The next morning at Narendra Manor.
The weather was beautiful, with sunlight streaming through the large floor-to-ceiling windows, casting onto the corridor covered with an expensive Persian Carpet.
Narendra had just gotten up and was sitting at the dining table, enjoying the first cup of Darjeeling tea of the morning, waiting for the breakfast brought by the servant, his mood ant to be as sunny as the weather outside.
However, a burst of hurried and frantic footsteps broke the tranquility.
The old butler Rajiv looked pale, beads of sweat erging on his forehead, almost stumbling as he ran before him, his voice trembling: "Sir... Sir... there's trouble! 'Rajah'... it... it..."
"What did you say?!"
Narendra frowned, almost losing grip on the tea cup in his hand.
"Rajah" was the na of the Bengal tiger he cherished most, kept deep in an enclosure at the manor, majestic and fierce, symbolizing his power and ambition.
"What happened to Rajah? Speak clearly!"
"It... it has died!"
Rajiv was almost in tears.
"This morning the keeper went to feed it and found it lying there, motionless... The vet arrived for resuscitation but couldn't save it, saying... saying it was sudden death, with completely unclear reasons, possibly requiring an autopsy to..."
"What?!"
Narendra suddenly stood up, the precious tea cup he held finally crashing to the ground, shattering with a clatter, splashing tea over his silk pajama pants.
A surge of naless anger shot up to his head.
"Sudden death? I spent so much money, hired the best vet, the best keeper, and this is what you give ? A bunch of useless waste! All of you are useless!"
He roared, his voice echoing in the empty hall, scaring the servants into silence.
Furious, he left the dining table and rushed to the enclosure in the manor's backyard, indeed seeing his beloved "Rajah" lying lifeless on the ground, its once fierce and commanding gaze now reduced to a lifeless ashen gray.
"What on earth happened!? It was fine last night!"
Narendra's eyebrows shot up, each hair bristling with hostility.
"Sir... it... it was an accident..."
The vet began explaining timidly, repeating the words "sudden death," "unknown cause," "further examination needed," trying to illustrate that it was just "Rajah's" fate, all arranged by God.
"Damn it! I paid so much money, and all I raised are wastes like you! You can't even take care of a pet! Get out of here quickly! Disappear from my sight within ten minutes, before I shoot your brains out!"
Narendra's anger had nowhere to vent, cursing the vet in a rage.
An indescribable irritation and vague unease gripped him.
A tiger's sudden demise was by no ans a good on in his culture.
The subsequent breakfast was tasteless.
The inexplicable suffocating feeling in his chest not only didn't dissipate but beca increasingly distinct.
He rubbed his brow and waved to his secretary: "Postpone all today's schedules, I'm not feeling well."
The secretary wore a difficult expression, cautiously reminding him: "Sir, at ten o'clock this morning, Mr. Jorgensen, the chief negotiator of the 'Scania' group, will personally visit us, concerning the multibillion-rupee order for upgrading our shipping fleet... It would be hard to postpone."
Narendra took a deep breath, forcibly suppressing the anxiety and irritation in his heart.
Business is ultimately business, especially this big order, concerning the strategic layout of the group's future years.
He couldn't put private interests above public duties, especially not let an inexplicable "premonition" ruin a multibillion-ruble cooperation...
"... Understood." He waved his hand, his tone weary, "Set off at nine o'clock sharp."
At eight fifty in the morning, the motorcade was ready.
Seven heavily modified rcedes-Benz S600 Guard bulletproof sedans were parked in front of the manor's main house.
The car body lines were sleek yet heavy, with window glass specially treated so that absolutely nothing inside could be seen.
Elite agents from the Gurkha Security Company dressed in black suits, wearing communication devices, and eyes sharp like eagles, were already in their positions.
Captain Amir conducted a final communication check via radio, everything orderly, exuding a professional coldness.
Narendra took his seat in the back of car number 3, the car body sinking slightly.
According to arrangent, today car number 3 was the VIP car.
Leaning back in the soft seat, Narendra habitually picked up a docunt, trying to concentrate, but "Rajah's" lifeless eyes and the inexplicable suffocating feeling in his chest kept disturbing him.
This strange emotion also reminded him of his archenemy Zayed, that damned, stubborn rival.
The ticulously planned assassination last ti, which involved high-priced 'professionals', took a whole month of tracking and scouting. Just when it seed foolproof, it failed at the final mont!
Zayed only sustained a minor injury, but took the chance to heavily publicize the event, garner sympathy, and even began organizing a vicious counterattack, causing quite a bit of trouble for us.
Allegedly, Zayed declared it would be 'an eye for an eye'.
Whatever we did to him, he plans to do the sa to us.
'Useless! All of them are useless!'
He cursed under his breath, unsure if he was cursing the failed assassins or the veterinarian from this morning.
The convoy smoothly exited the manor and rged into Goa's morning traffic.
The city's hustle and bustle subtly perated through the excellent soundproofing.
Narendra set aside the docunts, removed his gold-rimd glasses, and vigorously massaged his throbbing temple.
The vehicle ascended onto the overpass leading to the city center, flanked by bustling districts and the distant blue coastline.
They traveled this route almost daily.
It's one of the three regular routes.
This route cuts through a busy area, which Narendra originally deed unsafe, but Bodyguard chief Amir said that places with more people are actually safer.
After all, even Zayed would fear involving innocent citizens in bloodshed.
anwhile, in a certain part of downtown, a 28-story abandoned building stood like a giant concrete skull on the city's edge.
This building was a remnant of an ambitious real estate project from years ago, abandoned due to the developer's financial issues and complex ownership disputes, leaving only the bare concrete fra and hollow windows, overlooking the winding overpass below.
Its view is excellent, yet it's rarely visited, becoming a haven for wild pigeons and stray animals, and also a perfect stage for certain special operations.
On the tenth floor, in a bare hall without any cover.
The Hunter lay on a stable platform temporarily erected with scaffolding pipes and heavy wooden planks, his body as still as a rock.
His cheek pressed against the cold, rough stock of the Anzio 'Monster' sniper rifle. This nearly two-ter-long weapon was chambered, the 20mm AP-I armor-piercing incendiary round lay patiently in the chamber, awaiting the command to unleash destruction.
The long strip-shaped muzzle brake fitted under the barrel indicated the terrifying recoil and sound it would produce when fired.
To his left, the Observer, 'Violinist', was closely scanning the entrance of the distant overpass through a Steiner Military 15x80mm high-power observation mirror—according to prior reconnaissance, Narendra was highly likely to take this route today.
The observation mirror's view was astoundingly clear, even able to discern the license plates of distant vehicles and the general actions of the occupants inside.
His lips moved slightly, his voice clearly transmitted through the bone conduction headset into the squad channel.
'Wind direction southeast, wind speed three ters per second, intermittent light breeze. Humidity 65%, visibility good. Distance set to nine hundred twenty ters. Traffic on the road is stable, target has not yet appeared.'
About three ters to the Violinist's right, the second sniper, 'Drumr', occupied a slightly forward position.
He operated an M82A1 'Barrett' heavy sniper rifle with its .50 BMG caliber magazine loaded. His mission was to create chaos, sounding the opening drumbeat of the hunt.
The air was filled with the scent of dust and cent, along with an almost palpable tension.
'Chief, is the Boss's plan really flawless?'
The Drumr's voice carried a hint of barely noticeable doubt as he gently stroked the Barrett's cold barrel.
The Violinist did not turn his head, maintaining his observation posture but also softly echoed, 'Yeah, Chief. Once the first shot is fired, too many variables co into play, and we only have a one-minute safe window at most. If they react and call for backup or the police arrive, it'll be very difficult for us to escape.'
The Hunter's eyes remained on the ultra-high magnification scope, his voice deep and indomitably confident: 'Shut up and focus. When has the Boss ever missed? He understands these bodyguards' thought processes better than we do. They aren't robots, but their training will make them react in the most 'standard' way in a fraction of a second. And what we need to exploit is precisely their 'standard'.'
He slightly adjusted his breathing rhythm and continued: 'Rember your roles. Drumr, your shooting must be precise, creating chaos without prematurely revealing our primary intentions and true firepower. Violinist, your eyes are my eyes, the data must be absolutely accurate.'
'Understood.'
Both n responded quietly, suppressing the slight unease within, focusing on their respective duties.
Seconds ticked by.
The traffic on the overpass resembled a tallic river.
As the ti gradually approached noon, the temperature began to rise.
Beads of sweat appeared on their foreheads.
High temperatures always made it hard to concentrate, often breeding irritation.
A bead of sweat trickled down, seeping into the corner of his eye. The Drumr wiped it away, then took off his sunglasses and rubbed them on his clothes...
Suddenly, the Violinist's speech quickened and his tone heightened: 'Attention! Target has appeared! Seven cars, black rcedes S600 convoy, entering the overpass from entrance three! Speed approximately sixty kiloters per hour! Maintaining a ten-ter interval!'
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