American variety show: Sniper Elite

Chapter 99 The Plan Moves Forward (Third Update)
Beta sat on a bench in Central Park, his gaze passing through the treetops and landing on the Liberty Building, which stood out starkly against the steel jungle.

The disposable phone's receiver was pressed tightly against his ear, the beeping tone of the dial tone unusually clear in the quiet park. After the seventh beep, a hoarse male voice finally came from the other end: "Who is it?"

Beta's voice was completely different from usual: "Who the hell do you think it is?"

A brief silence fell on the other end of the line, followed by a dry laugh: "Ha! It's you. It's been about a year since we last talked, hasn't it? Let me think... Eddie? Is that Eddie?"

“I want a custom-made gun barrel,” Beta said.

"A gun barrel?" The other person sounded puzzled. "Last year you only bought a scope, now you want a gun barrel?"

A metallic clanging sound came from the receiver, as if the other person was fiddling with some tools: "What, are you assembling some big toy? So cautious, buying only one part a year."

Beta's thumb hovered over the hang-up button: "Want me to tell you my social security number and bank password while I'm at it? Hmm?"

The other person let out an exaggerated laugh, but Beta's attention was focused on the phone's timer—30 seconds. He decisively ended the call, snapped the plastic casing in half, and broke the SIM card in two.

The fragments were put into his pocket, and Beta got up and headed towards the park exit.

When a call exceeds 25 seconds, the phone signal will trigger automatic location identification. If the other party is prepared, 30 seconds is enough to locate the phone within a three-block radius.

The arms dealer's unusually talkative manner on the phone made him suspect that the other party might be under some kind of surveillance. In this business, excessive caution will never kill you, but a lack of caution certainly will.

Beta walked through the bustling streets, his eyes scanning the shops on both sides, his mind constantly pondering the requirements of this special mission.

He needed a unique sniper rifle that could not only be disassembled and reassembled for easy concealment and carrying, but also possessed extraordinary ballistic performance.

Even with the aid of a pre-aiming frame, ordinary sniper rifles are still significantly affected by bullet drop during this ultra-long-range shooting, which must be avoided in this mission.

The objective of this mission is extremely unique: to take only an ear, not a life.

This means that shooting accuracy must be at the millimeter level; any tiny deviation in ballistics could lead to mission failure.

Only special sniper weapons with a flat, almost straight trajectory, like shining a laser pointer at a coin 100 meters away, where the point of impact cannot deviate by more than the thickness of a coin, can meet the stringent shooting requirements of this operation.

Beta pulled out another disposable phone and found a number labeled "Camera Repair" in his contacts.

The only option is to contact that madman in Brooklyn.

That guy's underground workshop can use automatic lathes to machine gun barrels with precision comparable to US military standards, provided you can put up with his incessant ramblings about alien abduction theories. The last time I contacted him, that madman insisted on using Kryptonian crystals as the currency.
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The supervisor stood at the door of his son's room, watching the little boy gesturing wildly.

Allen was bouncing around on the bed with a Superman comic book in his hand, the hem of his pajamas fluttering up and down with his "flying" movements. The supervisor sighed and gently placed the warmed milk on the edge of the desk.

"Remember to finish your milk," he called to his son.

"Okay, Dad!" the boy replied without turning his head, his attention completely absorbed in the colorful Superman comic.

The supervisor gently closed the door, and the darkness of the hallway immediately swallowed his figure. He groped his way through the living room, where the dishes piled up in the kitchen sink still needed to be tidied up.

As he picked up a porcelain plate to wipe it, a human face suddenly appeared on the glass window.

The porcelain plate nearly slipped from his grasp. The manager instinctively turned, reached into a hidden compartment in the liquor cabinet with his right hand, and pulled out a Glock 17. His right hand remained in a firing position, while his left hand still supported the teetering plate.

"Fuck!" When he saw the face outside the window, his tense nerves instantly relaxed.

The supervisor slammed the tray down on the table and flung open the window with his left hand: "Meva Lake!"

He lowered his voice: "Are you trying to scare me to death?"

A damp night breeze, carrying the scent of grass, wafted into the kitchen. The wind outside the window ruffled the hem of Medvedeva's black jacket as she stood in the garden, the hem fluttering in the wind.

"And another thing," the supervisor said, lowering the muzzle of his gun and lightly placing his index finger on the trigger guard, "What the hell are you doing here? You should be in France right now!"

Alan's singing drifted in from the second-floor window, and the two people in the kitchen looked up simultaneously. The supervisor's gaze softened for a moment before he tucked his pistol back into his waistband.

"Wait for me at the convenience store on the corner." He lowered his voice, glancing towards the stairs. "It's not convenient to talk here."

Medvedeva looked up at the lights on the second floor: "What song is he singing?"

The supervisor's gaze returned to Medvedeva's face, and after a moment, a meaningful smile appeared on his lips: "Who knows?"

He emphasized again, "Let's go to the convenience store first."

Their eyes met in the night, and the supervisor's gaze gradually sharpened.

Medvedeva nodded: "Understood, sir."

She turned and quickly disappeared beyond the glow of the garden lights. The supervisor's gaze grew cold as he watched Medea vanish into the darkness.
-
The convenience store on the street corner was brightly lit.

The supervisor, dressed casually in a dark jacket and jeans, entered as usual. He nodded familiarly to the cashier on the night shift and headed straight for the beverage refrigeration section.

Medvedeva stood in front of the refrigerator, lost in thought, her gaze fixed on a bottle of amber-colored whiskey. The manager walked over to her without making a sound, and the two, like strangers who had met by chance in a convenience store, were discussing which beer suited their taste better.

The sound of the refrigerator door being pulled open startled Medvedeva from her reverie.

The supervisor lowered his voice: "What happened? The French side withdrew all the intelligence exchanged previously and specifically stated that Jackal and Beta are not the same person. How could your plan have such a flaw?"

His voice was filled with suppressed anger: "Medva, I warned you, this is not something to joke about."

Medvedeva took a bottle of whiskey from the shelf and slowly twirled it in her hand: "Someone in the department leaked information to the French."

Her fingertips gently traced the label on the bottle: "The intelligence was detailed enough to prove that Jackal and Beta are two different people. The French side directly rejected the intelligence I provided earlier."

"What?!" The supervisor's voice was even lower, but he couldn't hide his shock: "Someone betrayed information?"

Medvedeva nodded: "Yes."

The manager's gaze returned to the drinks in the refrigerator. After a moment of silence, his tone turned cold: "Meva Lake, you'd better think carefully about your current situation."

(End of this chapter)