American variety show: Sniper Elite

Chapter 44 Collapse
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Beta kicked the priest down the passageway. The priest tumbled down the stone steps, crashing through the narrow passage with a series of painful screams. Before the echoes could fade, Beta pulled a stun grenade from his back and threw it into the deep passageway.

The stun grenade bounced twice crisply against the granite wall before finally rolling deep into the underground chamber. A muffled boom followed by a blinding white light exploded, instantly illuminating the end of the passage as if it were daytime.

Beta walked down the steps with his rifle in his hand.

The priest was curled up on the ground, clutching his ears in pain, while the two gangsters guarding the gate were slumped against the wall. Beta dealt with the two incapacitated guards, grabbed the priest by the collar, and dragged him to the heavy gate.

With the gun pressed against the priest's temple, Beta gestured with his eyes to the combination lock.

The priest, trembling, propped himself up, his blood-stained fingers laboriously typing the password on the numeric keypad. With a beep, the hydraulic mechanism of the gate emitted a dull thud and slowly slid open to both sides.

The priest slumped against the wall: "Are you taking all of this with you?"

Beta did not answer and walked straight to the storage room.

He swept rows of gold coins from the display shelf into his backpack, the metallic clanging sound particularly crisp in the enclosed space. Then, he overturned all the paper documents, CDs, and hard drives, piling them up on the floor.

Beta pulled a large bottle of lighter fluid from the side pocket of his backpack and poured it over the pile of items on the ground. The clear liquid meandered across the pile of documents, and he even used the tip of his shoe to stir the lighter fluid evenly among the items, making sure every piece of paper was soaked in the flammable liquid.

After doing all this, Beta turned around and asked condescendingly, "Did you bring your phone?"

The priest trembled as he pulled an old-fashioned flip phone from the inside pocket of his robe.

“Call Vigo.” Beta tapped the priest’s temple lightly with the muzzle of his gun. “Tell him something’s happened here.”

Facing the dark barrel of the gun, the priest's trembling fingers could barely press the button.

After the call connected, he said into the receiver, his voice trembling with tears, "Mr. Vigo... Something's happened at the church."

On the other end of the phone, Vigo's voice was somber: "What happened at the church?"

The priest, his eyes trembling, looked up at Beta, cold sweat trickling down his wrinkles: "There's a Mr. Paul Ostrovsky who asked me to call you."

Silence fell on the other end of the line.

Vigo clearly understood the situation; the attacker was right next to the phone. When he spoke again, his tone had become a direct interrogation: "Mr. Paul Ostrovsky, what do you want?"

Beta pressed the muzzle of his gun against the priest's temple.

He spoke into his phone, and also into Vigo on the other end, saying, "Paul Korchagin is the protagonist of the novel 'How the Steel Was Tempered' by Soviet writer Nikolai Ostrovsky."

"The most precious thing a person has is life. Everyone only has one life. A person's life should be lived in such a way that when they look back, they will not regret wasting their years, nor be ashamed of having accomplished nothing. Do you understand, you two fools!"

Before the words were even finished, Beta decisively pulled the trigger. The priest's head snapped back with the gunshot, blood and brain matter splattering onto the stone wall behind him. A second shot followed, and the still-connected cell phone exploded into pieces, electronic components flying everywhere.

The room fell silent again, save for the pungent smell of lighter fluid and the lingering smoke of gunpowder.
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Vigo gripped his phone tightly, his knuckles turning white from the force.

When the last gunshot rang out through the receiver, he slammed his phone onto the solid wood desk, hysterically roaring, "Сукаблядь! (You damn son of a bitch!)" The mahogany desk was dented, and phone parts flew everywhere.

Vigo, panting heavily, leaned on the table, veins bulging on his temples. He loosened his tie and paced back and forth in his spacious new office, his Italian handmade leather shoes leaving deep dents in the carpet. Every few steps, he kicked a priceless antique cabinet hard, the sound echoing throughout the room.

"Find him!" He stopped and roared at the empty office, "Find that bastard! I want to skin him alive with my own hands!"

The furious shouts echoed between the floor-to-ceiling windows, while the lights of New York City outside remained dazzling.

Vigo's bodyguard approached: "Boss, are we heading to the church now?"

Vigo nodded grimly: "Gather everyone, let's go!"

Four black Chevrolet Suburban SUVs roared out of the underground garage, their tires screeching on the asphalt. Vigo sat in the back of the second car, his fingers tapping impatiently on the leather seat as he repeatedly redialed the church guard's number.

"Damn it!" He slammed his phone onto the seat for the fifth time; none of the numbers answered. The street scenes outside the car window rushed past, and Vigo's temples throbbed. He just hoped that the madman was only after money and wouldn't touch the documents.

Those files are far more than just ordinary transaction records.

Those were his power networks built over many years: videotapes of city councilors accepting bribes, bank statements showing judges involved in money laundering, and high-resolution photos of the police chief drinking and chatting with drug dealers at a strip club. Each document was a bargaining chip in his control of half of New York City, the foundation of his ability to wield influence in both the legal and illegal worlds.

"Drive faster!" Vigo slapped the back of the driver's seat; his shirt was already soaked with sweat.

Four black Chevrolet Suburbans tore through the night, their tires screeching as they cut across the gravel path of the church garden.

Before the car had even come to a complete stop, Vigo limped off.

Beta stood on the rooftop opposite the church, watching Vigo lead his men into the church. His glacial blue eyes, hidden in the darkness, churned with the predatory pleasure characteristic of a predator.

Beta slowly walked down the rooftop.

Vigo entered the church, and a strong stench of blood assaulted his nostrils. His men lay sprawled in pools of blood, shards of stained glass scattered everywhere.

The most despairing thing was the billowing black smoke gushing out of the basement, and several henchmen frantically dragging fire hoses in an attempt to extinguish the flames inside the vault.

Standing on the basement steps, Vigo's face was distorted in the firelight. He knew better than anyone what these documents, reduced to ashes, meant.

Those officials under his control will immediately turn against him, the police chief will be the first to raid his stronghold, and judges will rush to issue arrest warrants. His power empire, painstakingly built over many years, will crumble after tonight.

“Blyad!” Vigo’s roar echoed beneath the church dome.

He stormed out of the church, hands shoved deep into his trench coat pockets, and kicked the flowerbed. Delicate tulip petals scattered and fluttered in the night.

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(End of this chapter)