American variety show: Sniper Elite

Chapter 38 Chase
"Vigo, where is your son?"

Vigo's teeth were grinding together.

In the sixty years of this gangster's life, he had never been so humiliated, cowering under the oak table like a stray dog, the scorching smell of gunpowder from the bullet holes close at hand, and flying sawdust scratching his cheeks.

At this moment, he no longer possessed any of the dignity of a gang leader.
His suit was covered in concrete dust, his meticulously styled hair was studded with wood chips, and his face, which struck fear into the hearts of the entire New York underworld, now had several splinters stuck in it. Blood trickled down his arm, leaving dark red stains on the Persian carpet.

“We…we really didn’t have to come to this.” Vigo’s voice suddenly choked up, sounding like a child whose candy had been taken away.

This gangster boss, who had personally executed countless traitors, was now wiping the corners of his eyes with his dust-covered sleeve. It was unclear whether the tears were from the dust or from the despair of having his lifelong dignity shattered.

"Where is your son, Vigo?"

Vigo wiped the concrete dust from the corner of his mouth with the back of his trembling hand, his voice hoarse: "Tell me you'll kill him?"

"That oak table isn't very big; how many bullets can you dodge?"

"Answer me!" Vigo roared, "Are you going to kill him or not?!"

His response was a bullet that pierced the solid wood tabletop, sending splinters flying into Vigo's thigh.

He suddenly arched his back, biting down the scream that was about to burst out of his mouth, only managing a muffled groan from his nose, and blood quickly soaked through the cloth.

"Where is your son, Vigo?"

Vigo jerked the splinter out of his leg, and blood gushed from the wound. He pressed hard on his femoral artery, forcing out a sentence through gritted teeth: "Red Circle Club, fuck you!"

He hurled the blood-stained wooden splinter at the bullet-riddled glass. The splinter struck the glass and fell, splashing dark red ripples in the pool of blood.
-
Inside the building 230 meters away, Beta methodically cleaned up the shooting scene.

The M99 sniper rifle, purchased from a hotel in mainland China, lay quietly in its place; this inexpensive and high-quality weapon wasn't worth taking.

He poured hydrogen peroxide all over the gun, even soaking the remaining bullets in the magazine. Finally, he carefully drenched the spot where he had been lying prone.

After confirming that all traces had been properly removed, he calmly left.
In the lobby of the office building, two security guards were tied together back to back.

They heard gunshots coming from upstairs and frantically tried to break free. First, they twisted and turned, trying to untie the ropes, but found they couldn't get any strength. Then they tried to stand up, but failed repeatedly because they were unbalanced. Finally, the two could only stand up unsteadily by working together back to back.

Just then, with a "ding," the elevator doors slowly opened.

The security guard facing the elevator was the first to see the Eastern European standing inside. His fierce eyes made his legs go weak instantly, and he dragged his companion down with him, causing them to fall heavily to the ground.

The security guards trapped underneath made muffled groans; both of them had something stuffed in their mouths, so they couldn't speak or spit it out.

Beta, disguised as an Eastern European, slowly walked up to the two security guards. He then delivered a powerful punch to the man who had closed his eyes in despair, knocking the guard off his companion unconscious.

Then, he flipped the two men over by pulling on the rope with one hand, and like a sandbag, delivered another precise straight punch to the other security guard's chin.

After confirming that both of them were in a deep coma, he walked out of the hall without looking back.

Beta never targets pointless individuals, like these two harmless security guards. When he entered the lobby with his gun, the two men, without even a word, instinctively stood back-to-back; it was hard to imagine why they were so practiced. Beta was pleased with their tactful cooperation, so he simply used his fists to put them to a quiet sleep.

Beta's figure blended into the shadows outside the building.

At the street corner, John Wick was leaning against a black BMW 5 Series, waiting.

The car door clicked open, and Beta slid into the passenger seat: "To the Red Circle Club." The engine roared, and the BMW slowly drove into the night. Several patrol cars with flashing lights passed by them, completely unaware of the car.

After a moment of silence, John, with one hand on the steering wheel, asked, "Vigo is dead?"

Beta gazed at the neon lights flashing past the window: "Do you want him dead?"

“When collecting debts, only go to the rightful owner,” John said calmly.

“Then you can rest assured.” Beta chuckled. “He was hiding under the desk; I didn’t even see a hair on his head.”

Beta asked, "Did you bring everything?"

John gave a brief "yeah."

Beta turned around and pulled a black bag out of the back seat.

He first took out a Kevlar jacket, a special supply from the Continental Hotel, which could stop bullets but not pain. Next came a bulletproof vest, a tactical waist belt, and finally a pair of blast goggles and a half-helmet Kevlar helmet.

“The goggles and helmet weren’t my orders,” Beta said, weighing the two pieces of equipment in his hand.

“I added it,” John replied, looking straight ahead.

Beta pulled on his jacket, then layered a bulletproof vest over it. He tightened his tactical belt and pulled a modified M&P-15 short-barreled rifle from his holster. The 11.5-inch coated barrel, sound suppressor, and optimized recoil system made this weapon virtually invincible at close range.

Aside from the essential holographic sight, the gun is clean and sleek. With a click as the magazine went into its slot, Beta finished loading the weapon. He tucked the Glock 19 into his holster, put on his riot goggles, and tucked his helmet under his arm.

"You're wearing this bulletproof suit?" Beta scrutinized John's impeccably tailored attire. "Are you sure it's enough?"

John replied, "Habit becomes second nature."

The low growl of the BMW engine was deliberately suppressed, quietly merging into the sparse traffic of the late night.

The car windows blocked out most of the city noise, leaving only the hum of the machinery inside. Huge neon billboards on the towering skyscrapers lining the streets flowed across the car windows, first an exaggerated lip gloss ad for a female celebrity, then a bubbly champagne advertisement, followed by a blue and white plastic surgery clinic sign.

These dazzling lights briefly graced John and Beta's faces before being quickly swallowed by darkness.

The car slowed down and entered a quiet back street. Outside a bar, several drunken men and women were arguing loudly, one of them waving his arms excitedly. Further away, two streetlights were out, plunging a section of the block into deeper darkness.

"We're almost there." Beta's voice rang out in the enclosed space of the car, clearly drowning out the engine noise.

He bent down to check the safety on his M&P-15 rifle and adjusted the tightness of his glasses.

The car stopped, and John opened the door.

Beta fastened his Kevlar half-helmet with a sharp, almost jarring click.

Beta said, "I never imagined that one day I would be doing this kind of rough, head-on work."

　Cut the weeds and eliminate the roots, understand? Understand? We'll deal with the rest.

　　
　
(End of this chapter)