The Fox of France - Chapter 511 (Patreon)

Chapter 511: Slaying the Dragon

Given that the event was held outdoors, there was an opportunity for assassination. There were two methods to choose from: one was up close, using a revolver or even a hand grenade. This method's main advantage was a high success rate. If the first shot missed, there was still time for a follow-up shot.

However, the downside was also very clear. Trying to assassinate someone with a gun in such a crowded environment and escape unscathed was highly unlikely.

"There will definitely be a lot of police at the venue. Although they won’t body search everyone to see what they carry, bringing two revolvers in shouldn't be a problem. But after firing, escaping from a place swarming with police seems highly unlikely. Even worse, you might even drag me into this. So, let's discard the close-range assassination plan," Mr. Pidou initially dismissed this approach.

"What other plans might work then?" Martin asked.

"I hear you're quite a shot?" Pidou inquired.

"Fairly decent," Martin replied.

"If you had a good rifle, one that uses smokeless powder, how far could you hit a target?" Pidou asked.

A good rifle that uses smokeless powder naturally referred to the modern French rifles. It was said that even the French army hadn’t fully equipped these due to the high cost of smokeless powder, only elite sharpshooters were issued such weapons.

However, in the civilian rifle market, one could buy such a weapon if they were willing to spend the money, although it was quite expensive. During the North American war, Martin had seen such a rifle with a comrade who was a wealthy man owning hundreds of slaves, so his equipment was always top-notch. Compared to ordinary rifles, this type of rifle had a much smaller caliber, just over 0.3 inches. The smaller caliber meant smaller bullets. But because the powder was more potent, this gun's effective range far exceeded ordinary rifles, and in the hands of some experts, it could even accurately shoot targets three to four hundred meters away.

At the time, Martin, who liked guns, also asked about the price and then forced himself to forget about it. But now that Pidou mentioned it, Martin immediately remembered that rifle.

"Are you talking about the Krieghoff hunting rifle? Ah, that's a really good piece, just too expensive. One Krieghoff could buy you twenty regular hunting rifles. If it’s a collector's edition with an ivory handle, it's even more outrageously expensive. And what’s worse, the bullets are costly. Each bullet could buy twenty regular bullets. Bullets are consumables, not everyone can afford such luxuries," Martin said.

"Yes, it's a bit pricey, but it's a good rifle. Indeed, only the wealthy could afford such a hobby. I mean, if I had such a rifle, would you be confident in hitting a target at three hundred meters?" Pidou pressed.

"I don't know, I’ve never used it. But probably not. You know, even the best sharpshooter can't shoot well with an unfamiliar rifle," Martin responded.

"Alright, there’s still some time according to the news. Well, I’ll lend you the rifle, and you can practice on your own. Bullets will be charged at market price."

"Then I'd rather go for a close assassination," Martin said.

"Damn, isn't your life worth a few bullets?" Pidou exclaimed.

"I'm very poor now, a poor man's life isn't worth much!" Martin answered without hesitation.

"The devil! How could I... Alright, I’ll give you a 40% discount."

"70% discount!"

"Then go for the close assassination! Hmm, should I prepare some poison for your suicide?"

"How about 60% discount, can that work?"

"The most I can do is 50%, and I’ll be there with you to watch you shoot—otherwise, how can I trust you won’t just report false numbers and sell my bullets on the black market?"

"How can you be so suspicious of me? What about basic trust between people?"

"Don't talk about trust; talking about trust costs money! If you’re willing to pay the original price for the bullets, I guarantee I'll trust you!"

In the following days, Pidou took Martin hunting in the forests outside the city, using the opportunity to practice shooting. It turned out that Martin's shooting skills were indeed very solid; after just a dozen bullets, he could already hit long-distance targets quite accurately. So, three days later, Martin took the initiative and told Pidou he thought the training was sufficient, and the rest could be done with an empty gun—the damned bullets were still too expensive, even at half price.

"Basically, these are legendary bullets meant for shooting vampires," Martin said.

Then, a few more days passed, and it was time to survey Harvard University to familiarize themselves with the environment

.

Another week went by, and finally, the newspapers reported that Professor Bobblon had arrived in Boston this morning and would be delivering a lecture at Harvard University's stadium to the students the day after tomorrow.

Martin and Pidou quickly started discussing the situation.

Pidou spread out a map on the table—a map they had drawn from memory, not particularly precise but still usable.

"Look, this is the stadium, and the podium is in this direction. I estimate that our target will appear on the podium. Regarding identifying the target, hmm, we saw him once in Newton, although from a distance, and he quickly went inside. Hmm, if he's on the podium, can you recognize him?"

"No problem, his build isn't easy to mistake. Plus, one shoulder is higher than the other, a very distinct feature," Martin said.

"Good, now we need a somewhat concealed spot from which we can launch an attack and make a quick getaway after," Pidou said.

"Look, this is a sports equipment storage room for Harvard, normally storing various sports gear. There usually isn’t anyone around, and even less so at this time. You go there the evening before, get the door open, and hide inside. Because the field will be occupied the next morning, there’s no need to worry about anyone coming here," Pidou said. "After firing, you immediately drop the gun, come out from this spot, and turn down this road where I’ll have a horse waiting for you. Get on the horse and ride away in this direction—based on our observations these past few days, there are the fewest police in this direction. Then, keep heading north to the forest where we practiced shooting. I’ll meet you there with another horse, then we turn east and head straight to the coast where a boat will be waiting for us."

Evidently, Pidou’s plan was thoroughly meticulous. Martin thought it over and found no flaws, nodding in agreement, "Thank you, you are a good man."

Although Pidou was stingy, he indeed was a big help.

The next evening, Martin carried Pidou's rifle in a cello case, disguising himself as a college student, and went near the sports equipment storage room by the stadium. Taking advantage of the minimal people around, Martin easily unlocked the padlock on the storage room door with a set of tools he had prepared. Then, he entered the storage room, opened the window, came out through the window, locked the door from the outside, climbed back through the window, and closed the window. From the outside, it was completely unnoticeable that anyone had entered the room.

Martin spent the night in the storage room, enduring bites from dozens of mosquitoes, even getting a bite on his eyelid, which was both painful and itchy.

However, after the sun came up, the situation improved a lot. Many of the bloated mosquitoes from the night before, their bellies swollen with blood, could barely fly and were gasping on the walls. With a sense of revenge, Martin slapped them one by one, quickly covering his hands with his own blood.

After killing those mosquitoes, people started moving around the sports field, and Martin carefully hid, peeking out from behind the curtains at the field.

Gradually, more students and people started sitting on the podium. Martin kept his eyes fixed on the podium. After a while, even more people gathered, but Fafnir hadn't appeared yet. Martin was worried; what if he didn't show up at all? Then he would have suffered the mosquito bites for nothing.

After what felt like an eternity, Martin finally saw a tall figure with one shoulder higher than the other step onto the podium and sit down behind a table.

"There he is, that's him!" Martin suppressed his excitement and gently picked up the rifle. The bullet was already loaded, but Pidou had given him only one bullet.

"You won't have time to load a second bullet. If the first shot misses, you won't get another chance. So don't waste time; fire the shot, and whether it hits or not, turn and run immediately."

Because he only had one chance to shoot, Martin was a bit nervous. From the storage room to the podium was just under two hundred meters—a distance at which Martin was quite confident. So, he calmed himself down, aiming and murmuring under his breath, "Lord, you are my fortress..."

It took Martin about four or five minutes to aim, during which his breathing and heartbeat gradually calmed and even slowed down. Finally, he was ready, and the gunshot rang out.

The bullet hit Fafnir directly in the chest. Initially, Martin had wanted to aim for his head, but to be safe, he opted for the larger target of the chest. After all, given the medical technology of the time, the chances of surviving a chest shot were very slim.

Fafnir, struck by the bullet, reached

 out in the air as if trying to grasp something, then fell down. However, Martin didn't have time to watch; he dropped the gun, opened the opposite window, and jumped out. Then he ran along the predetermined route as fast as he could.

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