Waiting For A Reply

The bloody revenge finally came to an end. Viggo was dead, Iosef was dead, and the gangsters who broke into the villa and killed John's beloved dog also paid with their lives.

Now, this villa, smashed beyond recognition, needs a thorough renovation.

The bad news is that the DV recorder Helen left behind, containing the recorded footage, is missing. Fortunately, Beta's planning room in the basement is protected by a password-protected door, so all action plans remain undisclosed.

Two men searched through the mess. Beta tossed broken photo frames and a deformed desk lamp into a trash bag, the soles of his shoes crunching on glass shards with a grating sound.

Beta picked up a shattered porcelain ornament and threw it into the trash bag. "Helen's last gift to you, and you just left it casually in your bedroom drawer? Didn't even bother with a safe?"

His accusation echoed in the empty villa. John stiffened, his back to Beta, and continued searching the ruins for the silver DV recorder.

When he lifted a rug, his movements paused. In the corner where the rug had been, the silver DV recorder lay quietly. Its screen was shattered, but the memory card slot was intact.

John gently pulled out the memory card. The metal card was undamaged in the light. Beta walked over, took the card, examined it against the light, and handed it back. "Put it in the safe later."

John slipped the memory card into his shirt pocket, his fingers lightly pressing on the fabric.

Beta surveyed the devastated living room. "I'm flying to France in a few days. I need to prepare for the French orders."

He kicked aside the broken glass at his feet. "Contact the 'cleaners' at the Continental Hotel. They can restore this place as if nothing ever happened."

A rapid vibration sound came from his pocket.

Beta frowned and pulled out a disposable phone. A message popped up on the screen: "Contact awaiting reply. 24 hours without response, reminder issued."

Beta snapped the phone in half with both hands, the plastic body breaking with a crack. He removed the SIM card, dropped it into the toilet, and flushed. The tiny chip swirled down the vortex.

Beta pushed open the bedroom door. Compared to the state of the living room, this room was relatively intact, except for a torn-open pillow and a laptop smashed in half. Feathers spilled from the ripped pillowcase like a blizzard. The laptop was broken in the middle, the screen separated from the keyboard.

He walked to the wall, his fingertips lightly pressing on the square wallpaper, which looked normal from the outside.

With a soft click of a mechanical lock, a section of the wall slid open, revealing a built-in safe. After entering a 12-digit code on the keypad, the safe sprang open, revealing its contents at a glance: an encrypted laptop, two Glock 19s, neatly stacked magazines, and over a dozen stacks of foreign currency.

Beta took out the laptop and inserted the USB drive. The screen flickered a few times, and the original system was replaced by a pure black chat interface.

"Ding!"

Upon logging into the account, three unread messages popped up.

The cursor blinked on the screen. Beta stared at the two unfamiliar accounts on the screen, their prefixes automatically generated IDs, with no notes and no history.

There were only two unfamiliar accounts; one account belonged to a previous employer he had eliminated.

Beta's thumb rubbed the stubble on his chin. The cursor hovered over the familiar account before finally clicking on it.

The message content unfolded on the screen: "Someone deliberately delayed the final payment, designing you to use a deposit to eliminate two targets. I want to hire you again to eliminate them. Please reply to my message."

The screen's light reflected on Beta's face. He stared at the line of text for a full ten seconds, his fingers hovering over the keyboard before dropping back down. The last job was finished; there was no need to dwell on past missions.

He closed the chat window. Some games, once over, should be left behind.

Beta's fingertips tapped lightly on the touchpad. The precise sniper shot on Downing Street must have drawn the attention of MI6, and they would surely want to capture him, the perpetrator, to restore the honor of the British security services and government.

This contact account had received three invitations in just one month, an unusually active period. In the past, this account handled only three or four jobs a year. These orders must have contained two types of clients: one, genuine employers who sought him out, impressed by his "masterpiece" on Downing Street and urgently needing his help to solve their problems; the other, carefully laid fishing traps by British intelligence, where every message could hide a barb, waiting to hook him and land him in jail.

Beta narrowed his eyes slightly. He was familiar with this cat-and-mouse game; every seemingly tempting order could lead to a heavily monitored dead end. It was like a bonfire suddenly lit in the Black Forest – it could be the goodwill of a traveler, or it could be the bait of a hunter.

Beta clicked on the first message. The numbers on the screen made his eyebrows twitch. "The order price is now 20 million US dollars. A 2 million meeting fee will be deposited immediately. You can specify the meeting method. We need your professional skills."

This offer was double what they had offered when contacting him in France half a month ago.

Beta's index finger tapped lightly on the laptop's metal casing. What kind of target could make an employer so persistent, even willing to pile up the reward to astronomical figures?

He closed the chat window. The ironclad rule of not meeting was etched into his bones from the first day he picked up a gun. No matter how tempting the offer, it couldn't compare to a bullet flying from the darkness.

Beta clicked on the third message: "Professionally trained personnel. Reward: 4 million US dollars. Reply if you accept."

"Professionally trained personnel?" Beta repeated the intriguing description in a low voice. Did this mean the target was a peer, or a defector agent? But now was not the time to delve deeper.

He closed the chat interface and pulled out the USB drive. The screen returned to its original operating system, reflecting his thoughtful face. The order in Paris was not yet complete, and he had no habit of taking on repeat jobs, especially since his recent activity frequency was already dangerous.

He believed that the net of British intelligence was tightening, and each mission would increase the risk.

Beta put the USB drive back into the hidden compartment, deciding to hit the pause button on himself after completing the Paris order. In this line of work, the ones who survived the longest were never the most active, but the ones who knew best how to lie in wait.

On a rainy night in London, Doyle sat alone in his dimly lit study.

The cold light of the computer screen cast a pale glow on his haggard face. The black chat interface had been frozen for 24 hours and 17 minutes, and Beta had not responded.

The computer was logged into the account Eliot had used before his death. However, the design of this encrypted communication software did not save any chat records; all traces of conversation would disappear without a trace after exiting.

Doyle's emaciated fingers hovered above the keyboard. He didn't need to check the records to guess. With Eliot's arrogant personality, those conversations must have been filled with arrogance and threats. A killer who was stiffed on payment, and then insulted by the employer.

"Idiot," Doyle cursed into the air, unsure if he was cursing his son or himself.

The screen remained silent, like stagnant water.

Doyle suddenly slammed his hand down on the keyboard, the sound of metal striking echoing in the empty study.

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