Sniper Kill

"Ding."

A coin flipped from Beta's fingertips, tracing a silver arc in the dim light.

"Ding."

Obverse and reverse flashed alternately, the cold glint of metal briefly appearing and disappearing in the air.

"Ding."

The flip stopped abruptly.

Black gloves precisely clamped the coin, the subtle sound of leather friction accompanying the clenching of knuckles.

03:21.

A hotel window across the river lit up.

Beta rose silently, the barrel of his TAC-50 scraping a hoarse whisper against the oak tabletop. The moment the 12.7×99mm NATO round was chambered by his thumb, the metallic clack of the bolt cycling exploded in the darkness, like a finger snap extinguished in the palm of a hand.

He raised his rifle.

As the crosshairs settled on the target, his breath hung suspended in the void between two heartbeats.

Through the scope, a glaring red diamond appeared. It was the kill marker from the Sniper Elite simple mode. No need to calculate wind speed or humidity, no need to adjust for bullet drop; this game mechanic had marked the coordinates for an absolute hit.

Real-world sniping required precise calculations, but at this moment, Beta only needed to hold his breath and let the flickering red pre-aim box become the seal of death.

The target was a typical old money American: silver hair, a hooked nose, and a sixty-five-year-old body that had been so rigorously trained by a personal coach it mirrored the outer silhouette of a Wall Street upstart. His busty secretary's waist and hips moved like a snake's, her ten-centimeter stilettos leaving shallow vortices on the carpet.

Six bodyguards formed a moving human wall, escorting the pair through the Persian rug-covered corridor.

Beta's rifle barrel remained motionless, the crosshairs fixed on the oak doorframe of the presidential suite.

Inside the room, the filled hot spring bathtub steamed with misty vapor, the crystal chandelier was dimmed to an aphrodisiac warm yellow, and the sheer curtains draped like a coy dancer.

Only the floor-to-ceiling window, designed to showcase the River Thames at night, had become the perfect shooting channel.

Beta just needed to wait patiently.

Time flowed by in silence, the red diamond in the scope shrinking, like a slowly closing pupil. Every second that passed, the marker grew smaller, and the bullet's impact point became more precise.

Beta's fingertip rested lightly on the trigger, the barrel adjusting by an almost imperceptible degree.

He didn't need to think, didn't need to calculate. The game mechanics had paved the way for him; he only needed to pull the trigger.

Beta didn't rush.

He was waiting, waiting for that carved oak door to open.

The hinges creaked, and two bodyguards in suits stepped into the suite first, their eyes scanning every corner. Once they confirmed it was safe, the target slowly entered. Under the bodyguards' watchful eyes, the target and his secretary maintained a respectable distance, as if they were merely ordinary business partners.

Until the soft click of the door closing echoed.

Almost in the same second, the secretary's skirt slid down to her waist, silk fabric pooling around her high heels. The target's palm had already roughly explored beneath her clothes, his knuckles leaving red marks on her taut skin. In the glow of the crystal chandelier, their two bodies collided against the floor-to-ceiling window.

Directly in Beta's line of fire.

In Beta's sight, the diamond marker was steadily locked onto the target's brow.

The night scenery of the River Thames flowed before him, neon lights reflecting on his sweat-dampened temples.

The crosshairs and the diamond marker perfectly overlapped.

Now.

"Pfft!"

The suppressed sniper rifle let out a muffled sigh, and a tungsten core armor-piercing round tore through the 755 meters of night. The bullet pierced the misty vapor over the River Thames, skimmed over the rooftops of low-lying buildings along the riverbank, and finally kissed the bulletproof floor-to-ceiling window with a "bang."

The target, writhing against the River Thames with abandon, suddenly...

"Crack!"

On the bulletproof glass, only a few dozen centimeters from his nose, a spiderweb of cracks suddenly bloomed. At the center of the cracks, a tiny bullet hole was clearly visible, the surrounding fissures like the outstretched fingers of death.

The target shuddered, his movements freezing. He widened his eyes, instinctively reaching out to touch the crack, his warm palm pressed against the cool glass as if confirming it wasn't a hallucination.

In the instant of his hesitation, a second tungsten core armor-piercing round tore through the night sky.

"Crack!"

The bullet precisely passed through the bullet hole left by the first shot, and the glass cracks suddenly expanded.

"Bang!"

A blossom of blood erupted on the target's forehead. His head exploded like an overripe watermelon, skull fragments mixed with brain matter spraying out in a fan shape, splashing a crimson abstract painting onto the Persian rug in the corridor.

The target's body stiffened for a moment, then collapsed like a severed mast, crashing heavily in front of the screaming secretary.

In the glow of the crystal chandelier, blood droplets slowly slid down the bulletproof glass, outlining grotesque patterns on the spiderweb cracks.

The neon lights of the River Thames still flickered.

Beta leaned down and picked up the two spent casings, still smelling faintly of gunpowder, from the ground.

He skillfully placed them into an anti-static sealed bag, then tucked it into an inner pocket of his clothing.

He glanced at the TAC-50 that had accompanied him on his mission, a thermite incendiary bomb placed gently beside the rifle. Then, he took out a bottle of hydrogen peroxide, its leak-proof cap emitting a faint "hiss" as it was unscrewed.

The liquid arced through the air, first soaking the entire sniper rifle, then the folding chair he'd sat in for three full hours. Finally, he picked up the tactical backpack containing the gun and poured all the remaining hydrogen peroxide into it. As the chemical agent touched the fabric, tiny white bubbles immediately appeared.

"Click."

With his thumb, Beta flicked open the safety pin of the incendiary grenade. He took two steps back and accurately tossed the grenade towards the pile of equipment soaked in hydrogen peroxide. The thermite instantly erupted in a blinding white light, its temperature soaring above 2000 degrees Celsius within seconds.

Amidst the flames, Beta's figure melted into the darkness.

He knew all too well the power of modern ballistics; the rifling in every gun barrel left a unique "fingerprint" on the bullet. Once these marks were entered into a database, they could be tracked globally. But after tonight, this TAC-50 would only leave behind a pile of unrecognizable metal scraps.

Beta never reused weapons, just as a true artist would never paint on the same canvas twice. Every operation was a fresh start.

Beta descended the stairs silently, his movements skillfully avoiding the two surveillance cameras at the corner. In the shadows at the end of the third-floor corridor, he gently pushed open an old window and leaped onto the fire escape, his movements as light as a falling leaf.

The rusty iron stairs let out a faint groan beneath his feet but were quickly swallowed by the night wind. He descended two steps at a time to the ground and stepped into the damp alley without splashing a single drop of water.

Ten meters away, an utterly ordinary London black cab lay hidden in the darkness, just outside the reach of the streetlights.

Beta pulled open the door and slid into the driver's seat, the leather upholstery emitting a faint creak. In the rearview mirror, his disguised face perfectly matched the white-haired old man in the ID photo on the dashboard, down to the wrinkles at the corners of his eyes.

The key turned, and the engine hummed a low, resonant note. The taxi, now blended into the London streetscape, slowly merged into the night, like a single drop of water flowing into the River Thames.