American variety show: Sniper Elite

Chapter 96 (early stage)
Morning light bathed New York City.

The light rail train roared across the steel bridge, the streets were packed with rush hour traffic, and horns blared incessantly. A homeless man on the street corner slowly began his day of begging, pushing a supermarket shopping cart he'd picked up from who-knows-where.

A black Chevrolet Malibu turned off the congested main road and headed towards the auxiliary road in the industrial zone.

Sunlight danced on the car windows, and the lampposts cast long, thin shadows that swept across Beta's sunglasses-clad face. The tires chugged over the asphalt, making a low, rumbling sound, as if urging the city to awaken.

The car passed the factory cooling towers emitting white mist and drove deep into the industrial area.

Containers were stacked one on top of another, and semi-trailer trucks were parked quietly in front of the warehouse. The trucks passed under the gantry crane, which was dozens of meters high, and the tires rolled over the raised tracks on the concrete ground, making a dull "thump, thump" sound that echoed in the empty storage area.

The car gradually slowed down and finally stopped in front of warehouse number 23.

The rusty roller shutter screeched as it slowly rolled upwards. The black car slid into the dimly lit warehouse, swallowed by shadows. As the last ray of light was cut off, the shutter closed again, sealing the warehouse back into silence.

The engine roared to a halt, and Beta pushed open the car door, her shoes stepping onto the dusty cement floor, raising a cloud of fine dust.

This warehousing and logistics park, located deep in the industrial zone, is unusually quiet. Most of the warehouses are rented out to store idle goods or abandoned machinery and equipment for extended periods, and the air is filled with the pungent smell of oxidized metal and evaporating engine oil.

The interior of Warehouse No. 23 was uncomfortably empty. Scattered oil stains and iron filings littered the mottled cement floor. A few rays of sunlight slanted in through the high-rise windows, forming hazy beams of light amidst the dust.

Four rusty shipping containers stood out in the corner, their dark red metal sheets covered in oxidation marks, and heavy iron locks casting shadows on the containers.

Beta's footsteps were exceptionally clear in the warehouse, each step accompanied by a slight echo that spread throughout the silent space. His figure cast a long, thin shadow in the center of the warehouse, which slowly extended across the dusty ground as he moved.

The chains rattled as the container door slowly opened, revealing a thick plastic film tightly sealing the entrance.

Beta used her gloved hands to tear off the film and press the switch on the wall. The fluorescent light on the top of the container flickered a few times, then turned on completely with a "snap," and the cold white light filled the entire space with a low hum.

Various firearms are neatly arranged on the metal racks on the cabinet wall: FN SCAR-L assault rifle, MK18 CQBR, HK MP7 submachine gun, SIG MPX, M110A1 semi-automatic sniper rifle, and M1014 tactical shotgun.

In the designated compartments beneath each firearm, the corresponding accessories are arranged in an orderly fashion. The fully loaded spare magazines gleam with a copper sheen, and the paper-packaged ammunition boxes are marked with caliber markings. Suppressors, optical sights, and tactical grips are neatly stored in shock-absorbing foam slots.

Beta walked to the metal rack and reached for a Glock 19X pistol. He opened a drawer and took out two fully loaded magazines. He inserted one magazine into the pistol grip and tucked the other into his waistband by lifting the hem of his shirt.

He held the gun in his right hand and pulled the slide with his left, carefully checking the smoothness of the feeding system.

With a crisp "click," a bullet ejected from the ejection port. Beta calmly caught the bullet, pressed it back into the magazine, inserted the magazine back into the grip, and tucked the pistol into the holster on his lower back.

Beta walked to a cabinet in the corner of the container, opened the door, and took out a driver's license from a hidden compartment. He carefully examined the photo on the license; the face was exactly the same as his own. The name on the license read "Seth Johnson."

After confirming that everything was correct, Beta took out his wallet from his pocket and carefully placed the meticulously forged document inside. Beta turned off the light, and the cabinet door closed in the darkness. He turned and walked to the adjacent container, opening its door.

Inside, various tools were neatly arranged. On the second shelf, there was a stack of sealed license plates. Each license plate was placed in a transparent document bag, which contained a complete set of corresponding legal documents: copies of the registration certificate, insurance policy, and vehicle certificate of conformity. These materials were sufficient to handle any unexpected roadside checks.

Under the dim light, Beta's fingers flipped through a row of sealed license plates.

He squinted, carefully checking the vehicle model on each set of documents. Finding the set that perfectly matched his target vehicle, he paused slightly, picked up the edge of the transparent document bag, and, in the dim light, examined the registration certificate, insurance policy, and vehicle inspection documents page by page.

After confirming that all documents were complete and valid, he then took the license plate documents down from the shelf.

Beta closed the tool cabinet and turned to walk towards the third container.

As the metal door opened, a regular Toyota Camry came into view—the most common car on the streets of New York, perfectly blending into the city traffic. However, a professionally modified engine and braking system allowed this "ordinary" sedan to unleash astonishing performance at any moment.

He opened the document bag and installed the selected license plate. The car door opened with a slight sound. Beta casually tossed the remaining documents onto the passenger seat before sliding into the driver's seat.

Beta turned the key, and the engine immediately emitted a deep, steady roar. Today he was going to conduct a site survey of the area around the square where that old man with the cornrow-haired, red-nosed man was about to give his speech.

When carrying out the Paris mission, Beta could only rely on 3D-printed models and street view maps to choose sniping positions. But now that he's in New York, this proximity gives him the advantage of being able to scout locations himself.

Beta tapped his fingers lightly on the steering wheel, calculating the route.

He needed to find the perfect sniping spot: one that offered a wide field of view yet remained sufficiently concealed; one that allowed for easy evacuation while also providing control over the entire area. Digital simulations could never compare to the intuitive judgment of being on the scene, especially in such a critical mission.

The roller shutter door rose again, and a white Toyota Camry drove out, before the metal door closed again. The vehicle moved smoothly through the dimly lit factory buildings, sunlight casting dappled shadows through the gaps in the reinforced concrete structures.

The phone rang urgently inside the car.

Beta kept his left hand steady on the steering wheel and took out his phone with his right hand. The name "John Wick" on the screen made him frown slightly.

He pressed the answer button: "What's wrong?"

John's slightly tired voice came from the other end of the phone: "I've returned to New York ahead of schedule. I'm not staying in Italy any longer. Matilda can't stay at the Continental Hotel indefinitely, so I'm going to pick her up and take her home."

Beta tapped his fingers lightly on the steering wheel, and a few seconds of silence followed the call.

(End of this chapter)