. Beta adjusted his posture slightly, lowering his center of gravity, his right hand naturally resting near his waist. His profile was reflected in the metal wall, and the floor numbers lit up one by one on the display screen. His gaze was fixed on the floor display, ensuring he could respond to any unexpected situation as quickly as possible.

The elevator ascended smoothly, and with a soft "ding," the doors slowly opened.

A police officer standing guard at the elevator entrance immediately raised his hand and gestured: "Please show your identification."

Beta showed his identification again, and the police quickly glanced at it before nodding and letting him go.

As I crossed the police tape, a gust of cold wind blew in through the broken window, carrying the dampness characteristic of Paris. The police tape swayed gently in the wind, making a soft "pop" sound. The smoke detectors on the corridor ceiling were still dripping, the water droplets spreading dark red ripples on the blood-stained carpet.

Beta's gaze swept across the entire floor discreetly. Most of the officers were French police, their dark blue uniforms appearing particularly somber under the emergency lights. Near the meeting room where the abandoned sniper rifle was located, four or five men in black jackets stood out. The wires of their earpieces were faintly visible, clearly indicating they were not ordinary police officers.

Beta advanced using the pillars and greenery as cover.

Bloodstains, still wet, clung to the leaves of potted plants, forming dark red dewdrops amidst the greenery. As they approached the location of the earlier firefight with security, the air was thick with the pungent smell of blood, mingled with dust from exposed cement exposed by breached walls. Brass shell casings littered the floor of the corridor between the two meeting rooms, and shattered tempered glass creaked softly underfoot.

The vending machine at the end of the corridor was hit by a stray bullet; its glass shattered into a spiderweb pattern, and the chocolate bars and beverage cans scattered inside were twisted and deformed. Bullet holes on the wall formed a radial pattern, and gray concrete was exposed where the wall plaster had peeled off.

Several forensic personnel were taking photos and collecting evidence around the area, their flashes occasionally illuminating the dimly lit corridor with blinding white light, freezing the scene of devastation into a series of gruesome images. In the distance, the sound of dripping water came from a broken pipe, sounding particularly clear in the heavy air.

(End of this chapter)