American variety show: Sniper Elite

Chapter 2 Plan in progress
The streets of London were so empty in the early hours that you could hear the screeching of tires on the pavement. The police reacted faster than expected; after all, the person targeted was a wealthy American attending a British business summit, and Scotland Yard dared not be negligent in the slightest.

"Beep, beep"

The iconic sound of British police sirens pierced the night sky, growing louder as they approached. Two blue and white Opel police cars roared in, their blinding lights casting flickering patterns of light on Beta's taxi windshield.

As the two vehicles passed each other, the detective in the police car subconsciously glanced at the taxi with its "Closed" sign on.

Behind the car window was just a tired-looking white-haired driver, wearing old-fashioned wool gloves on his hands as he gripped the steering wheel—a typical scene of a night shift driver heading home after work.

The police car sped past without stopping, its red and blue lights gradually shrinking into two dots in the rearview mirror. Beta's taxi maintained a steady speed, and soon even the siren faded into the morning mist along the Thames.

The taxi slowly glided into a quiet alley, its tires crunching softly over the damp gravel. Beta opened the car door, and the chilly air characteristic of early London hours immediately rushed in. He had deliberately left the keys inside; the engine was still idling, wisps of white smoke billowing from the exhaust pipe, particularly noticeable in the cold night.

This little bait was placed perfectly; if an early thief happened to pass by, he might be tempted to drive off with the "abandoned" taxi. Of course, it didn't matter if no one took the bait. Beta had already wiped the steering wheel, gearshift, and door handles with cleaning agents, and every inch of the interior surface had been sprayed with a special chemical solvent, enough to destroy DNA and fingerprint residue.

He glanced one last time at the taxi, now fulfilling its mission, before turning and disappearing into the shadows of the alley. The car key jingled slightly on the dashboard, reflecting the dim yellow light of the distant streetlights. Whether the car was ultimately stolen or discovered by the police, it was just one of countless dead ends meticulously designed by Beta.

Beta's figure stopped in the shadows where the streetlights couldn't reach. He stood beside a rusty green trash can and deftly began to remove his disguise.

With slender fingers, the wrinkled silicone mask slipped off along the hairline like a snake shedding its skin. The fake eyebrows were pinched between two fingers and gently pulled away from the skin. The entire grizzled beard was removed, revealing a smooth chin.

He carefully sprayed each prop with solvent, and the originally precise disguise materials gradually melted into a featureless gel under the action of the chemical agent.

These valuable disguise props were thrown into different trash cans in different blocks in batches. The masks were thrown into the recycling bins in the commercial area, the beards were thrown into the garbage station in the residential area, and even the empty bottles of solvent were taken to a construction site three kilometers away to be disposed of.

As dawn broke, the white-haired old man who drove the taxi had completely vanished from this world, as if he had never existed.

Beta stood before the floor-to-ceiling window of her hotel suite, a glass of untouched whiskey between her fingers. The amber liquid shimmered slightly in the morning light, reflecting the chaotic scene across the river: flashing police lights, cordoned-off police tape, and forensic personnel moving about—like a silent drama.

His chosen sniping spot was perfect: the building under renovation was just the right distance from the target hotel, within effective firing range, yet also enough to create confusion.

The thermite incendiary bomb he left behind ignited the renovation materials, and the fire spread along the ventilation ducts, engulfing the entire floor in thick smoke.

The police did indeed discover the burning building.

The first patrol officers to arrive at the scene had already set up a double cordon, the fire truck's ladder was raised high, and the forensic officers in black suits stood pointing and gesturing in front of the burning sniper position. They had naturally found the primary crime scene, albeit one shrouded in flames.

Beta's face was reflected in the glass window—a seemingly ordinary face that held a story. His pale blond hair fell slightly disheveled over his forehead, and deep-set eyes held icy blue pupils. Below his high, straight nose were thin, almost sharp lips. Such a classic Scandinavian face could easily blend into the crowds of London streets.

But if someone looks directly into his eyes, they will be unconsciously drawn in. Those blue eyes hold a depth of experience that belies his youthful face, as if countless untold nights are hidden deep within his pupils. When he slightly narrows his eyes, a few fine lines appear at the corners.

At that moment, the reflection in the windowpane was mirroring the police lights on the opposite bank of the river.

Beta sat at the oak desk, his fingertips lightly tapping the metal casing of the encrypted USB drive. With a soft "click," the computer screen lit up, and a red progress bar began to slowly advance in the black program interface.

He rested his chin on his hand, his icy blue pupils reflecting the data flashing on the screen.

Tomorrow's action plan was gradually taking shape in his mind; today's ambush was merely the first step in the entire game. The American tycoon lying in a pool of blood was not only a Wall Street financial giant but also a government-invited guest. The death of such a figure on British soil was destined to unleash a diplomatic storm.

When the Scotland Yard Chief Superintendent is forced to stand in the spotlight and hold a press conference, that will be the most crucial turning point in his plans.

Beta knew the British way of doing things all too well. The Foreign Office would remain silent, citing "sensitive times," while senior police officials would have to face the media onslaught alone.

When the progress bar reaches the end, an encrypted file pops up on the screen.

Beta's long, slender fingers danced across the keyboard, bringing up the security deployment plan for tomorrow's press conference. Every detail was meticulously calculated, like carefully placed pieces on a chessboard, waiting for the opponent to fall into a trap.

Beta's phone screen suddenly lit up, casting a cold light in the dimly lit room. A brief message from an "unknown contact" appeared on the lock screen.

He swiped open the screen; the message contained only a few simple words:
"Have you eaten? >-<"

Beta's lips unconsciously curled into a smile; this was definitely Ashley. Only she would send such a nonsensical greeting during a break from a mission, accompanied by that signature crooked smiley face emoji.

Her phone number was as elusive as her whereabouts, always using a different number to contact her. Beta's number, on the other hand, was like a fixed coordinate, always quietly waiting in her contacts.

His thumb paused on the keyboard for a moment before he replied:

"Just finished eating. How's everything going on your end?"

After sending the message, Beta placed the phone back on the table, a rare warmth flashing in her icy blue eyes.

(End of this chapter)