Good evening, viewers. Tonight's top story from Southeast Europe: A cold snap is sweeping the Balkan Peninsula, delivering record-low temperatures, widespread blizzards, and brief disruptions to traffic and daily life.
Just as John heard it, no one was clearing the snow. Steam from the drains curled onto the roadway; the district hung in a slowly sinking ice fog that clung to clothing. Visibility was poor, pedestrians scarce. After a horn blared from the next street, doors and windows began shutting one by one.
"From Slovenia and northwestern Croatia through southeastern Bulgaria, Romania, and Serbia, the entire Balkans are experiencing the strongest southward surge of Arctic air in years…"
Footsteps beside him quickened and peeled away. John glanced around. The apartment blocks in Sabuleg's southern suburbs still wore their Yugoslav-era concrete faces—rows of lifeless boxes. He doubted anyone still lived inside; they seemed kept only as sealed memories of a doomed pragmatism.
"Meteorologists call it a rare polar-vortex disruption, driving cold air deep into the eastern Mediterranean."
Through the fogged glass of a shop door, a pair of eyes stared out, then vanished the instant they met his. He knew that feeling—dangerous, familiar. The street was now his alone, boots crunching on soaked snow, the wet coat heavy on his shoulders. He squared his back, left hand sliding inside the coat to flick off the safety.
"In the past forty-eight hours temperatures have plunged. Northern Bulgaria and parts of Romania have already hit minus fifteen to minus twenty Celsius; central Croatia, central Serbia, and Romania's inland highlands have dropped even harder."
Another gust ripped the white mist aside. Fine grit scoured his shins. When the view cleared, he knew he was not alone.
"Forecasts warn that tonight and tomorrow some areas may reach or breach minus twenty-five Celsius. With the wind, wind-chill will feel far worse."
John Hastings did not slow. His coat hem swung; in the iced side mirror he caught two men exhaling smoke, ash drifting onto full-finger gloves, glowing tips flickering.
"Low-lying zones already saw rain-snow mix and melt; rivers are rising. Flood watches are now in effect alongside the cold warnings…"
From the corner of his eye, two men under the bus shelter rose, pulled on caps, flicked their dying butts into a stained stone cup, and fell in behind him as if nothing had happened.
A hundred metres on, Zagreb Klara station squatted against the suburb's grey-white shell. It was less a station than a bare platform with open tracks.
"Izgleda da želi otići na aerodrom."
One eyebrowless thug muttered, eyes signaling. They kept their distance, weapons still hidden, but picked up the pace.
"Kreni za njim."
John reached the unattended gate, showed the attendant the e-ticket on his phone. After a short screech of brakes, the next set of cars halted. The driver stepped down and headed for the nearest toilet.
John snatched an orange hard hat from the bench, jammed it on, pushed through the scattering crowd, and slapped the emergency stop with the back of his hand.
"Svi van! Mirno, molim!"
He stood in the doorway, waving out the last passengers. One man, mistaking him for staff, half-tipped his cap in thanks. John nodded back.
"Anyone still inside?"
No answer. He yanked off the hard hat, dropped into an aisle seat, opened his coat, drew the VP9L, and screwed on the suppressor with steady hands.
Rapid footsteps hammered into the station. Four thugs shouted outbound passengers aside, coats flapping open. They ripped Makarov pistols—each fitted with a suppressor—from under Level III Kevlar vests and racked the slides.
Inside the car, John heard the screams. A vein pulsed beneath his right eyelid. He laid the VP9L flat on his thigh and waited.
The iron door clanged open. The four tailed him aboard. Two slid into the seats ahead, grinning. Two gripped the overhead loops. The bald, eyebrowless one spoke in thick accent:
"I'm sorry, Mr. Hastings."
John raised his eyes, finger resting on the trigger guard, and answered calmly:
"So am I."
He snapped the pistol up to chest level, aligned by instinct. Two controlled pairs—before the shots even echoed, the rising men took bullets through the forehead and folded.
The rear thug opened fire. Rounds punched empty vapour. John had already pivoted left, dropped low, and double-tapped his kneecaps. As the thug knelt screaming, John lifted the muzzle a fraction and put one through the head.
Brass clattered on the floor. No other cries.
The last thug—the bald one—faced the smoking barrel, smirked, raised his hands with index finger hooked through the trigger guard, and let the pistol drop. He peeled off the vest, drew a knife, and settled into a fighting stance.
John didn't wait. Arm straight, he advanced, trigger working in smooth double-taps until the man dropped. Then he emptied the rest of the magazine into the body to make sure.
John holstered the empty VP9L, stepped over the smoking corpse, and said softly:
"You shouldn't have taken off the vest."