Flip the table and divide the family property! Take his wife and daughter into the mountains and eat

Belikov's roar echoed across the vast snowfield, carrying a hysterical quality of someone who had survived a catastrophe.

He huddled desperately into Ivanov's arms, holding the knife in his right hand and the charred, mangled flesh in his left hand tightly gripping Ivanov's throat. The two of them were like two bugs stuck together with glue in the snow pit.

"Shoot! You think you're so accurate?!"

Belikov felt the throbbing in Ivanov's carotid artery, and his eyes welled up with excitement. "Ivanov, tell your men to throw out their guns! Otherwise, I'll rip a hole in your neck!"

Ivanov, whose neck was being strangled, had his old face swollen to a purplish-black from suffocation, but his gray-blue eyes were still fixed on the direction of the forest.

"Stop...stop calling out..."

Ivanov forced out a broken sound, his voice sounding like sandpaper due to the compression of his trachea, "Belikov...you think...holding me...he won't dare to shoot?"

Belikov sneered, plunging the knife a little deeper into the flesh, blood trickling down the blade and into Ivanov's coat collar.

"He dares to fire a shot! If I die, you'll be buried with me!"

Two hundred meters away.

Zhao Shanhe's fingers remained as steady as a rock, showing no fluctuation even though only a small part of Belikov's forehead was visible in the crosshair.

He was waiting for a moment of respite, or for an opportunity to get Ivanov to cooperate.

"Zhao Shanhe!"

Ivanov suddenly shouted with all his might.

His shout caused his chest to heave violently, forcing Belikov, who was huddled behind him, to sway slightly.

"Don't move!"

Belikov was so startled that his hair stood on end, and he thrust the knife inward with a sudden movement.

But Ivanov seemed to have gone mad. He completely ignored the sharp knife at his neck, and his swollen hands suddenly gripped Belikov's right wrist, which was holding the knife, and he desperately tilted to the side.

He committed suicide.

Or rather, he was creating that one second of vision for the sniper.

"Sukabul!"

Belikov never expected that this old fox would dare to risk his life. He held Ivanov tightly with his left hand and tried to pull the knife back with his right.

In that very instant.

A gap less than three fingers wide appeared between Ivanov's shoulder and Belikov's head.

Deep in the forest, Zhao Shanhe's pupils suddenly contracted. In the fraction of a second that the gap appeared, his brain had already calculated the wind drift and lead time.

"Bang!"

This gunshot was crisper than any before; it was the whistling sound of a bullet breaking the sound barrier.

The bullet sliced ​​across the snowfield, arcing with death, grazing Ivanov's ear tip before precisely embedding itself in the crook of Belikov's charred left arm, which was desperately choking his neck.

"Snap!"

That was the sound of bones being violently shattered.

"ah--!"

Belikov let out a piercing scream, his already crippled left hand finally giving way.

Because his balance was instantly broken, Belikov's body involuntarily tilted upwards towards the snow pit.

Half a head.

In the instant the cold wind swept through the snow and mist, half of Belikov's head was exposed without any cover to the cold crosshairs.

Zhao Shanhe did not hesitate at all.

The instant he fired the first shot, his right palm had already skillfully pushed open the bolt. With a crisp "clink," a scorching hot brass cartridge case arced through the air and fell into the thick snow, stirring up a barely perceptible plume of white smoke.

Push the cartridge, load the chamber, lock the chamber.

The entire set of movements was fluid and fast, almost like a physiological instinct.

"Bang!"

The second shot rang out almost simultaneously with the echo of the first.

That was Death's final pronouncement.

The bullet pierced Belikov's left eye socket with pinpoint accuracy, its powerful kinetic energy instantly shredding the tissues inside his brain before exiting through his occipital bone. Belikov's piercing scream abruptly ceased.

He remained in that backward-leaning posture, the dagger in his right hand slipping from his grasp and embedding itself in the frozen ground beside Ivanov.

Then, his two-hundred-pound body fell straight backward like a piece of sawn-off rotten wood, crashing heavily onto the edge of the snow pit and kicking up a cloud of fine snow powder.

The wind is still blowing.

The snowy night returned to deathly silence, leaving only Belikov's still-warm body twitching slightly.

Ivanov collapsed into the snow pit, coughing violently from exhaustion; each breath carried the smell of blood and ice.

His right hand trembled as he touched the bloody gash on his neck, the one Belikov had pressed into by his dagger.

The wound was deep, with the skin and flesh turned inside out. The cold air rushed in, causing his eyes to twitch in pain.

This was the last mark left by that bastard Belikov.

Ivanov glanced sideways at Belikov, who lay beside him, staring blankly with his one eye like a dead fish. His once arrogant head was now missing half of its head, and red and white substances were slowly seeping into the snow.

"Suka..."

The old fox cursed in a hoarse voice, then seemed to collapse from exhaustion, sinking limply into the snowdrift.

He looked up at the dark, gloomy night sky above him, exhaling large puffs of white smoke, each rise and fall of his chest aggravating the wound on his neck.

Two hundred meters away.

Zhao Shanhe slowly released the trigger. He did not get up immediately, but remained in the ambush position, observing for a full five seconds through the high-powered scope.

After confirming that all the targets were completely dead, he pulled back the bolt and ejected the last spent cartridge.

He brushed the snow off his clothes, picked up the heavy spear, and walked step by step, leaving deep craters in his path, toward the still-smoking wooden house.

……

When Zhao Shanhe reached the edge of the snow pit, Ivanov was lying in the snow, panting.

Half of his face was covered in snow that had melted from the fire, and the bloody gash on his neck looked like a red centipede with its flesh torn open, still oozing thick blood.

His hands were trembling as he pulled a roll of first-aid bandage, which was crushed and deformed, from his coat pocket.

Ivanov bit down hard on one end of the bandage, and with a sudden tug of his right hand, he clumsily wrapped it around his neck using the strength of his teeth.

With each tightening of the belt, the fat on his old face trembled violently.

Hearing the solid sound of leather boots crushing the ice, Ivanov turned his head with difficulty.

When Ivanov saw Zhao Shanhe emerge from the snow and shadows carrying a long spear, he was taken aback for a moment, then smiled.

The smile strained the muscles in his neck, causing him to gasp in pain, but he still stubbornly raised his right hand and slowly gave Zhao Shanhe a thumbs up.

"Zhao".

"Great shot. Fuck, great shot."

Zhao Shanhe did not respond to that sentence.

He first glanced down at Belikov's mangled head, then at Ivanov's clumsy bandaging, and frowned slightly.

"How badly are you injured?"

Ivanov tightened the handkerchief, tying it into a tight knot. His fingertips were stained with a little sticky red, but he grinned, seemingly unconcerned.

"It's nothing. I just got bitten by a mosquito."

After he finished speaking, he took two deep breaths filled with icy air, reached into the snow beside him, pulled out a small tin box wrapped tightly in a thick tarpaulin, and pushed it forcefully toward Zhao Shanhe's feet.

"Zhao".

"Here's the medicine you wanted."

Zhao Shanhe looked down at the tin box.

The tarpaulin was stained with blood and snow, and the corners of the box were warped from being knocked, but the locks were still intact.

Ivanov then pulled a small, warm key from his pocket and tossed it over.

"They're all inside. Don't linger here; it's almost dawn, you should leave now."

Zhao Shanhe took the key, squatted down, and opened the metal box.

Inside, layers of shock-absorbing cotton cloth were used to line the compartments, where medicine boxes, syringes, and glass bottles lay securely.

He glanced at it only once, then slammed the box shut and picked it up.

Ivanov leaned against the edge of the snow pit, his bandaged wound revealing a dark red stain, and said in a low, hoarse voice:

"I'll handle the bodies here, and the tails that follow. Your brother is waiting to be saved, so don't dawdle."

Zhao Shanhe stood in the wind, carrying his medicine box, and glanced at him.

The wind blew in from the woods, carrying the pungent smell of blood and the scorched smell of decaying wood, swirling back and forth between the two.

After two breaths, Zhao Shanhe finally spoke:

"Ivan."

Ivanov looked up at him.

Zhao Shanhe, carrying the tin suitcase, spoke in a voice as calm as a bottomless pool of water:

"I've agreed to what you asked for."

Ivanov's expression suddenly froze.

He seemed surprised that Zhao Shanhe would give an answer at this time. His gray-blue eyes stared intently at Zhao Shanhe for a long while before he finally uttered a single word in a low voice:

"it is good."

Zhao Shanhe didn't say another word, picked up the tin box, turned around and disappeared into the dark, snowy depths.