Facing the grimy edge of the mirror, the white-bearded old man lowered his weary eyes. He cleared his throat, bent down, and untangled the earphone cord wrapped around the MP3 player. Blinking dry, yellowish eyes, he lifted his rough hands, inserted the earbuds, and pressed play.
"Sretan Božić… gos… podine."
His pronunciation was halting, but after several repetitions it became mostly fluent—though still slightly stumbling.
"Božidar je… bolestan, danas sam ja dežuran."
In the dim, greenish glow of the mirror, the old man dressed as an electrician gazed with sorrow. Nervously, he scratched his weathered cheek; his back hunched even more, grey-white brows knitting together.
"Za jednog starca bez rodbine... to je sasvim dovoljno."
He repeated the sentence several more times into the mirror. His voice grew hoarse and frail; the cheap earbuds kept looping the distorted recording of the same phrase.
He paused the player, braced himself against the water-beaded granite counter, tilted his head back twice, and loosened the tense muscles at the nape of his neck.
Opening a plastic bag, he swept the three or four bottles, cans, and brush set on the counter inside, then dropped the bundle into the nearby mop bucket. He sank to one knee. The many-pocketed work uniform enveloped him as he melted into the shadows. The sharp sting of disinfectant pierced his nostrils.
"Cvrči, cvrči cvrčak na čvoru crne smrče."
(The cricket chirps on the knot of the black spruce.)
Suddenly, in the cold, damp, cramped little room, he spoke the words with unexpected clarity and fluency. He set the bag filled with bottles into the open mop bucket.
"Riba ribi grize rep."
(Fish bites fish's tail.)
He pulled on his cleaning gloves, unscrewed a bottle of drain cleaner and one of general cleanser, and poured both into the bucket before standing up.
"grize… rep…"
The door marked "Maintenance" swung open. The old man closed it behind him with his back, hung the removed gloves on the doorknob, pulled on the grey baseball cap hanging from his belt, and picked up the 17-inch Stanley aluminum toolbox leaning against the doorframe.
"Tri praščića na trešnjinom drvetu."
(Three little pigs on the cherry tree.)
Stepping out from behind the curtain, he was caught in the dim amber glow of the ambient lights. A woman in a golden gown stood at the mirror wall applying lipstick, oblivious to his presence.
"Voda… vodi... do voda."
(Water leads… to water.)
He tugged the cap brim lower and softened his voice still further.
"Voda. Vodi. Do voda."
Carrying the oversized toolbox, he slipped from the stage wing into the backstage corridor that led straight to the fly gallery.
Looking down, he could see the fragmented stage lights filtering through the high catwalk. The drop was steep; the entire auditorium spread below like an intricate, downsized chessboard—half dreamlike, half rigidly ordered. The grand swell of music vibrated up through the soles of his feet.
Entering the transverse catwalk, he passed overhead silver ducting, taut ropes and pulleys on one side, translucent grating beneath his boots. In moments the opulent main house of the theatre came into view opposite.
The peripheral scenery always brought a faint wave of vertigo, triggering his migraine. His steps faltered briefly.
Ahead, two guards approached. The old man raised a friendly hand in greeting.
"Kako si došao ovamo, Ivane?"
(How did you get up here, Ivan?)
One guard, cradling a rifle, stepped closer and asked. The old man lifted his face with a tired but gentle smile:
"Sretan Božić, gospodine…"
(Merry Christmas, sir.)
He nodded politely, clenching a fist to stifle a cough. The guard tapped his rifle barrel impatiently, gave the large toolbox a light kick, and continued:
"A gdje je Božidar? Sad je njegova smjena."
(And where's Božidar? This is his shift.)
The old man shook his head, still smiling that guileless smile.
"Božidar je bolestan, danas sam ja dežuran."
(Božidar is sick. I'm on duty today.)
As the guard opened his mouth to press further, the second one laid a hand on his shoulder.
"Krug je pokvaren, ovo se ne može odgađati."
(The circuit's down—this can't wait.)
He gave the old man another once-over, eyes widening in warning.
"Jesi li na putu vidio nekog sumnjivog?"
(Did you see anyone suspicious on your way up?)
The old man said nothing, merely shook his head again.
"Pazi malo, već si u godinama."
(Be careful. You're not young anymore.)
There was a trace of pity in the guard's tone. The old man pressed his lips together; shallow tears filmed his eyes.
"Za jednog starca bez rodbine… to je sasvim dovoljno."
(For an old man with no family… this is quite enough.)
The guards stepped aside, letting him pass. He nodded his thanks repeatedly, lifted the toolbox, and moved on.
His pace quickened. The stooped back straightened as the light dimmed. He raised the shoulder dragged low by the weight of the case and drew a pry bar from his pocket.
Four crisp snaps—ceiling panels came free. He collected the screws into his pocket to keep them from rattling down the catwalk.
Crawling into the low, flat, darkened space, he found a more comfortable position, feeling his way past obstacles until he could advance in a crouch.
At the outer edge, where light was stronger, he half-squatted, set the toolbox down, rocked his head forward and back three times, then reached under his chin and peeled the silicone mask backward in one smooth pull.
After wiping away the sticky residue with a special cloth, John Hastings stripped off the work pants and jacket, revealing a plain black suit beneath. Calmly he folded the electrician's outfit, tucked the tie into his waistcoat, and straightened his cuffs.
He unzipped the Stanley toolbox and withdrew an H&K MR762A5. Placing a 20-round magazine flat on the metal, he threaded the heavy suppressor onto the barrel, deployed the bipod beneath the handguard, and eased into a prone position.
Flipping open the covers of the Trijicon Credo 1-6x24, he settled into the shadowed zone. No one outside the false ceiling could see him; he, however, could study his enemies bathed in light.
Both eyes open, he locked onto the primary eye's view. He dimmed the reticle illumination until the green center dot, cross, and circle were nearly extinguished.
First he acquired Vitomira Lončar in the VIP box. From the elevated angle he noted a subtle distortion and reflection in the glazing—bulletproof glass, as suspected.
Using the standing bodyguard beside her as a ranging reference, he dialed focus, inserted the magazine, and racked the charging handle.
Now the only variable was the theatre's reverberant tremor. He watched the reticle quiver slightly, then folded the bipod away and shifted to a sitting position, left arm wrapped around the rifle, stock braced on his right shoulder—his own body serving as a living shock absorber.
He matched his breathing to the rhythm, slowed his pulse, relaxed every unnecessary muscle—becoming, for the moment, a cold, mechanical thing. Compensating for the downward angle, he focused, blinked once. In the magnified view, the target's brown iris contracted like quicksand collapsing toward a death trap; the pupil shrank to a needle-sharp point.
The reticle drifted across the drumbeat. It settled not on the hunter, but higher—sliding through faint stray light until the center dot rested on the half-face illuminated by a cigarette. John Hastings flicked the safety off.
Before the next drum strike he squeezed the trigger.
The bright cigarette fell to the catwalk. In the same instant the drum masked the sound, the guard crumpled.
The reticle tracked sideways toward the second man running to investigate.
Following the beat, muzzle flash bloomed silently; white smoke curled from the suppressor. John absorbed the brief recoil with his shoulder pocket, eyes narrowed.
Another spent brass case spun onto the iron plate, clinking against the first, trailing faint white vapor.
He exhaled steadily, swung the muzzle. The reticle swept the balcony, locked onto the guard in the opposite catwalk reaching for his radio.
The moment the man stepped half into shadow, the dot settled precisely on his anticipated next position.
Finger brushed the trigger, waited half a second. John shifted the sight picture right. No one emerged.
Steady breathing. In the darkness, man and rifle became one organism.
Brass swelled; two patrolling balcony guards dropped in a single controlled burst.
Percussion thundered. On the second-tier box level, an alert enemy tried to drag his fallen comrade up as cover—only to be precisely headshot from an unseen angle.
Crescendo. John lowered the muzzle. The suppressor glowed faintly with heat, trailing smoke. His finger hovered, then eased onto the trigger again.
Onstage the pas de deux reached its climax amid pounding music.
Inside the false ceiling, the view through the right eye shifted violently—yet the reticle divided the world into four clean quadrants, its lethal center unchanging.
In seven seconds the precision rifle bucked four times. Two rounds remained.
A patrol squad in the stage-wing shadows toppled one after another into darkness. The audience remained rapt, applauding the dancers' final stretched poses.
In the final thirteen seconds before curtain, inside the VIP box: bodyguards burst in, shouting at Vitomira Lončar on the sofa. No one outside could hear.
Her face twisted in terror, pinned to the seat by invisible pressure. Hands scrabbled uselessly. Guards tried to haul her up.
Then, unexpectedly, a deep spiderweb of cracks starred the bulletproof glass. A near-spent round embedded itself in the wooden leg of the sofa.
A second shot—colder, sharper—punched clean through. The crystal goblet on the round table shattered; deep-red wine splashed across Lončar's face. He lurched upright on trembling legs, only to be half-carried, half-dragged from the box by his escorts.
In the false ceiling, John Hastings twisted the release; the empty magazine dropped with a thin hiss of escaping gas. To his right, the spent cases had already cooled.
He stowed the MR762A5, knelt on one knee, and looked out toward the bright, bustling sea of light below.
The performance ended. The house rose in applause.