American variety show: Sniper Elite

Chapter 46 The truth?

London, MI6.

Medvedeva's team has finally made a breakthrough in their investigation.

Following the clues from the antique Mauser rifle, they tracked down a private collector. Guided by a profiling expert, the collector provided a detailed description of the buyer's physical characteristics, resulting in a precise portrait of the suspect.

Medvedeva stood with her arms crossed in front of the intelligence wall, her gaze sweeping over the densely packed case files. The entire wall was divided into several sections, each case accompanied by a corresponding suspect profile.

In the assassination of an American businessman, surveillance footage captured an elderly man with gray hair; in an antique gun deal, the buyer disguised himself as an Irish country gentleman and then as a Swedish military historian; in the Elliott Financial Company theft case, surveillance captured the appearance of a wanted criminal.

Each portrait is completely different—hair color, eye color, height, build, even voice. β is like a man of a thousand faces, always wearing a flawless mask whenever he appears in public.

Medvedeva's gaze lingered among the portraits covering the wall, her brows gradually furrowing into a tight knot.

Those strikingly different faces were silently mocking MI6's intelligence network.

She sat in the swivel chair, burying her face deeply in her arms. The coffee on her desk had long since gone cold, and condensation dripped from the cup onto the mountain of files.

This was the most difficult situation for intelligence work: all the information they had about β was useless. Every "true appearance" drawing created by the profiling team based on behavioral characteristics and psychological analysis was ultimately proven to be just "possible".

That ghostly assassin always appeared with a flawless new identity, his muscle memory and micro-expressions were impeccable.

Medvedeva looked up, her eyes bloodshot.

The portraits on the wall gleamed white under the fluorescent lights, and those fake faces seemed to be saying in unison: You will never catch me.

Medvedeva tapped her long, slender fingers lightly on the table, posing a question: "Why do you think Elliott dared to renege on his debt?"

The deputy set down his coffee cup, the porcelain clinking against the glass tabletop. "Perhaps...this Chief Superintendent's son thinks that a mere assassin is nothing more than a lowly commoner in his eyes?"

He shrugged. "After all, his father controls the entire London police force, so he thinks the assassin wouldn't dare do anything to him?"

Medvedeva slowly shook her head, her fingertip tracing a water droplet from the outside of the coffee cup across the table: "That's too far-fetched."

She stood up and walked to the window, where the London rain streamed down the glass: "Would the son of a chief superintendent be foolish enough to gamble his life for such a reason?"

The raindrops cast dappled shadows on her face: "Unless... he's certain the killer will never come looking for him."
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Doyle's gaze swept across the computer screen, the blue glow of the bank records dancing in his pupils.

He grabbed his phone, his fingers almost crushing the keys, and dialed a number.

“Tell me,” he forced out between clenched teeth, “when did you transfer the final payment to Elliott’s account?”

The cold light from the computer screen reflected on his ashen face: "Did you clearly tell Elliot that the hitman's final payment hadn't been settled? Did you assure him that you could take care of that hitman?"

A suffocating silence came from the receiver. The second hand of the clock on the office wall ticked a full circle before the call was abruptly disconnected, leaving only the urgent busy tone echoing in the empty office.

Doyle stared at the blacked-out phone screen, the truth churning in his stomach like a venomous snake.

With a muffled thud, the phone was smashed onto the solid wood table, leaving a crack, and the impact made the pen and folder jump.

He looked back at the screen; the raw bank data, accessed through privileged access, now seemed to mock his folly. Every transaction record proved that someone had meticulously orchestrated this misunderstanding. Doyle's fingers trembled as he pressed the redial button, and the call connected almost instantly.

He suppressed the rage surging in his chest: "What the hell do you guys want?! Why did you drag my son into this?! Are you declaring war on me?!"

A long silence followed the receiver, so long that Doyle thought the other party had hung up.

A voice slowly rang out: "Doyle, it was you who personally sent that female reporter to your bed. It was you who couldn't control your mouth and leaked secrets you shouldn't have said. It was you who made us leak the list, causing us to lose immeasurable losses."

"Doyle, do you really think a mere female reporter has the power to write a column on television exposing us? You're even more foolish than I think. She's just a frontrunner for our arch-enemy."

"You have no idea how many core interests we gave up to cover up the hole caused by your leaks. The nomination rights for three key positions, controlling stakes in five overseas assets, and the handover of the entire Eastern European intelligence network—these should have been ours!"

"And you? You're nothing but a useless piece of trash who can't control his lower body! When we executed that female reporter and started cutting our losses, who did you think should be held responsible? Ourselves?"

"Your son is just the beginning. We will slowly reap the rewards until every bone in your body has paid for our losses!"

Doyle's voice boomed through the office: "Fuck you!"

The veins on his forehead bulged: "You bunch of vampires who feed on the lifeblood of the nation!"

Spittle flew across the documents on his desk: "While I was serving the country, you were still counting dirty money in the gutter!"

"You want war, huh?" Doyle loosened his tie. "Then bring it on!"

He roared into the microphone, enunciating each word clearly: "Let's see who's the first to be hanged from the flagpole in Capitol Square!"

The phone was slammed against the wall and shattered into pieces with a loud crash. Amidst the flying plastic fragments, Doyle gasped for breath.

Outside the window, the London night sky was being swallowed by dark clouds, and the distant rumble of thunder could be faintly heard. The rain was getting heavier and heavier, and the sound of raindrops hitting the glass was like a dense war drum.

Doyle's thoughts churned like the sea in a storm.

His son, who was neither particularly clever nor stupid, was meticulously plotted to become the prey of assassins because of a small outstanding payment.

How ironic that those people used sweet talk to deceive Elliot, claiming they would take care of the killer, while deliberately concealing the final payment that still needed to be made. Thus, a carefully woven lie, a deliberately fabricated "misunderstanding," made his son's life a victim of this conspiracy.

And all of this started with that damned female reporter.

Doyle remembered that night, the whiskey, the woman's soft body and sweet smile—it was an elaborate trap, and he had walked right into it like a fool.

Now, retribution has come. Not to him, but to his only child.

Doyle let out a beast-like growl and swept the documents off his desk.

　Many readers are asking why Eliot would renege on his promise, and this explains it all. But is that really all there is to it? Impossible. There are many ways to play the political game.

　　
　
(End of this chapter)