Test Firing

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After some haggling, Beta successfully bought the Mauser 98 rifle for thirty percent above market price.

Moved by "Mr. Foreman's" obsession with firearms, the collector threw in fifteen specially made 7.92mm high-pressure rounds. "Enough to drop a full-grown wild boar," the collector promised, patting his chest.

After leaving the first collection house, Beta swiftly changed his appearance.

He put on gold-rimmed glasses and changed into an elegant suit, transforming himself into a Swiss military history scholar. From the second collector, he purchased an M1911 pistol in the name of research; at the third, he found another antique of the same model, allegedly once belonging to the US Office of Strategic Services (OSS).

At his safehouse, Beta carefully dismantled those "collectibles" like a watchmaker. He replaced the blocked original barrel with the intact barrel from the OSS pistol, reground and fitted the missing firing pin, then attached the suppressor that had been "legally imported" from the United States. After a sleepless night, a fully functional suppressed M1911 was born in his hands.

At the same time, he had also finished modifying the Mauser rifle.

In this way, Beta had assembled two fully functional professional weapons right under British MI6's nose.

Calibrating the firearms was the next critical step.

Even with the diamond-shaped predictive aiming frame, if the scope's axis deviated from the barrel's trajectory, even the most perfect predictive marker would be useless.

Beta searched online for a suitable testing ground and eventually settled on a private hunting estate outside London.

The place had originally been marshland at the edge of a farm. Since the soil was too poor for cultivation, the owner had turned it into a paid duck-hunting area. Wooden shooting platforms stood among reed-filled pools, concealed and perfectly suited to every requirement for testing firearms.

Beta skillfully completed his disguise. He put on a carefully made bald wig, applied fine wrinkle patches at the corners of his eyes and mouth, and used special cosmetics to deepen his nasolabial folds and the signs of age on his neck.

The mirror now showed a typical middle-class retired engineer: a slightly stooped posture, a worn Barbour hunting jacket, and Hunter rain boots speckled with mud. He looked every bit like a fifty-year-old British gentleman obsessed with hunting.

He had deliberately stuffed a worn copy of the Bird Watching Manual into his backpack and prepared a forged Engineers Association retired membership card in his wallet.

The hunting estate's keeper had half a cigarette dangling from his mouth as his rough fingers tapped the price list nailed to the cabin wall. "One hundred and fifty pounds a day. Bring your own guns and ammunition. Shoot as many wild ducks as you like, but deer and protected birds are absolutely off-limits."

He sized Beta up. "You can take your game with you, or sell it back to the estate at market price. If you can't be bothered dealing with it."

He jerked his chin toward a small hut in the distance, smoke curling from its chimney. "The kitchen charges another twenty pounds. They can turn it into smoked meat or stew."

Beta pulled three fifty-pound notes from his wallet and handed them over. The keeper accepted them with mud-stained fingers, then tore off a handwritten receipt from a crumpled receipt book.

"You're the only one here this morning." As he handed the receipt to Beta, the yellowed slip carrying a faint smell of gunpowder, he added, "A few regulars will come around three in the afternoon. If you want a lively group hunt, you can stay until evening."

The keeper pointed to a two-story red-brick farmhouse in the distance. "The dining room serves hot food, and there's beer in the lounge. If you're staying overnight..."

He rubbed his fingers together and flashed a smile that revealed a missing front tooth. "That costs extra."

Beta gave a slight nod. "Perfectly reasonable rules."

The keeper pushed open the creaking pine door, its rusted hinges screeching sharply.

"Happy hunting." He paused, his expression turning serious. "But I need to remind you about the safety rules one more time."

His rough fingers indicated a height. "You may only shoot game flying more than two meters above the ground. Anything flying close to the ground, or any living thing below that height—"

He made a throat-cutting gesture. "Don't send a single bullet its way. It's for your safety, and everyone else's."

The keeper grinned, revealing uneven teeth. "Rules are rules. Nobody wants their skull cracked open by a stray bullet."

He casually took an orange reflective vest from a hook on the cabin wall. The fabric still bore mud stains left by previous guests. "Free safety equipment. Return it when you're done."

He shrugged. "Honestly, nine and a half out of ten people walk off with them. After paying one hundred and fifty pounds to hunt, who cares about a little thing worth one or two pounds? My boss doesn't care either. We all just let guests take them."

Beta put on the reflective vest, its fluorescent orange especially conspicuous in the morning mist.

With half a cigarette in his mouth, the keeper leisurely accompanied him for twenty or thirty meters, his boots squelching over the wet, soft mud.

"Follow this little path straight ahead." He raised a hand toward the depths of the reeds. "There's a duck blind at the end. It may have collected some water after the rain a few days ago."

The cigarette butt trembled between his lips. "But the cover boards are all intact. You'll be fine crouching inside."

As if recalling something, he added before turning away, "If you run short on bullets, come back anytime. I've got every caliber here, from .22 to twelve-gauge shells. Plenty of everything."

The keeper suddenly stopped, ash falling in flakes onto his leather boots. "Almost forgot to ask. What kind of gun did you bring? Large-caliber rifles and automatic weapons are prohibited."

Beta unzipped the gun case, revealing just the corner of a wooden stock. "A .22 bolt-action rifle. An old antique."

"Whoa!" The keeper narrowed his eyes and gave the mottled gun body a cursory glance. "Not many guests use a rifle to hunt wild ducks."

His rough fingers mimed a firing posture. "Most folks like twelve-gauge double-barreled shotguns. One bang, iron pellets everywhere, and you'll hit a few no matter what."

Beta's mouth twitched slightly. "Last time, I bit down on two steel pellets in duck stew at a hunting estate restaurant."

He pointed at one of his back molars. "This tooth cost me three hundred pounds to repair."

The keeper burst into a hoarse laugh, the gum where his front tooth was missing especially conspicuous in the morning light. "Hahaha! Old mate, that experience qualifies as a hunter's medal!"

He wiped tears of laughter from the corners of his eyes. "Every veteran who uses a shotgun will sooner or later go treasure hunting in his dinner."

The keeper patted his mud-spattered trouser leg, the cigarette between his lips glowing and dimming in the morning mist. "I'll see you off here. I have to get back and watch the gate."

He gave a casual wave, crushing a pine cone beneath his boot as he turned around. "Happy hunting, sir."

Beta remained where he was, wearing a practiced smile. Only after the keeper's stooped figure had completely disappeared around the ivy-covered hedge did his relaxed shoulders suddenly tense.

The fog seemed to have been wiped from his previously dull, lifeless eyes. His gaze turned sharp as a dagger, gleaming with cold edge in the morning light.

Thank you very much to all the Reader Bosses who voted Recommendation Tickets and Monthly Tickets for me.

To everyone who has bookmarked or read this book, remember to stop by every day and leave your comments and feedback.