Ospreys (teaser)

 Inside the sea of people, the air was humid and oppressive. Despite a light drizzle, thousands had gathered to witness the concert atop the Oslo Opera House. The crowd was packed so tightly that the white marble surface was barely visible in the television footage from the helicopter hovering above. The Norwegian Refugee Council, Church Aid, and several other volunteer organizations had teamed up with the national TV broadcaster, NRK, to bring in an impressive lineup of artists for the evening’s event. Rock for Refugees had drawn major names, all eager to perform once it was announced that superstar and rock icon Roman Shivers would host and headline the show. Spotlights and pyrotechnics conjured dancing fireballs above the audience. It looked as if flames were sweeping back and forth across the crowd, which swayed in rhythm with the music. On the makeshift stage - a 40-by-20-meter barge moored tightly to the western side of the Opera building - heavy metal riffs from the Rogaland band Kvelertak thundered alongside the vocalist’s unintelligible death growls. John had never cared much for metal as a musical genre or for its practitioners. He always found it ironic that these unathletic misfits - either pudgy or anemic - spouted lyrics about war and violence, even though they’d be the first to crumble if their anarchist fantasies ever came true. He glanced at his watch. Half past eight. Still thirty minutes until the evening’s headliner, the French band Gojira, would take the stage. He was sweating profusely. Beneath his thin hoodie and black cotton pants, he wore a 5 mm thick wetsuit. Nothing anyone would notice, but it was uncomfortably tight and warm. He wore a plain, black Vans baseball hat, oversized Ray-Ban sunglasses, and held a plastic cup of beer in his hand like most others around him. He had already noticed the bodyguard who earlier had taken up position at the southern edge of the stage, his back turned to the concert. Otherwise, as expected, the area was laughably under-secured - just a handful of scattered officers from the regular police force, wearing yellow, high-vis vests and holstered pistols. “Police security in Oslo is laughably sparse,” John muttered to himself. He saw the bodyguards exit the black BMW at the rear of the motorcade. One of them stepped forward and opened the heavy, armored rear door on the right side of the Mercedes limousine. Out stepped the slender figure of Janne Inger Viik, Norwegian Minister of Justice, dressed for the occasion in jeans, a black T-shirt, and a light, dark red blazer. The right-wing politician was known for her elegant suits and dresses, but despite the more casual look, she carried herself well - mid-height heels, hair loose to her shoulders. Very rock’n’roll, John thought, smirking. The minister was greeted by a man and a woman by the car. They seemed to be around her age and dressed in the same trendy festival style. Friends or colleagues. John tried not to appear too interested as they hugged, smiled, and laughed. Eventually, the group began moving through the entrance to the concert area. One bodyguard followed, while the other remained by the car. John assumed the minister would find a spot somewhere toward the middle-back of the crowd, where the pressure from the crowd was lighter and movement easier. He let the group pass his position and followed them with his eyes. His pulse quickened, and adrenaline had already begun to mute the sound of the music. He saw them stop halfway up the slope of the Opera roof—exactly where he had imagined. He inhaled deeply through his nose and slowly exhaled through his mouth. The breathing exercise brought his heart rate nearly back to resting. Time slowed, and the stress he’d just felt transformed into crystal-clear mental focus. Ready. He moved calmly toward them, satisfied that few in the crowd had noticed the celebrity entourage. Despite the drizzle, it was a bright summer evening, but the spotlights and deafening music drew all attention to the stage, allowing John to navigate the crowd unnoticed. When he was just three or four meters from the minister and her bodyguard, he reached behind his lower back and gripped the small pistol resting inside his waistband. A Glock 26 with ten rounds in the magazine. Exceptional balance and firepower in a discreet package. With the beer cup in his left hand and the other still behind his back, he stepped right up to the group. The bodyguard turned toward him, and John looked straight into his ice-blue eyes. The man was a red-blond, broad-shouldered type with a square jaw and hairy knuckles. Conservative haircut with a side part and the obligatory navy-blue sports jacket meant to conceal weapons and radio. A poster boy for the Secret Service. John smiled. The bulletproof vest was clearly visible beneath the light-blue shirt. It wouldn’t make a difference. John’s little death-bringer in matte black polymer was loaded with 9mm steel-core ammunition. Kevlar might as well be tissue paper. John met the bodyguard’s gaze and offered a sympathetic smile before letting the plastic cup of beer drop from chest height. For a split second, their eyes locked. Then the bodyguard’s attention shifted to the falling beer bomb, before he looked back at John in surprise. It seemed like he was about to say something when John drew the pistol and fired two shots into his chest. The deafening cracks sliced through the music and festival noise. In one fluid motion, John placed another round into the man’s left eye, and the bodyguard collapsed like a sack of cement. John turned to the Minister of Justice and fired two more shots. She stumbled forward and hit the white stone surface without breaking her fall. Minister Viik lay still, face turned away from him. Dark blood streamed from her body, staining the marble red around her. The crowd instantly entered a state of collective panic. People around John and the lifeless bodies scrambled desperately away from the source of the gunfire. He spotted two high-vis vests approaching from the north side of the area - likely the officers he’d seen at the entrance. A quick glance toward the southern end of the stage revealed that the bodyguard who had stood there moments ago was now gone, probably moving toward him through the crowd. John realized it was time to get out. He moved quickly southward toward the barriers by the water. The music had stopped, replaced by a cacophony of panicked screams from the crowd trying to reach the exit over the bridge toward Operagata. As he reached the metal fencing meant to prevent people from falling into the sea, he heard a woman’s voice shout: “Police! Stop right there!” He glimpsed two yellow vests in his peripheral vision, just 20–30 meters to his left, but continued climbing over the fence. The officers must have been stationed on the south side behind the Opera building—he hadn’t noticed them earlier. A loud bang rang out. Whether it was a warning shot or aimed at him was impossible to tell, but since he hadn’t been hit, it didn’t matter. John ran toward the edge of the quay. “Police! Stop! I’m armed!” The officer still sounded a fair distance away. The harbour basin was packed with leisure boats that had anchored to watch the concert. Now chaos erupted, as many started their engines to flee the gunfire and the danger that had shattered the festive atmosphere. Several boats lay close to shore, just a few meters from him. John ran to the edge and fixed his gaze on a spot in the water beyond the quay. He took a deep breath, filled his lungs, and dove into the murky water - and vanished.