American variety show: Sniper Elite

Chapter 42 Attack
Beta ripped off his seatbelt and kicked the deformed car door hard.

With a loud bang, the twisted car door sprang open. He raised his rifle, the red dot in the scope locked firmly on the receding Mercedes. He pulled the trigger repeatedly, bullets scattering dazzling sparks in the wrecked rear of the Mercedes, but unfortunately, they all hit insignificant spots.

With a screeching sound of tires, the silver Mercedes made a near-drift turn at the street corner and disappeared completely into the night.

Beta slowly lowered the smoking rifle, his knuckles white from the excessive force.

Beta took a deep breath to suppress the surging anger in his chest, pulled out his phone, and quickly dialed an encrypted number. The distinctive notification tone of a mainland hotel "cleaner" came through the receiver.
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Beta pushed open the oak door of the Continental Hotel suite, and the stench of blood hit him.

John lay supine on the leather sofa, his shirt soaked in blood, turning a dark red, the wound on his abdomen gaping open in a gruesome manner. The Continental Hotel's chief physician, wearing rubber gloves, stood by, the suture needles gleaming coldly under the portable operating lights.

“Don’t move.” The doctor frowned and pressed down on John’s tense abdominal muscles. “If this glass were half an inch deeper, it would have blown your intestines out of shape.”

Beta leaned silently against the doorframe, watching the sutures weave through John's skin. Each time the needle pierced flesh, John's knuckles turned white on the sofa armrest, but his sharply defined face remained impassive.

Beta stared for a moment, then turned and walked to the bar in the corner of the suite. The clinking of crystal glasses against ice cubes was particularly crisp in the quiet room: "Still think of yourself as that invincible tough guy?"

He swirled the amber-colored liquor, his tone laced with a hint of mockery.

The doctor, who was tidying up his equipment, looked up and sized up the unfamiliar face. As a senior physician at the Continental Hotel, he had long since learned to remain silent about the guest's identity. After all, even the most ordinary waiters here understood the ironclad rule of "don't ask what you shouldn't ask."

"The wound has been stitched up." The doctor tossed the latex gloves into the medical waste bin, the metal instruments clinking crisply in the sterilizer. "But remember to avoid strenuous activity."

He took a medicine bottle with a red label from the bottom of the first-aid kit and gently placed it on the coffee table: "Take two tablets each time in an emergency. It blocks the transmission of pain nerve signals, however..."

The doctor paused for a moment: "It's very addictive."

John stared silently at the medicine bottle, the neon lights outside the window flickering on his sharply defined face. The doctor tidied the room, nodded politely to Beta, and then left.

Beta took a few sips of his drink and gently placed the glass on the table. "I need to see Manager Weston."

John nodded slightly: "He definitely knows Vigo's whereabouts. Finding Vigo will lead to Iosef's capture."

"Mm," Beta replied briefly.

John tentatively tried to get up: "Let's go find Weston."

Beta shook his head decisively: "Wrong, I'm going alone."

He looked at John: "Do you think you're still John Wick in your twenties? This is not negotiable."

Beta drew the thick curtains, shutting out all possible light sources that could cast shadows on the window. He dragged a floor lamp to the window and opened it close to the windowpane. As a skilled sniper, he knew how to defend against a deadly attack from the shadows.

Beta suddenly heard a "beep" sound as the suite door was opened by swiping a magnetic card.

He immediately put his index finger to his lips, gesturing for John to be quiet, and then slipped into the shadows behind the door. With a soft click, the door was slowly pushed open.

John pretended to be asleep, lying motionless on the sofa.

The first thing to slip into the room was a black pistol fitted with a silencer. Immediately after, a woman with black hair cautiously entered. She wore a fitted leather jacket and tactical trousers, moving with the lightness of a cat. Beta's eyes locked onto the pistol. Once the gunman was fully inside, he suddenly struck from behind the door.

He gripped the woman's right wrist, which was holding the gun, with his right hand, twisted it smoothly, and simultaneously flashed out. A sharp knee strike landed precisely on the woman's chest, while his left hand cleaved the wrist joint like a knife, and the pistol fell to the ground. Before the woman could react, he had already raised her arm high, and his left arm smoothly tucked under her right armpit. With a crisp "click," the woman's right arm dislocated and hung limply.

Beta gave his opponent no chance to retaliate, immediately followed up with a heavy hook to the opponent's abdomen. Taking advantage of the moment when his opponent bent over in pain, he kicked her shin with his right leg. As the attacker lost her balance and staggered backward, Beta swiftly raised his leg and swept her ankle, cleanly and decisively knocking her to the ground.

The entire subjugation process was smooth and efficient; Beta even had the leisure to close the door behind him, shutting out the corridor.

Beta subdued the intruder, pressing her knee heavily against her lower back and gripping her neck with both hands: "As someone in the same profession, you should know the consequences of a broken spine."

He leaned down and whispered in the female assassin's ear, "Can you explain why you're visiting this room so late at night? Are you lost?"

John approached, gun in hand, and in the lamplight, he recognized the female assassin: "Perkins?"

Perkins, subdued, hung limply at his sides, blood dripping from his nose and down his chin, yet he still managed a strained smile: "Hi, John. Long time no see."

John crouched down: "Just how many gold coins did Vigo give you that made you break the rules of the Continental Hotel to kill me?"

Perkins managed to utter a few words: "Four gold coins."

"Looks like my life is worth a lot."

Perkins forced a bloodstained smile: "Vigo's asking price for your head is $200 million."

John nodded slowly: "Where is Vigo now?"

“I don’t know,” Perkins said, uncooperatively.

Beta tightened her grip, and Perkins let out a bloodcurdling scream. Beta loosened her hold, and after she caught her breath, whispered in her ear, "The principle of a professional assassin is simple: kill or make money. Do you want to spend the rest of your life paralyzed, Ms. Perkins?"

Fine beads of sweat appeared on Perkins' forehead, wetting her disheveled black hair. She tried to pry open Beta's grip with her left hand, but Beta's arm remained unmoved.

She gritted her teeth and repeated, "I really don't know."

The next second, an even more intense pain struck. Beta applied pressure for a full five seconds, and Perkins' screams echoed throughout the suite. When the pressure was released again, she gasped for breath like a stranded fish, each breath pulling at her injured lower back.

Where is Vigo?

Perkins finally broke down: "The most important things in Vigo are hidden in the Orthodox church in the Little Russian Quarter."

Her voice was broken and intermittent, each word accompanied by painful gasps.

"Thank you for your cooperation," Beta said politely.

(End of this chapter)