Fatal Shot

  Jia Anbang, male, 45 years old, height 1.73 meters, round face, slightly chubby, currently serving as the Secretary General of Nanhua City Government, will run for the next mayor, rides a black Audi.

  In his mind, the information about the target flashed by quickly. He only knew these things and only needed to know these things were enough, as long as he could recognize the target, never wanting to understand a little more about something that had nothing to do with him.

  Some killers like to study their targets' information, including what time they eat and defecate every day, knowing everything clearly. They think that the more they understand, the greater their grasp. But he doesn't like it, he only needs to know who the target is and what they look like, which is enough for him. Any extra information is a waste of time and brain cells for him.

  Apart from the descriptive characteristics of the target, he had glanced at the target's photo and then thrown it into the paper shredder. The target's appearance was deeply etched in his mind - every hitman needed to have this ability, because you couldn't carry a photo with you to verify the target. And now, the man seen through the scope was exactly his target - or prey.

  The sniper rifle zeroes in at three hundred meters, no wind, no need to adjust for deflection, just align the center of the scope with the target and calmly pull the trigger.

  His finger moved to the trigger, gently cocked it, then slowly took a breath in and out. He saw the sight move slightly up and down vertically, then return to its original position, which reassured him. This method allowed him to quickly check if the sniper rifle was tilted; if the sight wasn't moving vertically, he needed to correct his posture immediately.

  He had performed such actions countless times, and it was no longer possible to talk about tension, but at this moment he felt a little short of breath, not because the weather was too hot, nor because he hesitated towards his target, but rather, a sense of unprecedented danger, pressing down on him tightly. Even if he forced himself to focus his attention on the target, he still felt that the danger was getting closer and closer to him.

  If it were in peacetime or an unimportant task, he would definitely choose to terminate the action immediately and leave the base for safety reasons. But this time, he had no choice.

  He just wanted to finish this task as soon as possible and leave this eerie place.

  His sights were always on the target, but he could never quite take aim. Between him and his objective, there was always a tall figure darting back and forth, seemingly unintentionally, yet somehow intentionally blocking his line of sight.

  The target's head was intermittently visible under the cover of the police and the tall figure, slowly walking towards the steps of the city government entrance. If he couldn't aim at the target, he wouldn't be able to shoot.

  Every assassin - or rather, every assassin who is enthusiastic about sniper rifles - knows that the key to success or failure of a mission lies in the first shot. The first shot should be a perfect shot, a fatal shot. If the first shot cannot hit the target's vital point and pins its hopes on the second shot, it is extremely foolish.

  Not only will the target make evasive or natural falling movements, but people around the target will also cover the target or counterattack. A single shot of holding one's breath cannot kill the target, and in the chaos, no one can make up for the previous mistake.

  So every sniper understands that if the first shot doesn't hit, don't waste a second bullet, just pack up and leave. After all, when it comes to the target's life versus one's own life, everyone will value their own life more.

  Some arrogant assassins, even when executing tasks, only bring one bullet, because one more bullet is one more weight. Since only one bullet is needed, bringing two bullets seems redundant. Of course, such people are either top-notch assassins or overly self-important individuals. It's said that headhunting companies have no shortage of people who only bring one bullet, but they're the world's number one assassination organization, naturally gathering dragons and tigers, with masters emerging in droves.

  But he didn't dare to do so, because even the best sniper can make mistakes. Since his debut, he has been using a 7.62mm British AW sniper rifle, which was designed from the beginning to ensure that it would hit its target with the first shot no matter what situation it was in, and this coincided with the requirements of an assassin. In the eyes of assassins, he is probably considered very conservative.

  The target had already reached the stairs, but he still didn't have a chance to aim, and that sense of foreboding about danger in his heart grew stronger.

  At this moment, the tall man who was about to follow him up the stairs suddenly turned his head around, and two sharp gazes shot across a distance of three hundred meters, as if piercing through the scope, striking his eyes.

  His heart skipped a beat, but his well-trained hands didn't tremble in the slightest. Had he been discovered?

  But the tall man just glanced over here and then turned his head to follow the stairs.

  If that man had been following the target all along, he must have lost his phone by now. Now he just wants to wait until the target walks into the city government gate and then clean up and leave. He can almost be certain that the sense of danger in his heart is not his own paranoia, at least someone is approaching his position.

  The target walked up to the tenth step, suddenly stopped and whispered a few words to the person next to him. Then he turned around as if he wanted to say something to the reporter. More than ten reporters immediately surrounded him, with the posture and strength of taking sneak shots, squeezing out the police and the tall man at once.

  Opportunity is here at this moment!

  The target stands two paces higher than you, with its upper body fully exposed in your sights.

  This is the opportunity he has been waiting for.

  The crosshairs quickly locked onto the target, and the three-hundred-meter distance made him abandon his favorite headshot, instead aiming for the safest spot - the heart.

  In theory, the best place to hit is the brain stem at the base of the skull. This is the center of all physiological functions in the human body. If the brain stem is damaged, the target's respiratory and cardiac functions will immediately cease, resulting in instant death.

  But the brain is pitifully small, only three centimeters in size. At a distance of 300 meters, aiming at a target of three centimeters is difficult even with a scope. The heart, on the other hand, needs to be much larger, and the broad chest always gives people the feeling that it's easy to aim for, even though not every part of the chest is fatal.

  Aim at the heart, the index finger lightly pressed the trigger. The first trigger was pressed to the end, and the target had just begun to speak. The police and tall men who were squeezed by reporters were struggling to pull away from the reporters and get back to the target's side. Especially that tall man, with a cold expression and rough movements, he lifted up a reporter's collar with one hand and dragged the two out.

  He certainly wouldn't let the tall one get back to his target before his bullet arrived, took a slow breath in and held it, trying to keep himself completely still, his index finger slowly applying pressure, pulling down the second trigger.

  It was as if the elementary school on the left had deliberately rung its class bell at almost the same moment, and the sudden ringing perfectly covered up the gunshot. It was a perfect moment that he hadn't anticipated beforehand.

  He remained as still as a stone statue, holding the shooting pose. Before the bullet left the barrel, any slight movement could cause the bullet to change its trajectory and deviate from the target.

  The vibration of the trigger had not yet reached the gun body, and the 7.62mm bullet had already passed through the 660mm long barrel, whizzing out of the muzzle, flashing only once in the scorching sun before disappearing from view.

  He saw through the scope that the target fell backward with a loud thud, and the reporter who had no time to react was stunned there.

  Hit the target!

  He didn't linger for another second, stood up straight, reached out to cover the front cover of the scope, and then retracted the sniper rifle to prevent the scope from reflecting light when retracting.

  The tall man was the first to react, and two gazes shot back at the rooftop again. Maybe he had discovered him, maybe not, but none of that mattered anymore. What mattered was that he had completed his mission and was ready to withdraw.

  The panicked journalist also started looking around, remembering the camera in his hand. He quickly squatted down, folding up the sniper rifle and shoving it along with the shell casings that had fallen to the ground into a guitar case on the floor. Then he threw a cigarette butt he had picked up from the side of the road into a flower pot. He knew the police would find this cigarette butt.

  But just as he kicked away the wooden board that was blocking the rooftop door and opened it, a figure appeared in the sixth-floor window of the abandoned building to his right, raised a silencer-equipped pistol, and "pt-pt-pt" three bullets flew towards the rooftop.

  He felt a numbness in his left shoulder, and instinctively shrunk his upper body, then rolled forward with the momentum. The other two bullets hit the wall, exploding with a loud bang.