Sniper Kill

"Clink."

The coin sprang from Beta's fingers, tracing a silver arc through the gloom.

"Clink."

Its face and reverse flashed in turn, metallic light flickering briefly in the air.

"Clink."

The spinning stopped abruptly.

A black-gloved hand caught the coin with precision. Leather whispered as the fingers closed around it.

03:21.

A hotel window across the river lit up.

Beta rose without a sound. The TAC-50's barrel scraped softly across the oak tabletop. The moment his thumb pushed a 12.7×99mm NATO round into the chamber, the bolt slammed home with a metallic crack that burst through the darkness like a snap of fingers stifled in a palm.

He raised the rifle.

As the crosshairs settled over the target, his breath hung suspended in the space between two heartbeats.

Through the scope, a glaring red diamond appeared. It was the kill marker from Sniper Elite's easy mode. There was no need to calculate wind speed or humidity, no need to adjust for bullet drop. The game mechanic marked the exact coordinates for a guaranteed hit.

Sniping in the real world required precise calculations, but now Beta only had to hold his breath and let the blinking red reticle become the seal of death.

The target was a typical old-money American: silver-haired, hooked nose, sixty-five years old, his body sculpted by a personal trainer into the silhouette of a Wall Street up-and-comer. His secretary's curves in her figure-hugging skirt slithered like a snake, while her ten-centimeter stilettos left shallow whorls in the carpet.

Six bodyguards formed a moving wall, escorting the two of them along the Persian-carpeted corridor.

Beta's barrel remained perfectly still, the crosshair fixed on the oak doorframe of the presidential suite.

Inside, steam rose from a full hot-spring bath. The crystal chandelier had been dimmed to a seductive amber, and the sheer curtains draped like a coy dancer hiding her face behind a lute.

Only the floor-to-ceiling window, designed to showcase the nighttime view of the River Thames, now offered the perfect shooting lane.

Beta only had to wait patiently.

Time passed in silence. The red diamond in his scope gradually shrank, like a pupil slowly closing. With every passing second, the marker grew smaller and the bullet's point of impact more precise.

Beta's fingertip rested lightly against the trigger as he made minute adjustments to the barrel.

He didn't need to think or calculate. The game mechanic had already paved the way. All he had to do was pull the trigger.

Beta didn't rush.

He waited for the carved oak door to open.

The hinges turned. Two suited bodyguards entered the suite first, sweeping their gaze across every corner. Only after they had confirmed the room was secure did the target stroll in. Under the bodyguards' watchful eyes, he and his secretary maintained a decorous distance, as if they were merely ordinary business associates.

Then came the soft click of the door closing.

Almost in the same instant, the secretary's figure-hugging skirt slid down to her waist, its silk pooled beside her high heels. The target's hand had already plunged roughly beneath her clothes, his knuckles leaving red marks on her taut skin. In the crystal chandelier's glow, their bodies tangled and crashed against the floor-to-ceiling window.

Right in front of Beta's rifle.

In Beta's sights, the diamond marker stayed locked on the target's brow.

The River Thames flowed through the night before him, neon reflected on his sweat-dampened temple.

The crosshair and diamond marker aligned perfectly.

Now.

"Pfft!"

The silenced sniper rifle let out a muffled sigh. The tungsten-core armor-piercing round tore through 755 meters of night, passed through the mist hanging over the River Thames, skimmed above the low rooftops along the riverbank, and finally slammed into the bulletproof floor-to-ceiling window.

Facing the River Thames, the target was thrusting away in reckless abandon when, suddenly—

"Crack!"

A spiderweb of fractures burst across the bulletproof glass just a few dozen centimeters from the tip of his nose. At its center, a tiny bullet hole was clearly visible, the cracks around it spreading like the outstretched fingers of death.

The target's whole body jolted, his movements stopping dead. Eyes wide, he instinctively reached out to touch the crack, pressing his warm palm against the cold glass as if trying to confirm it wasn't an illusion.

In the instant he hesitated, a second tungsten-core armor-piercing round tore through the night sky.

"Crack!"

The bullet passed precisely through the hole left by the first shot, and the fractures in the glass spread wider.

"Bang!"

A bloom of blood burst from the target's brow. His head exploded like an overripe watermelon, skull fragments mixed with brain matter spraying in a fan across the Persian carpet in the corridor, painting it with a crimson abstract masterpiece.

The target's body stiffened for a moment, then crashed to the floor like a mast cut down, landing heavily in front of the screaming secretary.

In the crystal chandelier's glow, beads of blood slowly slid down the bulletproof glass, tracing eerie patterns across its spiderweb of cracks.

The neon along the River Thames kept flickering.

Beta bent down and picked up the two shell casings, still smelling faintly of gunpowder.

With practiced movements, he slipped them into an antistatic seal bag, then tucked it into an inner pocket of his clothes.

He glanced at the TAC-50 that had accompanied him through the job, then gently set the Thermite Incendiary Bomb beside the rifle. Next, he took out a container of hydrogen peroxide. Its leakproof cap let out a soft hiss as he unscrewed it.

The liquid traced an arc through the air, first soaking the entire sniper rifle, then the folding chair he had sat on for three hours. Finally, he picked up the tactical backpack that had held the rifle and poured the rest of the hydrogen peroxide into it. Tiny white bubbles immediately formed as the chemicals touched the fabric.

"Click."

Beta flicked the incendiary bomb's safety pin free with his thumb. He stepped back two paces and tossed it precisely onto the pile of peroxide-soaked gear. The thermite erupted in a blinding white flash, its temperature surging past 2,000 degrees Celsius in seconds.

Amid the flames, Beta's figure vanished into the darkness.

He knew the power of modern ballistics all too well. Every rifle's rifling left a unique "fingerprint" on its bullets; once those markings were entered into a database, the weapon could be tracked worldwide. But after tonight, all that would remain of this TAC-50 was an unrecognizable heap of metal.

Beta never used a weapon twice, just as a true artist never painted on the same canvas two times. Every operation was a new beginning.

Beta silently descended the stairs, deftly avoiding the two security cameras at the corner. In the shadow at the end of the third-floor corridor, he gently pushed open an old window and leaped onto the fire escape, moving as lightly as a falling leaf.

The rusty metal stairs groaned faintly under his feet, but the night wind soon carried the sound away. He took the steps two at a time, reached the ground, and entered the damp alley without splashing a drop.

Ten meters away, an utterly ordinary London black cab waited quietly in the darkness beyond the streetlights.

Beta opened the door and slid into the driver's seat. The leather upholstery whispered softly. In the rearview mirror, his disguised face matched the white-haired old man in the ID photo on the dashboard perfectly—not even the wrinkles at the corners of his eyes were out of place.

The key turned, and the engine gave a low hum. The taxi, blending into London's streets, rolled into the night like a drop of water merging with the River Thames.