Plan in Motion

The streets of London were so empty before dawn that the soft hiss of tires rolling over the road could be heard. The police had reacted faster than expected. After all, the victim of the sniper attack had been an American tycoon attending the British Business Summit. Scotland Yard did not dare show the slightest negligence.

"Woo-woo, woo-woo."

The distinctive British police sirens tore through the night, drawing closer from afar. Two blue-and-white Opel police cars came roaring in, their glaring lights casting flickering patches across Beta's taxi windshield.

As the two vehicles passed each other, the agents in the police cars instinctively glanced at the taxi with its "Off Duty" sign lit.

Behind the window was only a white-haired driver with a weary face. He wore old-fashioned wool gloves on the hands gripping the steering wheel. It was the most ordinary sight imaginable: a night-shift driver heading home after work.

The police cars sped past without slowing, their red and blue lights gradually shrinking into two dots in the rearview mirror. Beta's taxi maintained its steady speed, and soon even the sirens faded into the dawn mist along the River Thames.

The taxi slowly glided into a secluded alley, its tires giving a faint crunch over wet gravel. Beta pushed open the door, and London's pre-dawn chill immediately seeped in. He deliberately left the keys inside the car, keeping the engine idling as white vapor streamed from the exhaust, especially conspicuous in the cold night.

The small bait had been laid perfectly. If some early-rising thief happened to pass by, they would likely be unable to resist driving away the "ownerless" taxi. Of course, it did not matter if no one took the bait. Beta had already wiped down the steering wheel, gearshift, and door handles with cleaning agents. Every inch of the interior had been sprayed with special chemical solvents, enough to destroy any DNA and Fingerprints traces.

He gave the taxi that had completed its mission one final look before turning and disappearing into the shadows of the alley. The keys swayed slightly on the dashboard, reflecting the dim yellow glow of a distant streetlamp. Whether the car was ultimately stolen or discovered by the police, it would merely become one of the countless dead ends Beta had carefully designed.

Beta stopped in a patch of darkness beyond the reach of the streetlights. Beside a rusted green dumpster, he began removing his disguise with efficient movements.

His slender fingers lightly peeled back the edge along his hairline, and the wrinkled Silicone Mask slid off like shed snakeskin. He pinched the fake eyebrows between two fingers and gently pulled them free. The graying beard came off in one piece, revealing the smooth chin beneath.

He carefully sprayed every prop with dissolving agent. Under the effect of the chemicals, the once intricate disguise materials gradually melted into indistinct blobs of gel.

The costly disguise props were discarded in batches into trash bins across different districts. The mask went into a recycling bin in the commercial district, the beard into a garbage station in a residential area, and even the empty bottles of used dissolving agent were carried three kilometers away to a construction site for disposal.

By the first faint light of dawn, the white-haired old man who drove the taxi had completely vanished from the world, as if he had never existed.

Beta stood before the floor-to-ceiling window of a hotel suite, an untouched glass of whiskey held between his fingers. The amber liquid swayed faintly in the morning light, reflecting the chaos across the river: flashing police lights, cordoned-off areas, and forensic personnel hurrying about like a silent drama.

The sniper position he had chosen was flawless. The building under renovation was at just the right distance from the target hotel, within effective range while also providing ample confusion.

The Thermite Incendiary Bomb he had left behind ignited the renovation materials. The fire spread through the ventilation ducts, shrouding the entire floor in thick smoke.

Just as expected, the police discovered the burning building.

The first patrol officers on the scene had already set up a double perimeter. Fire truck ladders rose high into the air, while men from the forensic department in black suits stood before the burning sniper point, pointing and discussing. Naturally, they had found the first crime scene—only it was a first crime scene engulfed in flames.

Beta's face was reflected in the glass window, an apparently ordinary face that concealed a story beneath the surface.

Light golden hair hung somewhat messily over his forehead. Deep-set eye sockets held a pair of ice-blue eyes, and beneath a high nose bridge sat thin lips nearly sharp enough to cut. With such a classic Nordic face, he could easily disappear into the crowds on London's streets.

But anyone who looked directly into his eyes would be drawn in without realizing it. Those blue eyes carried a weathered depth that did not match his young face, as though countless unseen nights lay hidden in the depths of his pupils. When he narrowed his eyes slightly, faint lines appeared at their corners.

At that moment, his reflection in the window gleamed in tandem with the police lights across the river.

Beta sat at an oak desk, his fingertips lightly tapping the metal casing of an encrypted USB Drive. With a soft click, the computer screen lit up. In the black program interface, a red progress bar began advancing slowly.

He rested his chin on one hand, his ice-blue pupils reflecting the data flickering across the screen.

Tomorrow's operation was gradually taking shape in his mind. Today's sniper attack had merely been the first move in the larger game. The American tycoon lying in a pool of blood was not only a financial giant on Wall Street, but also a specially invited guest of the government. The death of such a figure on United Kingdom soil was bound to trigger a diplomatic storm.

When Scotland Yard's Chief Superintendent was forced to stand beneath the spotlights and hold a press conference, that would become the most crucial turning point in his plan.

Beta understood the British way of handling affairs far too well. The Ministry of Foreign Affairs would remain silent under the pretext of a "sensitive period," while the upper ranks of the police would have no choice but to face the media's relentless bombardment alone.

When the progress bar reached the end, an encrypted file popped up on the screen.

Beta's slender fingers danced across the keyboard, bringing up the security deployment map for tomorrow's press conference. Every detail was within his calculations, like carefully arranged pieces on a chessboard, waiting only for his opponent to walk into the trap.

Beta's phone screen suddenly lit up, casting a cold glow through the dim room. A brief message notification from an "Unknown Contact" appeared on the lock screen.

He swiped it open. The message contained only a few simple words:

"Have you eaten yet? >-<"

The corner of Beta's mouth lifted unconsciously. This was definitely Ashley. Only she would send such random greetings in the middle of a mission, complete with that signature crooked-smile emoticon.

Her phone number was as elusive as her whereabouts. She used a different number every time she contacted him. Beta's number, meanwhile, was like a fixed coordinate, always waiting quietly in her contacts.

His thumb paused over the keyboard for a moment before he replied:

"Just finished. Is everything going smoothly on your end?"

After sending it, Beta set the phone back on the desk. A rare hint of warmth flashed through his ice-blue eyes.