Mike smiled. Maybe the subtitles were more useful than he thought. He didn't need to read the screen to know what was coming next. He waited for the beat to drop in the movie's soundtrack, then stood up.

He didn't speak a word of Serbian. He knew how to say "Where is the target?" in six languages, but Serbian wasn't one of them. He considered calling his partner, Siu-Lo, but she’d just mock his technical incompetence.

"Gospodo," Mike said, his British accent cutting through the room like a blade. "I believe you're looking for an accident."

Before they could reach for their holsters, Mike launched the stapler. By the time the movie reached the end credits, the cafe was empty, the two men were "sleeping" in the alleyway, and Mike Fallon had learned his first word of Serbian. Katastrofa.

Mike Fallon was the best in the business, but even the world's most creative hitman had his limits. After his "unfortunate" departure from London, Fallon found himself laying low in Malta, far away from the familiar grime of the English underworld. He was supposed to be keeping a low profile, but Mike Fallon didn't do "low profile." He did accidents.

As the film started, the Cyrillic text began to crawl across the bottom of the screen. Mike watched as his own cinematic counterpart—played by a man who looked remarkably like him but with better lighting—expertly staged a "heart attack" for a crooked politician. Smrt od srčanog udara , the subtitles read.