American variety show: Sniper Elite

Chapter 50 Paris, France
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Paris, Charles de Gaulle Airport.

In the bustling arrival hall, Beta, carrying a black suitcase, strolled calmly through the noisy space. Announcements in French and English played intermittently, the sounds of luggage wheels rolling mingling with hurried footsteps.

His gaze swept quickly across the crowd, without lingering, yet taking in every detail. The 16D lockers were not far away, their gray-blue metal doors gleaming coldly under the fluorescent lights.

He walked straight over, his cleaned hands pulling open the cabinet door, the hinges creaking softly. Inside lay a crumpled McDonald's wrapper, oil stains leaving pale yellow marks on the paper.

Beta picked up the paper bag, and inside, a BMW key slid into his palm, cold and heavy.

He nonchalantly slipped the keys into his pocket and glanced around again. The security cameras rolled lazily, and travelers hurried past with their suitcases, no one giving him a second look. The face behind the baseball cap and sunglasses was his own, but at this moment, he needed it to be different.

Turn around and enter the narrow passage between two rows of lockers.

The camel coat had a lead-gray lining, and when turned inside out, it looked like a completely different coat; the baseball cap was stuffed into the backpack, revealing short, dyed black hair; the handles of the duffel bag were tucked in and out, turning it into a backpack worn on the back; and then a different style of sunglasses was put on to cover the eye color.

When he re-entered the crowd, even his gait had changed; his shoulders slumped, his steps were unsteady, like a local who had just gotten off a plane. Ten seconds. From international traveler to local passerby, a transformation was completed in a blind spot of the surveillance cameras.

Beta walked along the wall, where trash cans were evenly spaced along the path.

He didn't stop, his fingers deftly prying open the key case, removing the remote battery, and casually tossing it into the nearest trash can. With another push, the key chip broke off and silently slid into the next trash can. Now, all he had left was a bare mechanical key.

In the parking lot, the cars were neatly arranged, their paint gleaming with a metallic sheen under the cool white lights.

Beta's gaze swept across each row of parking spaces, his steps steady, as if he were merely a local searching for his beloved car. His footsteps echoed softly in the empty space. After turning a few rows, he spotted the dark blue BMW parked quietly in a corner, a thin layer of dust covering its body. This was the car Charlie had given him, acquired in exchange for "Goranmingo," now a discarded pawn in his plan.

He walked to the car, used the mechanical key to pry open the plastic cover of the driver's side door handle, inserted the mechanical key into the lock, and with a gentle twist, the car door clicked open.

He didn't go inside; he simply left the key in the lock. The thieves in Paris are very efficient; the car would be gone within a day.

Beta took two steps back, giving the car, which was about to be stolen, one last look. This car was a carefully orchestrated smokescreen, designed to mislead any potential investigation. The best course of action was to let it disappear with the help of a "good Samaritan."

He turned and left, his figure disappearing into the shadows of the parking lot.

Beta turned into the restroom at the end of the parking lot, navigating a blind spot in the surveillance cameras.

He pushed open the door and quickly scanned the area. The washroom was empty, the cubicles were deserted, and only the exhaust fan was humming overhead.

He locked the innermost compartment, took out a transparent sealed box from the inner pocket of his backpack, picked up the meticulously trimmed fake beard with his fingertips, carefully wiped the area around his lips with an alcohol swab, and then firmly attached it to his lips.

He stuffed the empty box back into his backpack, and another small metal box popped open, revealing two contact lenses. He opened his eyelids, his icy blue pupils obscured by the black contact lenses.

The sunglasses were folded into a dust bag, replaced by vintage tortoiseshell-framed non-prescription glasses, the slightly worn temples pressing down on newly applied gray-white hair extensions at the temples. The fabric rustled as the coat was taken off and stuffed into the backpack, revealing the cotton T-shirt underneath, its white now black.

The backpack was placed horizontally on the toilet tank. The hidden zipper was pulled open, and the outer black fabric peeled off, revealing the brown leather inside.

Finally, he lifted his right foot, his toenails digging into the gaps in the sole, and the three layers of molded height-increasing insole were peeled off one by one. Then came his left foot, but he deliberately left one piece untouched.

When the cubicle door opened again, a hunched-over scholar-like man emerged: carrying an old brown briefcase, wearing a black T-shirt, his eyes behind his glasses were tired and lifeless, he walked with an uneven gait, his temples were gray, and there were wrinkles at the corners of his eyes.

The exhaust fan was still spinning, swallowing up all the subtle sounds of identity being dismantled. Beta stood in front of the mirror, checking his disguise again; there were no flaws.

Beta left the parking lot and naturally blended into the flow of people in the taxi pick-up area.

His gaze swept quickly over the row of waiting drivers.

Some people were looking down at their phones, some were leaning against the car door yawning, and others were impatiently tapping the steering wheel. Finally, he spotted a middle-aged driver lounging lazily against the hood, a half-smoked cigarette between his fingers, his uniform shirt collar askew.

“Avenue de Triomphe, thank you.” Beta lowered his voice, giving his French a slight southern accent.

The driver slowly straightened up, casually opened the car door for him, his actions revealing a nonchalant and perfunctory attitude.

The carriage was filled with a faint aroma of tobacco and mints. Only when the engine started did the driver finally light his cigarette, the grayish-white smoke swirling through the gaps in the windows.

With a slight vibration from the tires rolling over speed bumps, the taxi slowly merged into the traffic on the airport expressway, leaving the steel dome of Charles de Gaulle Airport far behind.

The driver clearly didn't care about the passengers in the back seat. He had a half-smoked cigarette dangling from his lips, ash falling onto the wrinkled front of his shirt. He spun the steering wheel roughly in his fingers, and every now and then he would lean out of the window and spit out a string of heavily accented profanities at the driver in the next lane.

Until a Mercedes cut in front of him, the driver took a final drag of his cigarette, the crimson butt arcing through the air before landing precisely in the other car's open window.

Taking advantage of the moment when the other party was flustered, the driver slammed on the gas pedal, and the taxi roared under the strain, shooting off the moment the traffic light turned red.

In the rearview mirror, the Mercedes driver's furious figure grew smaller and smaller. Only then did the driver turn around, satisfied, and free his hands to grip the steering wheel.

The driver turned on the radio with his cigarette-stained fingers, and the hoarse melody immediately filled the carriage.

Completely oblivious to how grating his hoarse voice was, he sang along loudly with the radio, his gaping teeth tearing the lyrics into fragments. Whenever he sang a high note, the veins on his neck bulged, making him look like a rooster being choked, yet he still tapped his feet to the beat, the steering wheel swaying from side to side with the rhythm.

As the tires rolled over potholes, the driver's distorted voice was jolted into disarray, but he became even more excited, pounding on the dashboard, making the plastic cover on the meter rattle.

(End of this chapter)