shrieking women & the steady beat of a drum help keep his presence relatively unnoticed. john wades through the rambunctious throng, slipping in between gaps & gently guiding people out of his path with a hand, the other trained on the handgun tactically holstered beneath his leather jacket. guitar strings are plucked, an arpeggio meant for a sound test, he assumes.
once he’s got a beat on his target, john makes the decision to hold his trigger finger. he’ll bide his time until the band’s set begins. whining guitars, a talented voice & the strum & chug of the bass. it’ll be enough to somewhat mask the sound & pressure his silenced handgun will produce, localize the panic, long enough for him to get out.
wick’s mark approaches the bar, & so he does, too. but takes his seat right next to her – a professional courtesy. he orders them both a drink, & upon noticing the bartender’s acknowledgement of john, she turns to face him.
shocked. terrified.
“ john? “
the woman practically chokes on her fear. “ what brings you this way? “ she’s romanian, wearing a shirt of the band up on stage. in response, the assassin silently stares. takes a drink. “ … i see. “ her words come sullen, quiet. their drinks arrive & are placed in front of them, prompting them both to reach out for one.
one hand holds the glass, brings it to his lips. the other’s already drawn his glock beneath the veil of his jacket. “ is there nothing i – “ the shot rings out & ends her sentence, muffled but loud enough for the bartender to react.the life drains from the woman’s eyes, & wick eases her head down onto the counter. those sitting on the bar stools around them give him a look, & are clearly concerned, but can’t decide what’s happened.
john’s eyes meet the bartender’s. eyes flick to somewhere behind the counter. “ don’t. “ he says, knowing what that means. then the man lunges for something.
plan ruined.
john leaps over the table, sending glasses & bottles crashing to the floor as his feet plant against the bartender’s chest. he stumbles back, slamming against the wall of liquor & revealing the shotgun he’s grasped in his left hand. john grabs the shotgun, forces it to angle up as the man fires in panic, right into the ceiling above them. the music grinds to a halt, & panic ensues. fans are rushing the stage to escape the rampage of panicked fools, not wanting to be trampled. others make for the exit. john looks back to watch it all unfold, rolls his eyes & shakes his head out of sheer frustration. he reaches to the wall he’s got the man pinned against, grabs one of the intact bottles & smashes it against his skull.