. The Party on the Terrace. A Dance of masks and bullets

 

The terrace is tastefully arranged.

Colorful string lights crisscross it in two directions, closed umbrellas stand tall, and flags flutter at the four corners of the railing. The buffet table, made of expensive teak wood, is placed against the back wall and covered with a tablecloth that leaves its natural grain visible. The lights from the penthouse shine through the wide glass windows, framing the studio apartment like a scene in a cinema. The entrance door is visible at the back, along with the bathroom access marked by a heavy cast-metal “toilet” sign and two paintings that would delight many collectors. The city rooftops merge with the night, and the lit windows add a nativity-like charm that warms the heart.

A waiter, hands clasped behind his back and steps soft, tends to final details, checking the freshness of the dishes and straightening a few bottles here and there. The Amarone della Valpolicella stands out, its red embossed label stark against the dark bottle, and three choices of champagne for the appetizers chill near a fragile tower of crystal glasses.

The first guests to arrive are a middle-aged couple. The man, bald, wears a blue jacket with ease, paired with faded jeans and a white shirt hinting at a gym-sculpted chest. The woman, still attractive, wears a light blue dress that shows off her healthy, slender legs. The waiter greets them, collects her handbag, and places it on a long bench near a built-in wardrobe large enough to house an entire boat.

Next, two women enter, smiling generously. They flaunt enviable décolletés and fresh beach tans. True to tradition, one is blonde, the other brunette, making it hard to choose who is more striking. The blonde boasts a contest-worthy figure, while the brunette has enormous, dark eyes. She exudes elegance, albeit betrayed by a touch too much lipstick. Their handbags, too, are entrusted to the diligent waiter.

The terrace starts to come alive: an older woman in a long, glitter-adorned dress; an equally elderly man with white, well-groomed mustache; and a young couple of lovers, slightly awkward. She clutches her bag while he, much taller, wraps an arm around her shoulders, leaning comically to kiss her hair. Both are astonished by the lavish menu and the generous offering of fine wines. They peruse the buffet, weave through the chairs, and reach the railing to marvel at the view.

Still no sign of the president.

I had studied the ten photographs provided alongside the €50,000 payment. The client would place a €5,000 bundle on the table, topping it with a photograph.

“Study it carefully,” he instructed. I scrutinized her features, the youthful tautness of her skin, and the sparkle in her eyes. Red lips, toned shoulders. The second photo, paired with the next bundle, showed her in a yellow Brazilian bikini, walking on a deserted beach with her discreet bodyguards in tow. The third captured her at work behind her desk, and the fourth as a speaker at a crowded conference. The prominent microphone didn’t obscure her lovely face, while her hair in a bun and large tortoiseshell glasses transformed her significantly. Nothing was left to chance.

“This will be the only occasion when she’ll appear without security and without any protective protocol. You know you can’t fail,” he emphasized as the fifth installment of my advance appeared on the table, accompanied by yet another photo.

I had memorized her face and delved deeper, searching for videos featuring her.

I’m a professional.

I started shooting during my three-year military stint, where I discovered my talent as a sniper. I had enlisted after my heartbreak with Lara, the most beautiful and important woman of my life. My perfect partner. She left without explanation, without second thoughts. One evening she embodied love itself; the next, she was a bundle of whims and paranoia. The bouquets I left at her door were futile, and in the end, instead of twelve red roses, I grew accustomed to clutching a precision rifle.

Bang, the targets’ heads would burst.

Bang, the heads burst.

They nicknamed me Bang Bang Boy.

This is my fifth assignment, and I’ve never been paid this much. The president is a target worth every euro of the fee, including the rest I’ll collect once the job is done.

It’s not a bad line of work. I never get close to the victims; I watch them fall lifeless through the precise optics of my Sako.

Bang.

It’s a cold sensation, like watching actors die in a movie. Remorse lasts only a second, and let’s be clear—once the bullet is fired, it’s like destiny: there’s no way to change its direction.

“There’s no room for mistakes. We’ve got the right tip-off and the perfect spot. You’ll shoot from up there...” he said, pointing to an old 19th-century building painted in that ubiquitous Torino yellow. It stood four stories tall on the hillside, hollow like a snail shell. Up to the third row of windows, the facade was hidden by the dense foliage of trees.

“The owner is an old woman who lives alone in that barracks of a house. We know she recently had her hip replaced and won’t be leaving the clinic for another three weeks. You won’t have to force the doors—we’ve got a copy of the keys.”

They jingled in front of my face, much like the Mercedes keys the latest guests handed to the obsequious waiter. These were two men who looked like they’d never worked a day in their lives, with faces unmistakably marked by plastic surgery for the trained eye to notice. The taller one walked with a slight limp—I imagined he’d injured himself during a water-skiing session or maybe falling off a horse. The shorter one kept his hands buried in the high pockets of a hooded sweatshirt. I wouldn’t dare show up at such an elegant gathering dressed like that—or with such a vulgar rapper attitude.

I pull my eye away from the scope.

I want to rest for a moment before the president makes her appointment with destiny. I glance around the room.

The space is pitch dark, and the door to the fourth-floor apartment is ajar, opening onto a landing that smells faintly of wax polish. Once the job is done, I’ll shut it behind me and vanish. The windowsill I’ll shoot from is low, perfect for a precise shot without anyone noticing the muzzle flash.

I stretch my legs to keep them from falling asleep, get the blood flowing, then resume my sniper’s stance.

The terrace is more crowded now, a growing hubbub. I scan the interior but still don’t see my target—just the same people as before, with some insignificant extras adding to the commotion.

“No complaints if you have to take down someone who steps into the line of fire or just won’t get out of the way. Clear your path if necessary, but don’t miss. Don’t hold back for that rabble; they wouldn’t hesitate for you. You know the drill—if you miss, one of ours will be waiting downstairs to send you to your maker. Few things are certain in this world, but so far, it’s pretty clear that dead men don’t talk.”

He’d said it, and somehow, I thought of Lara—our years together, our white kitten, Thursday night pizza, movie dates, her smile that healed pain, her flawless body. I remember her green eyes, the small mole beside her lip, and her eyelashes, long as petals. I remember her scent and her skin, smooth as silk.

If I kill today, it’s because she hurt me yesterday.

I scan all the guests with patient precision, sweeping from right to left. I’m 200 meters from the target, but my scope is powerful, revealing every detail. The shy young couple has let someone fill their glasses with something blue. The man with the white mustache chats animatedly with the Mercedes duo, gesturing flamboyantly. Now there are two waiters; a younger one with a conspicuous earpiece has joined, both bustling about, ensuring nothing is amiss. The bald man with enviable pecs nibbles on a caviar tartlet.

The contrary wind carries the music down to the city, but judging by the swaying hips and tapping feet, I guess it’s jazz with a swing rhythm.

I breathe.

It’s good to keep my brain oxygenated, to push back the dull aches and faint cramps.

“You’ll shoot as soon as she steps onto the terrace. She’s authoritative and revered enough that everyone will step aside for her. They’ll make way like for a cow in India, and then it’ll be easy. Place your usual shot to the heart, and another squarely in the forehead. Pack up, leave the room neat, close the window and the door, and disappear. We’ll get the rest of the cash to your house.”

There she is!

The president enters the house. The obsequious waiter clicks his heels together and approaches to take her handbag. With her are a friend whose face is hidden behind a wall of shoulders and applause, and an elderly executive who walks with difficulty. The friend appears to ask about the bathroom and slips behind the door with the heavy plaque.

I could shoot now, make the bullet pierce the glass and hit her, but if the web of cracks spreads too far, it could obscure my view. Better to wait until the target steps onto the terrace. When I see the guests part like the Red Sea, I’ll know the moment has come.

I relax.

Shooting requires the awareness and calm of a Tibetan monk. You must control your breath, dominate your heart, and overcome emotion. No trembling or second thoughts. A good shooter learns quickly to relax his sphincter. It’s funny, but the sniper has to manage his ass better than anyone else.

Applause erupts.

The terrace is lit up brightly, and the guests leave a wide and comfortable path for the guest of honor, his downhill road to hell. To enhance the dramatic effect, the lights inside the house are turned off. The dead woman walking will emerge from the darkness like a great actress taking the stage. And I will take her.

I breathe.

My neck is soft and relaxed, my shoulders light, and everything, from my chest down, stretches as written in the manuals of the seasoned assassin.

“They’ll have the lights in their eyes. No one, really, not even the lucky ones, will understand where the shots came from. You know what I’m telling you? I’ll fill her with money to do it, but almost I could do it on my own,” he had laughed until he felt sick while I waited for the slap on the shoulder that would come soon after. Some people don’t even respect the dead.

My heart slows, my blood slows.

Time slows.

The crosshair of the scope splits the width of the door. The crosshair points where soon there will be a heart to split.

When Lara, my ex-girlfriend, appears first, surprising the guests, I feel a punch in my stomach and I lose my breath, my reason clouds, and the circle of the lens frames a confusion of colors and lights in motion. I struggle with the rifle, overwhelmed by a flood of pain and tension, and my mouth dries as if I had swallowed a hairdryer. My ass clenches, and the world crashes down on me.

The president is behind her. She smiles, offers greetings, jokes, gestures with her hand, and bows proudly. Only, her vital organs, the ones I’m supposed to shatter with a 7.62 Heckler & Koch bullet, are protected by Lara’s body.

I couldn’t have imagined they were friends or lovers or partners, so close. I would have refused the assignment had I known, and I would have run to warn her at the cost of burning my career. Lara is as beautiful as ever, matured, with a gaze full of awareness. She must be rich, and she only moves for a moment when the waiter hands her a glass, and I know I could never take advantage of the opportunity, not even at the peak of concentration.

Now, I’m a hostage of chaos.

There’s an irrefutable mission, a killer waiting for me at the exit, and fifty thousand euros in advance that will do for my funeral. Whoever gave me the assignment couldn’t have known about my love for Lara, and here’s the shipwreck about to happen.

I try to concentrate, wiping the sweat that runs down my forehead, and I try to slow my pulse. There’s too much of it even for watching a game.

Nothing.

The president advances across the terrace, with Lara always one meter ahead. When all the lights go out, the second act of the macabre play begins.

The terrace remains in the dark.

Only the candles shine on the tables, but the rest of the party is a confused, dark mass. No target for pam pam boy.

"You’ve got an excuse, my friend!" I convince myself that the sudden blackout is my grand opportunity to slip away, return to the client, and dismiss it all with a shrug.

"Didn't you know it was a candlelit party? I’m really sorry if you were misinformed, but you should have sent a hitman to the venue, not placed a sniper by the window…”

It works.

I don’t have infrared optics with me, and with every passing minute, I become an easy target. Goodbye, high-profile assassination. I glance once more toward the terrace, but the only lights I see are the usual candles and the red tips of lit cigarettes.

I disassemble the rifle from its mount, place it in its case unhurriedly, and stand up. As I close the window, I see the party continuing under the soft glow of flames. There’s nothing I can do about it. As instructed, I make sure the room is in order, step out onto the landing that smells of wax, and slowly begin to descend the stairs.

The landlady materializes on the landing below, propped up by an orthopedic walker. Her armpits are pinched between its grips and her pajamas, her face of wrinkles and blotches frozen in shock. I notice her fuchsia fur slippers and a curious hairnet that screams “bank heist.”

"Good Lord, who are you?” she stammers, then starts shrieking like a banshee, spitting like a faulty exhaust. She screams, stomps her good leg on the floor. "How the hell did you get in, and what… what’s in that case!" And I get it. I realize she could dictate my description over coffee and that she’s sharp, with perfect eyesight behind those thick, old-lady-teacher glasses. She reeks of disinfectant—fresh from the clinic—and I’m certain she’s as fast on her phone as a gunslinger.

When I see her begin to pivot the walker to retreat into her apartment, I strike her with the edge of the case. She crumples like a can under a wheel and dies. Nobody survives a cracked skull and brains oozing onto the doormat like cheese from a toast onto a napkin. A few nervous spasms of the legs, then stillness. The cloud of white hair trapped by the hairnet absorbs the blood pooling on the floor.

Since things can only get worse, I head back to the top floor to check if the party has resumed under electric light. And yes, damn it, it has. Not the Texan party bulbs from earlier, but spotlights flooding the scene in purple.

I feel like I’m going insane, but what takes my breath away is that all the guests are wearing masks.

And capes. Masks of various designs and black capes dragging on the floor. Some are tall, some short, but they have no gender, no faces, and no one can tell who the target is—or who Lara is.

I take out my phone and snap some photos. I feel genuinely sorry for the old lady, and the client will believe me. No hard feelings. As I focus, the phone vibrates in my hand.

"Yes…"

"We’ve got no choice. Shoot anything that moves!"

"What the hell?"

"One of the waiters is ours. We’ll have him block the door so they can’t leave, and you figure it out. After you drop a couple, they’ll probably take off their masks, and then you’ll get an idea…"

"No, seriously, this is insane. And by the way, I made a bad impression on the landlady—the one you said was at the clinic…”

"We’re mortified. These things happen, but we have to kill that bitch, you understand? Otherwise, the stock crashes, and millions—no, billions—evaporate. And then it’ll be our asses on the line. Crack a few skulls, and let’s see what happens."

I taste overripe fruit in my mouth and see death settle in next to me. The partygoers are either performing a ritual or—more simply—they’re so rich, bored, and drugged that they no longer know how to have fun. Lara is among them. I expected anything from her except becoming part of high society.

I hastily set up the mount, reassemble the rifle and scope, and peer into the deepest purple I’ve ever seen. There are masks, extravagant and gothic; others, baroque and ornate; and some, minimalist and pristine. I recognize the tall guy with the much shorter girlfriend. They’re awkward in a distant corner, holding hands that peek out from under their capes. The Mercedes guy is limping; there he is, wandering among the armchairs. And then there’s the old man with the mustache. I haven’t forgotten his slightly hunched posture.

Lara, where are you?

Madam President, lead like a leader even under the mask. Part the crowd like a plow. Show yourself!

But it’s just back-and-forth through the scope, and frustration mounts. I want a glass of water, a foot soak, and a chance to call my mom.

Denied.

"Hello." Silence.

"Hello…"

"Apparently, the bitch is wearing a mask with lace details and vermilion red lips. That’s all I know, buddy. Good luck."

Vermilion red lips, lace. There are at least ten masks like that, and I fear that Lara, in the name of corporate branding, is hiding behind one of them.

But Lara is tall, so I shoot the shortest one. The bullet strikes her chest; she staggers, grasps for the teak table, clings to the tablecloth, then collapses, pulling everything down with her. Everyone rushes to her; some grab their phones, others clutch their faces. No one removes their mask, so I persist. I put a 7.62 next to the cheekbone of the next tallest. A broad reddish crack forms in the mask as the crystal glass tower explodes in all directions. The stampede toward the house is immediate, as violent as a tidal wave. And I am a dead man. I shoot, then hope, then shoot again. Some trip over the dead, piling up, while the chaos at the blocked door is a chokehold, a gulp of broken glass that won’t go down—my career’s end.

They’ll have to pay me double. Triple. Quadruple, because I just shot through the ribs of a mask that had nothing to do with vermilion lips, lace, or women to eliminate. I see a cape fluttering like in a storm, the body collapsing beneath it.

Reload.

Shoot. Goodbye, old executive.

Reload.

Shoot. Farewell, beautiful brunette; may the earth be light upon you.

I’m so tense I could snap if a canary landed on my back.

I regret hitting the shy girlfriend. I see her clutching her stomach, falling to her knees, bowing her head. She remains kneeling like a devotional figurine, her mask rolling to the ground. Her boyfriend has been dead for a while now.

Ten times as much. They’ll have to pay me ten times as much, and I’ll shoot.

A small table crashes to the ground, candles scattering sparks everywhere, and down goes the blonde with the desirable little derrière.

They topple like bowling pins, and the shot that hits the elderly gentleman—slightly hunched and proud of his mustache—splashes blood, brain, and shards of mask across the glass pane dividing the terrace from the house. And not just that—it cracks an ill-fated spiderweb into the crystal.

I keep shooting until the glass shatters into a cascade of tiny shards. I even shoot those sprawled on the ground, hands crossed over their necks, and the others hiding behind flimsy armchairs, slender tables, and lifeless bodies under a black shroud.

I reload.

I shoot.

Reload. Bang bang, and my shoulder aches.

I fire so much that I make the air in the room unbreathable.

When the last of the targets collapses, a gush of blood spurting from their neck, I realize there are only two left on the terrace. I’m sure one of them is Lara. And the other—it’s her, the millionaire manager who stretched her luck too far.

“Take off the mask, go on,” I demand, but I know it’s a deliberate choice for them.

As blood drips from the terrace, streaking the facade with countless red streams, and a mountain of lifeless flesh presses against the barricaded door, I wait for one of the two women—trembling like leaves in a storm—to slip. I murmur, implore, pray like a man on death row.

“Come on, sweetheart. Take off the mask...”

The phone again.

Through the receiver, I hear the wail of police sirens. My time is running out. Someone in the city must have located the shooter, and the clock is ticking.

“You’ve done thirty, buddy. Come on, make it thirty-one before the cops show up.”

“Take it off, Lara. Take it off, show me your pretty face. Please, don’t disappoint me again!”

I feel my sweaty hands slipping on the rifle, the barrel smelling like an old stove, and I’ve only got one bullet left. I might have even soiled myself by now. I must look like a mess, but I can already hear the sirens for real.

They’re coming.

The two friends know they have no escape. They don’t scream or try to run. In my frenzy, I even shot the obsequious waiter—the only one with an uncovered face—which has dramatically affected my ammo count and will cost me dearly.

Now they’re hugging, waiting. Lara knows the dividends of their reckless stock market schemes will go to her, too, and I have no choice.

I’ll live if I return to base with not a single bullet left—and maybe, so will she.

I’ll live if I become one with the darkness before the police lights blind me.

I control my breathing.

Steady my heart.

Conquer my emotions.

No tremors, no second thoughts. I relax my muscles, aim at the mask on the left, and pull the trigger.

Once the bullet leaves, it’s like fate: there’s no way to change its direction.