American variety show: Sniper Elite

Chapter 16 Debt Collection Part 3
The piercing sound of police sirens echoed through the streets.

Beta had changed into a new disguise, abandoning the gray Ford, and was now sitting in an inconspicuous Volkswagen sedan, staring intently at the movements of the Concordia Building through the tinted windows.

Inside the building's server room, Elliott, the son of the Scotland Yard's chief superintendent, stood with a livid face in front of the opened security door. He stood with his hands on his hips, while forensic personnel gathered evidence around him.

"You fucking explain yourself!" Elliott grabbed the network manager by the collar, his voice low but filled with malice: "All the hard drives containing transaction records, all that shady data, all gone fucking?"

The network administrator's legs trembled uncontrollably, his Adam's apple bobbing: "Yes, yes."

He swallowed hard: "Someone used a high-access card to not only open the security door to the server room, but also... and unlock all the server racks with sensor locks."

Elliott shoved his supervisor to the ground, who scrambled to his feet and knocked over a piece of equipment. His sinister gaze swept over the room full of police officers, then he turned to his deputy and said, "Call a meeting!"

The deputy leaned closer: "Which departments need to be notified?"

"Everyone!" Elliott roared, his voice booming through the server room, startling several officers who were collecting evidence.

After his deputy hurriedly left, Elliott's bodyguard quickly stepped forward and handed him a cell phone: "Sir, this is the surveillance footage from when the incident occurred."

Elliott took the phone with a grim face.

In the footage, four security guards are chatting casually, occasionally glancing at the monitor screen—a typical routine for them. A blonde little girl appears outside the lobby door. Although the surveillance audio captures the security guards' clear conversation, the child's faint voice is completely filtered out.

Then, a perplexing scene unfolded: the four security guards huddled together and inexplicably opened the door. The first guard was shot in the forehead and fell; a deep male voice shouted, "Catch!"; the second guard instinctively caught a flying Coke can, his head exploding with blood; the remaining two, barely touching their holsters, were then taken down one after another. Finally, a masked, obese man burst into the frame, roughly grabbed the little girl, and cut off the surveillance signal.

Elliott stared at the now-black video feed: "Which idiot hired these morons? Who gave them the right to open the door without permission?"

Elliott asked, "Have you investigated these two men thoroughly?"

The bodyguard immediately handed over a freshly printed file: "The blonde girl is seven years old, and her clothing description perfectly matches the missing persons report from a week ago."

He turned to the second page: "That fat man is a wanted criminal, suspected of multiple kidnappings and armed robberies. All information has been verified by Scotland Yard and is absolutely reliable."

Elliott gripped the two pieces of paper, his knuckles turning white: "So you mean...!"

His voice suddenly rose: "A kidnapped girl 'coincidentally' escaped to our building for help, and these four idiots obediently opened the door, only to be wiped out by her kidnappers?"

He slammed the documents on the table: "Then someone explain to me, where the hell is my hard drive?!"

Elliott, hands on his hips, asked, "What about the surrounding surveillance footage? Did they capture any other suspicious individuals?"

The bodyguard pulled up another video clip: "The security cameras in the office building across the street captured the follow-up. The girl escaped from the kidnappers a second time."

He zoomed in on the blurry street corner in the footage: "I suspect a third party intervened to hold off the kidnappers; otherwise, it's hard to explain how a child could escape twice. It's highly likely."

He glanced cautiously at his boss: "This is the mysterious person who stole our hard drive."

Elliott rubbed his face vigorously and slumped into his chair. "Arrange for the shareholders to meet at the Forest Club." His voice was hoarse. "I'll personally explain this incident, mobilize all resources to trace the hard drive, and that data must not be leaked, understand?"

At that moment, a police officer stepped out of the elevator, clutching a document: "Mr. Elliott, the medical examiner's preliminary report indicates a significant discrepancy between the times of death of the four victims and the surveillance footage."

Elliott looked up and said, "Explain yourself!"

"The Chief Superintendent believes there are only two possibilities," the officer said, his voice trailing off. "Either the time of death was misjudged, or the surveillance footage has been tampered with; the entire sequence of events may be reversed."

"So what Father meant was," Elliott said, pressing his knuckles to his temple, "that the video itself might be problematic?"

Seeing the officer nod, Elliott angrily kicked over a chair: "Fuck!"

The whole incident is like a tangled knot: kidnapping, shooting, hard drive theft, possible internal traitors, contradictions between the security guard's death time and surveillance footage, and suspected forged surveillance videos. All the clues are messily intertwined and impossible to unravel.

The limited police force was torn apart.

The kidnapping task force is tracking down the kidnapped girl based on the smallest clues; the shooting investigation team's work keeps overlapping with that of the kidnapping team; and the officers investigating the crime scene and the stolen goods are all crammed into this building, hindering each other.

The entire investigation system was like a muddy quagmire, with all the clues mixed up and no usable leads could be found.

Elliott tilted his head back, closed his eyes, and took a deep breath: "To the Forest Club."

He straightened his suit collar: "Let's keep those old foxes calm first, then we'll deal with the mole within."

The bodyguard immediately understood and escorted him to the private elevator directly to the underground parking garage. The black Maybach was already running, its engine humming softly. The bodyguard opened the car door, carefully placing his hand on the doorframe. Once Elliott was seated, the car silently slid out of its parking space, leaving the chaos of the Concordia Building far behind.

Beta lowered his binoculars. He quickly started the engine, and the Volkswagen silently merged into the traffic, maintaining a perfect tracking distance.

Elliott's car wasn't a professionally armored vehicle, but Beta's professional eye immediately spotted the flaws: the doors were slightly thicker than the standard model, and the glass had an abnormal refractive index, clearly indicating the addition of a lightweight bulletproof system. This modification could withstand pistol bullets and long-range rifle fire, but at close range, it would be as flimsy as paper.

Beta continued his pursuit to the outskirts of London, and as the Maybach turned onto the private road leading to the Forest Club, he slowly applied the brakes.

This one-way street is like a straight arrow, leading only to that hidden club. Continuing to follow it would only expose ourselves.

In the art of tracking, the most difficult part is always finding the first clue. Once the target's trajectory is locked, any competent tracker can follow it like a hound.

Now, Beta needs a deeper intelligence network. In this city, any "ambitious person" willing to bow down for the Continental Hotel's gold coins will rush to provide him with all the information he needs.

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(End of this chapter)