WATERMILL

WATERMILL

A novel by Dejan Krstić

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JOURNALISTS

“How come he doesn’t eat sausages, son?” Draginja asked, surprised.

“Mom, he’s a vegan, he doesn’t eat meat!” Bane explained.

“Tell him we have some freshly roasted lamb… Butcher Pufta says it was still nursing from its mother until yesterday!”

“What is she saying?” Erik asked in english.

“All good, man! She’s worried because you don’t eat meat. I’ll explain!” Bane clarified, caught between two fires.

“Alright, if he doesn’t want sausages or lamb, I’ll roast a chicken for him… I’ll do it right away!” his mother insisted.

“I told you, he doesn’t eat meat at all!” her son snapped.

“I don’t have any fish, just canned sardines!” Draginja mused.

“We have tomatoes, peppers, and potatoes here, and I see you’ve baked some bread… He’ll like it, don’t worry.”

“How can I not worry, son? A foreigner is in our house for the first time, and we’re going to embarrass ourselves with potatoes and peppers!”

His mother dashed into the tiny kitchen, which, along with the dining room, was the only room in the small Ristić family apartment in New Belgrade. His father poured some rakija (plum brandy) and toasted to his son and their dark-skinned guest from America.

It all started three months ago.

The powerful Arizona sun was routinely bringing another spring day to an end. It was setting behind the desert horizon, casting reddish-orange shadows on the eastern wall of the Voice of Desert newspaper’s office. The neon light, which was never turned off, quickly established order in the room. A young journalist was just finishing her article; her fingers danced swiftly over the keyboard as the letters on the monitor followed the rhythm of her textual samba. Her face showed that she knew what she was doing. Occasionally, she would frown, bite her lower lip, and then resume drumming even faster on the alphabetic hieroglyphs, trying to capture her thoughts before they scattered. At the next desk, Mike from the sports section was lounging in his chair with his feet up on the desk. He was holding a baseball, which he casually tossed into the air and caught again. His face showed a mild boredom but also the relaxation of a man who had finished his work and was now just waiting for the end of the workday.

Watching all of this from the side stood a guest from the Balkans, a journalist from the newspaper Urlik, Bane Ristić. He carefully observed every movement, every detail of this colorful mosaic of events in the newsroom. The journalists were silently staring at their monitors, phones were ringing, and the latest news was popping up on the editor-in-chief’s screen. The dynamic of journalistic activities was heating up as the deadline for the first edition of the newspaper approached. Bane knew well that feeling when adrenaline covers the nerves, and the race against time pushes everything else aside. He had recently arrived in America for professional development. As one of the best investigative journalists in the region, Bane was an easy choice for the Americans during the rigorous selection process for applicants. His critical articles and dedication to the job recommended him to spend three months at the expense of U.S. taxpayers in the newsroom of the most famous daily newspaper in Arizona. “This is real madness!” he thought as he watched his American colleagues process information with the speed of a teenager having sex to experienced girl, trying to finish their stories, columns, reports, and comments at the last minute.

“You’re the colleague from Europe, right?” he heard a male voice behind him.

He turned around and saw a black guy extending his hand.

“Erik Stone, nice to meet you! I’ve heard you’re a very good journalist. I’d like to read some of your articles. Do you have anything translated into English?”

Bane smiled and pulled out a folder from his desk.

“Thank you, Erik. Every country has its own stories. Here are translations of some of my articles. What’s going on in Arizona? What are you writing about right now?”

Erik opened his notebook and showed him the title: “NGO in the Fight for the Rights of Native Americans in Arizona.” Bane was taken aback.

“Native Rights? You mean the Indians?”

The American colleague nodded.

“That’s right. But ‘Natives’ is the politically correct term that’s come into use,” he laughed. “A group of citizens from ‘Voices of the Desert’ is organized to help the Navajo tribe reclaim land that was once taken from them.”

He closed his notebook and set it on the table, then pulled a small fruit yogurt from his backpack, licked the lid, and stirred the contents with a plastic spoon.

“During the week, I eat healthy, and on the weekends, I eat and drink like it’s my last.

“The story is actually quite complicated,” Erik continued. “There are too many legal tangles, political games, corruption… The worst part is that the piece won’t make it into today’s edition – there was a shooting in Tucson… and readers gobble up those kinds of stories like crumbled cookies in milk!”

The guest from the Balkans listened intently. The journalist in him couldn’t rest, not even on another continent. The story had all the elements that inspired him to write: a fight for justice, a clash with the powerful, cultural tensions, racial discrimination… “This would be well-read back home,” he thought. “Our people love to side with the underdog and the oppressed – but only in theory and in the media. In reality – they despise minorities, newcomers, and see people of other races as aliens…”

“Tell me more about ‘Voices of the Desert’,” he asked, curiosity gleaming in his eyes.

Erik slurped his fruit yogurt, then leaned on the table beside him.

“They’re fighting against big corporations that have usurped the land of the ‘Navajo Nation,’ as they officially call themselves. Nothing new, right? To me, it’s a matter of both legal and, more importantly, moral nature. How do you return land that was forcibly taken from them many years ago? The chief and his associates are relying on old treaties, legal documents, and public support. They’re organizing protests, hoping to enlighten their people and cleanse the conscience of the citizens. In a divided America, I doubt they’ll succeed. It’s not easy for them, but they don’t give up, and my job is to help them,” Erik concluded.

Bane nodded thoughtfully. “The battle of the old and innocent against the new and corrupt world. We all know who wins that one,” thought the Serbian journalist.

“As I see it, I’ve managed to pique your interest in this story,” his American colleague gloated.

“I think people in my country need to know the truth about the Navajo tribe and their struggles, which remind me of the fate of Serbs in Kosovo,” Ristić replied.

“If you’re free this weekend, we could go out and get drunk like real men!” his colleague suggested, strolling back to his desk.

Bane agreed, glanced at the clock, and concluded that he had done enough professional development for the day. The ceiling fans hummed softly, fighting the stuffy air in the newsroom. In the general creative chaos, everything worked perfectly, and the players acted out their assigned roles, knowing their place and task. “They can manage without me!” he thought as he walked towards the exit. After leaving the newsroom, he headed to the motel where he was staying. When the desert is stolen, first from the Indians and later from the Mexicans, it’s not easy for urban planners to build a city on sandy ground. The same goes for Arizona’s capital. This metropolis in the southwestern U.S. spans more than a hundred square miles. Public transportation is almost nonexistent, with buses running only short routes, making it impossible to reach another part of the city without at least three transfers. Luckily, Bane’s accommodation was close to the newsroom building, so he walked to and from the motel, which is why he saw almost nothing during his two-month stay. Once, a colleague took him to Sedona (when he was writing about the local water supply), and another time he went to an NBA game. That’s where the tourist activity of the Urlik magazine journalist begins and ends. The motel room was only slightly larger than the one where his grandfather’s German Shepherd, lived on their country estate. The smallest fridge he’d ever seen, a TV from the time he was in elementary school, and a miniature bathroom for one person. “Like in prison,” he grumbled to himself. “I’ll have to accept Erik’s invitation so I don’t rot in this ‘motel cell.’”

Three days later, journalists Ristić and Stone were bar-hopping, and in the dead heat of vodka and whiskey drinking, the result was a tie. From that weekend on, they became inseparable. Erik took his Serbian guest with him on assignments, while they spent their days off in bars. As Bane’s professional development neared its end, Erik surprised him with a question.

“If I were to come with you to Serbia, could I stay at your place? I was planning to ask the editor to approve a two-week stay in your country, from where I could send reports.”

Bane accepted without hesitation, noting that he wouldn’t be able to show Erik the beauty of his country because he’d be busy with journalistic assignments. Although he didn’t personally pay much attention to such things, Bane suspected that they would encounter some funny episodes during Erik’s stay in Serbia, mainly due to cultural differences, mentalities, and especially because of the color of his American colleague’s skin. Easier than they had expected, the editor agreed to pay for Stone’s plane ticket and a minimal food allowance, as accommodation was already arranged.

At the Belgrade airport, they were met by Bane’s father, Dragan, who drove them to his apartment in Block 45.

DARKO MASCARA

“A man with enormous lips and a Luciferian smile looms over a ‘Huawei’ TV set and devours it in one gulp. The news anchors are in a panic. They don’t know what’s hit them, trying to save themselves, pounding on the inside of the screen… in vain! The man with the devilish smile is happy, satisfied, and full. After chewing up his media enemies, he opens a bottle of the finest wine, pours it into a glass, and carefully holds it by the stem. Swirling the wine in the glass, he downs its contents in one gulp. With a practiced motion, he wipes his thick lips and contentedly pats his bloated belly. At this point, we make a cut, and the intro sequence begins!” explained the director, describing the opening scene of the new TV series.

The screen darkened, the blinds rose, and the office of the CEO of the film company ‘Deception Net’ gleamed. Reclined in cushioned armchairs around the conference table, opposite the CEO, sat the director Gaga, known as Slimy, and the makeup artist Darko Bojić, known as Mascara. The TV series Land Without Hope was the most ambitious project for ‘Deception Net’ in the upcoming season. The Gouvernement was generous, providing a budget for filming a post-apocalyptic story with elements of horror and science fiction. For years, ‘Deception Net’ had been producing comedies, thrillers, and tepid social dramas, so the Board of Directors decided it was time to film something entirely different. The chairman of the board loved Game of Thrones, and his secretary (with benefits) adored Black Mirror. They wanted a series they could enjoy together after their romantic escapades at the motel. The problem arose when no script met their strict esthetic criteria. In the end, they decided to hire a party colleague, Gaga, who was supposedly an expert in all genres. Once the money was secured, they needed to find a master of makeup and visual effects – and the choice fell on the best among them. Darko Mascara was the only one capable of creating movie monsters and grotesque creatures to terrify the audience. “Film makeup is like political propaganda,” Bojić would say. “It hides flaws and highlights virtues! And often it’s the other way around.”

The trio of cheerful cineasts did not hide their satisfaction that, thanks to the government’s policies, it was a great time for the film industry. Rumors that the regime did not do this out of a great love for art but because of financial machinations didn’t bother them much. Slimy Gaga was on his third whiskey, so his small, fox-like eyes gleamed like flames in an oil lamp. The director was savoring the golden liquid that swirled in his crystal glass, while Darko downed a strawberry juice. They reminisced about films where makeup artists had managed to alter actors’ appearances, transforming them into various monsters. On the director’s desk lay a blue folder, which the head of the company carefully opened, and as if unraveling an ancient Slavic scroll, theatrically placed it in front of Mascara.

“Here’s the contract. I think the offer is fair. This is the highest fee for a makeup artist since I’ve been in this position,” he concluded.

Darko Bojić scanned the paper, skipped the bureaucratic details, and rejoiced at the figure at the end of the contract. Then he went back to the beginning and carefully read every word before neatly signing his name with short strokes of his right hand.

“Congratulations, Darko,” the head of ‘Deception Net’ spoke again. “I’m glad we’ll be working together… and now it’s time to celebrate!”

Gaga brought his empty glass forward, waited for it to be filled, took a sip, and tried to explain what he had just seen.

“This opening scene is very important because of the critical aspect of the story,” Slimy pontificated, his speech slurring slightly.

Darko pulled a packet of peanut candies from his pocket, offered them to his companions, and then asked a question.

“I don’t mean to sound malicious, but – how did such a strong metaphor that creates a critical image of the supreme authority come about? Isn’t your company primarily funded by the government budget?”

The CEO laughed, and Gaga asked for another candy.

“You know what they say, ‘talk a lot but say nothing’,” the director explained. “It’s better to criticize the president in a fictional, dystopian series than on the evening news.”

Darko nodded, then bit his tongue. “Why am I trying to sound smart? My job is to do makeup; let others worry about politics.” He carefully folded the signed contract, slipped it into the inner pocket of his jacket, then moved away from the large conference table, hurrying towards the door.

“Leave the peanut candies!” the director, Gaga, called after him. “They stick a bit to my dentures, but they go well with whiskey…”

Mascara pulled out the packet of colorful, chewy candies, placed it on the table, and, as he departed, said to his colleagues:

“Thanks again for the trust you’ve placed in me. I’ll be in touch in about fifteen days. By then, the first sketches with proposals for the main characters’ masks will be ready,” he said as he exited.

In the lobby of ‘Deception Net’, the walls were covered with posters of popular actors, scenes from series and movies, and photographs from filming and award ceremonies. Darko admired the posters, thinking how not long ago, he could only dream of mingling with famous people from the world of film and television. As he exited the building, he ran into a well-known actor who would play the lead role in the series.

“Hey, Mascara, you fucking makeup genius!” Trifun Konjević greeted him. “Did they manage to convince you to make masks for those creatures?”

The professionally deformed makeup artist was already planning how to graft thick lips onto the popular actor to best capture Lucifer’s smile.

“I just signed the contract,” Darko boasted.

“To be fair, you’re the only one who can create those monsters. It’s going to be a lousy series, but the pay is good. Hell, man, ‘life’s an old son of a bitch, I’m always chasing after it!’” concluded Trifun, the superstar.

“I’m glad you took the role,” Darko replied. “I won’t comment on the quality of the project, but for me, it’ll be a big challenge.”

“You’re right. Anyway… I’d better hurry up and put my tumb on the contract before the artist in me convinces the conformist to change his mind,” said Konjević and hurried toward the ‘Deception Net’ administration offices.

Bojić found himself in the parking lot of the production company, where everything gleamed with luxury cars. It was an open secret that a lot of filming was done in Serbia – and ‘Deception Net’ financed almost all the projects. Actors, directors, and other film workers took the opportunity to work and earn a lot, while cynics claimed it was all a scheme for the Gouvernement to launder large sums of illegal money. “This parking lot looks like a car showroom,” Mascara noted as he approached his worn-out Punto, which he had been driving for years. He unlocked the door and noticed a message on the rear left window – “wash me!” Some prankster had written the joke in the dust, aimed at the careless driver. “He didn’t mind getting his hands dirty!” Darko laughed. He put the car in reverse, carefully maneuvered past a Range Rover, and headed toward the city center.

Late-morning traffic; nervous drivers rushing somewhere, creating even more chaos on the road. Darko drove slowly, sketching the masks for the series’ main characters in his mind. In a pause from his imaginary film creation, suddenly Joca came to his mind. They had met at a party just over a year ago. The fire of passion and love had ignited from the very first moment. They had gone out a few times, and then Joca moved into his apartment. “Why waste time and look around when it was clear from the start that we were made for each other!” he recalled. Joca was a pianist who had long been trying to make a name for himself with film producers. “I can’t believe no one recognizes his talent,” Darko thought. “He plays so gently and composes with such ease… And the way he looks…” Joca never missed a day at the gym. He eats like a bird, dresses like a model, and everything fits him like a glove. Makeup artist Bojić had struggled with his weight since childhood. “What can I do, I love good food!” he justified to himself.

As he thought about the man of his life, Darko pressed the gas harder, weaving between cars and trucks, narrowly avoiding a pedestrian who was crossing the street, and spotting a speed trap by the roadside just in time. Despite the traffic and various perils, he made it to the city center. Darko parked in a garage and walked towards the pedestrian zone. he felt fulfilled, useful, and content… It’s that moment when, after successfully completing a task, a person feels like hugging the whole world. He decided to treat himself at his favorite bakery. “Joca doesn’t have to know. He constantly lectures me about food, although he loves me just as chubby as I am!” He entered the bakery “Pituljica” where, besides burek and pies, they also made excellent pastries. He ordered a burek and, on a separate plate, some other delicacies. Bojić went back for an apple juice and coffee, then sat in the garden with a view of the main street.

He watched the busy passersby, all caught up in their morning routines. Some were heading to work, others had just stepped out of the office to buy breakfast, while others were finishing errands in bureaucratic institutions. He recognized many faces. Journalist Nemanja Pavić stopped at the traffic light. The children in the back seat fidgeted while the driver stared at a spot on the opposite side of the street. He looked pensive and absent, so he didn’t notice when the light turned green. Drivers honked impatiently, but Nemanja paid no attention. He was focused on the pedestrians across the street. Surprised by the traffic light’s change, the journalist snapped out of it, shifted into first gear, and continued toward the elementary school his kids attended. In the bakery, Bojana, a secretary from TV BG9, was chatting with the clerk who had just charged her for a bagel. Cameraman Maksa from the same TV station stood on the nearby sidewalk, scanning the city’s hustle and bustle with his camera. “He’s probably filming coverage for one of those boring segments where the journalist reads a script while viewers see people and cars that have nothing to do with the story. Then, in editing, they’ll insert a shot of a boy licking an ice cream or a pretty blonde in a miniskirt. That’s the best way to break up TV monotony,” Darko philosophized as he devoured the pastry that slowly disappeared from his plate. His thoughts were interrupted by Maksa’s voice.

“Good morning, LGBTQ, my respects… what’s up? Long time no see! You should drop by sometime, it’s not nice to avoid us…”

During his studies, Darko worked at TV BG9 as a program director assistant, and for fun, he did makeup for the hosts, who, thanks to his talent, looked flawless on camera. That morning, by coincidence, a large number of employees from this television station were caught by the visual radar of their former colleague, who, after the burek, moved on to cheese rolls. He carefully gathered the crumbs from his pastry and then shifted his gaze from the plate to the street. The well-known businessman Ostoja Novičić was walking with the mayor. They chatted, gestured, laughed, then sat in the patio of a nearby cafe, relaxed under the umbrella, and ordered a beer. “I could go for a beer too, the burek was a bit salty, but I can’t! My Joca would be terribly angry. He can’t detect the pastry and cakes, but he always smells the alcohol!” the timid makeup artist concluded. At the entrance to a shoe store, Inspector Raja Zec was questioning a teenager who had tried to steal sneakers. Two more TV workers, journalist Branko and security guard Vasa “At the Seagull” were buying burgers. Suddenly, from the other side of the street, a deep male voice cut through the car noise.

“Hey, faggot! What are you lounging around like a whore in a window? You’re lucky I’m in a hurry, or I’d break you. Listen, when I get back… don’t you dare be here… I’ll kill you, damn it! You’re dirtying up our city, you filthy, perverted scum!”

It was Vlada Kikirez, a soccer fan, hooligan, and member of the “domestic terrorist organization” Bloodsuckers. Darko had received a slap, a shove, or a kick in the butt from this character several times before, so he always avoided him widely. Vlada continued towards the soccer-mafia temple when he suddenly ran into a colleague, a brother in violence, and the leader from the stands.

“Monki, brooo! Respeeeect!” Vlada said as he kissed his idol three times.

“Hello, Kikirez, what brings you out on the street so early?” Vlada’s boss was surprised. “Didn’t you party in the cafe last night and plan a brawl with the Gravediggers?”

“As long as the Gravediggers are around, there’s no rest,” he tried to be witty. “See you later, Bato!”

Bata Monki was also a thug, a fan, and a mental polluter. The unchristened name of the Belgrade hooligan was Bratislav Jovanović, and his original nickname was Monster. As his popularity on the criminal ladder of evil rose, people began to call him “Monki” as a term of endearment. Bata’s life story was as brutal as his behavior. He never knew his father, and his mother quickly remarried a drunk who abused him from a young age. On his fourteenth birthday, instead of a gift, he received a beating. That same night, Bratislav slit his stepfather’s throat while he was sleeping. He spent two years in a juvenile detention center, and upon release, he joined the Bloodsuckers fan group. He immediately stood out in the fights and brawls of the fan groups. At sixteen, he disfigured two rivals with a knife. He was sent back to juvenile prison, where he was recruited by the secret service – there, he underwent training, and upon release, he became one of the most influential fans in the city. Bata’s task in the secret service was – the elimination of enemies, in short, anyone his superiors pointed out. He bore on his conscience who knows how many human lives, but – since he had no conscience – Monster was proud of his productivity. Simply put, some people love film and music, others sports… but Bata’s passion was killing, blood, and death. A few days ago, he received a new task from “those above” that seemed more complicated than any before. “First, I’ll go to makeup, and then to the post office to check how the new identity will fare,” he absentmindedly rehearsed in his mind.

Darko quickly finished his pastries and headed home. “I can’t wait for that fool, he’d kill me!!!” Bojić thought as he left the bakery. “And Joca must be worried about me. I can’t wait to tell him the good news, and with the money for the TV show, I’ll take him to Paris… He’s always dreamed of it!” Maskara daydreamed as he entered the garage. He clicked his key remote to remind himself where he had parked the Punto, and at that moment, he felt an excruciating pain in his head. Darkness descended before his eyes. Two masked giants put a sack over his head and skillfully shoved him into a van. With the screech of tires, they left the parking lot.

NEMANJA

Journalist Nemanja Pavić dropped the kids off at school and took a shortcut towards the newsroom. He drove through narrow side streets, trying to avoid the traffic in the downtown. Suddenly, a line of cars blocked his path.

“Why are we stopped?” he asked a man who had stepped out of his car.

“There’s an accident at the intersection; it won’t clear up anytime soon,” the fellow traveler replied.

“Shortcuts make long delays,” he thought. “That’s what I get for overplanning.”

Nemanja lit a cigarette, then replayed the morning’s events at the Pavić household, where the usual tense atmosphere prevailed. In recent months, they had rarely seen each other, and when they did end up in the same place, Nemanja and his wife Vesna used poisonous silence as their weapon of choice in their ongoing quarrels. Passive-aggressive reactions had become the standard mode of communication between the spouses. Vesna had been the first to wake up. She made French toast for the kids and packed sandwiches for school. As Igor and Maja picked at their pieces of bread dipped in eggs, their mother came out of the bathroom. She was wrapped in two towels – a smaller one around her wet hair and a larger one around her perfectly sculpted body. Passing by, she sipped her coffee and glanced sideways at her husband, who had joined the children at the dining table. As usual, he was staring at his laptop. “He came home late again last night, smelling of alcohol. What’s happening to this man?! Where is the Nemanja I fell in love with?” she thought, worried.

“Hurry up with breakfast, kids, so you don’t be late!” she reminded her son and daughter. “Unless your dad has more pressing matters! Then there’ll be no one to take you to school, as if you were, God forbid, orphans,” she added sarcastically.

Nemanja closed his laptop, stole a piece of French toast from his son, and replied wearily,

“Alright, Vesna, do you really have to nag, criticize, and complain from the crack of dawn?! Let’s just have one day where we start like normal people!”

“We’ll start living like normal people as soon as you decide to live like a decent person, my dear,” she retorted.

Nemanja winked at Igor, took a strawberry from Maja’s plate, and went to the bedroom to get ready for work. While he was unsuccessfully searching for a clean t-shirt, Vesna’s cell phone rang.

“Hi, Balša… What time… Okay. Should I go to the office first or straight to the meeting… Alright… Breakfast… Sure. Where… Okay, see you then.”

Nemanja listened carefully to his wife’s relaxed phone conversation with her boss. Since they had started arguing, Vesna had been dressing up more, going to business lunches and dinners more often… And now breakfast was on the menu. “This Balša is like an underground river. Slowly and steadily, little by little, he’s drowning Vesna’s hill,” bitterness and fear swirled in Nemanja’s mind.

“If you work hard and satisfy the boss after breakfast, you’ll be named Employee of the Month,” he said in a venomous tone.

“What’s not in the window, you can find in the store… and what’s missing at home, you can find at work,” she replied in kind.

Nemanja didn’t like Vesna’s comment. He knew his wife well. What she had just said would never have crossed her lips in a normal situation. “She wanted to hurt me, shake me up, wake me up… I wonder how we got here? From love and understanding to bickering and spiteful comments! Marriage slips out of your hands like a bar of soap in a soldier’s bathhouse. Consumed by trivial matters, we neglect what’s dearest to us – and then we blame the devil!” he lamented to himself.

“Just to remind you, on Saturday we’re sending off a colleague into retirement, and you probably have some pressing work. It wouldn’t be a bad idea to take the kids to your parents’,” Vesna told him while fixing her makeup in front of the mirror.

The kids were ready. Backpacks on their backs, sneakers on their feet, and sincere, innocent smiles on their faces. Igor and Maja didn’t share their parents’ feelings. They kept to themselves during the cold war raging in the house. Though their young minds, untainted by hatred, understood that something was wrong. They dashed out of the building and settled in the back seat of the Volkswagen Passat. As he was leaving, Nemanja said “bye” to his wife, but his farewell went unanswered. He got into the car, fastened his seatbelt, looked in the rearview mirror, and skillfully merged into the morning traffic jam.

“I have a math test today,” Maja chirped happily.

“And I need money for the field trip,” added seventh-grader Igor.

Their father didn’t hear them. He was driving the familiar route from home to the school he had once attended. Nemanja Pavić was thinking about the newspaper article he had been working on for months. “When it’s published, this story will shake up the owners of ‘Jinx Export,’ as well as the politicians who help them with various schemes,” he thought. He did his job at the TV station as best he could, and every free minute was spent uncovering carefully hidden evidence of Ostoja Novičić’s business frauds. While he was automatically coordinating the well-memorized movements of his left and right feet on the gas and clutch, it was time to press the brake. He got out of the car, opened the back door, kissed his daughter and son, and wished them a successful day at school. The parents waiting to drop off their kids impatiently honked their horns. Nemanja mentally gave them the finger, returned to his car, and realized he felt like he was heading to his execution. His shoes pinched, his jeans were tight, and the collar of his shirt was terribly scratchy. He had recently bought two pairs of pants made of elastic material in Italy, which, in addition to being comfortable, also met Nemanja Pavić’s fashion standards. He had stained the gray ones with red wine, and the black ones he had torn one night when, drunk, he had fallen many times on his way home. He usually wore t-shirts, but they were all dirty, so his wife had reluctantly ironed a shirt for him the day before. “She must have cursed it,” he muttered under his breath. He feared that Vesna was cheating on him! “And even if she hasn’t yet, it wouldn’t surprise me if she soon starts. Damn it, Nemanja, you’re no saint either. Journalism trips, sitting in bars, alcohol… No woman likes that!” he was self-critical. Today, he had a meeting with an insider from ‘Jinx Export,’ and once he gathered enough evidence, he would publish the story in the independent magazine Scream. It was the only magazine that still resisted the pressures of the authorities. “Just as long as that bastard Raka doesn’t find out! He’d immediately report me to their watchdogs!” The line of cars in front of Nemanja’s Volkswagen Passat hadn’t moved at all. When he grew tired of waiting, he managed to escape to a side street by driving over the curb. It was a street where his first love from high school lived. He craned his neck to see into the yard, hoping to catch a glimpse of her. As he picked up speed, he noticed the steering wheel pulling to the left. He parked, got out, and realized the front left tire was flat. “Today, everything’s going exactly as I’d expect,” he fumed inwardly. He opened the trunk, pulled out the spare tire, inserted the jack, and when he bent down to loosen the bolts with the wrench, everything went black.

OSTOJA

In the heart of the city, where the morning bustle echoed through the streets, stood the headquarters of the trading company “Jinx Export.” The exterior of the building reminded some of a fortress of modern architecture, with clean lines and glass facades that, on that autumn morning, reflected the first rays of the sun, directing them towards the sleepy, hurried passersby. For other Belgraders, it was a “metal chicken coop” with windows instead of wire mesh. The interior of this “henhouse” exuded the same sterile elegance of modern architecture. Spacious offices, the latest fashionable furniture, and about twenty employees who were always glued to their chairs, fixed to their desks, and staring at their monitors. On the first floor was the enormous office of the company’s director, Ostoja Novičić. He was the first to arrive at work and the last to leave. This gave him the right to be strict, harsh, and merciless towards his employees. The company was run with an iron discipline, but due to good salaries, the staff obeyed their boss’s whims without question. Frequent visitors to “Jinx Export” included the mayor, various politicians, athletes, journalists, and sometimes even celebrities. Ostoja was considered a popular city figure. He hadn’t always been the big boss who made his employees tremble. Not so long ago, he ran a building materials yard, and before that, he worked in a state-owned company. That morning, as usual, he was sitting at his large desk, where, next to a huge Apple monitor, there was a box of Cuban cigars, a gold pen that served more as a decoration than a writing instrument, and a watch made of the same material. In one hand, he held a glass of whiskey, and in the other, a phone receiver.

“How far along are we with the operation?”

As he listened to the response, a deep wrinkle appeared on the director’s forehead, which his mother once called a “worry line,” while his father used the term “axe wound.”

“Just make sure it’s done properly and call me when the job is finished. Unless they report it on the TV first!”

He had been preparing this project for a long time, and with God’s help, it would soon be completed. He had put a lot of effort and time into this operation because he couldn’t involve too many people. Everything was carefully organized, and the details were kept top secret. The preparations had dragged on, and “those above” kept asking when the job would be done. He reassured them with promises that he had everything under control. “Don’t worry, we’ll carry out the operation quickly and efficiently as agreed. The most important thing now is that nothing leaks to the public,” he justified to the authorities. “Better to take a few extra days than to later pull chestnuts out of the media fire!” Ostoja explained philosophically. He had been on edge all day, treating his nerves with whiskey. He was drinking his third glass since morning. “This isn’t good,” he thought. “Today is too important a day to risk anything because of whiskey. I need to wait for confirmation that the job is successfully completed with a clear head and sharp mind!” He immediately set the glass aside and called his secretary to bring him coffee. He refueled on caffeine and turned to his computer. He typed in his password and checked his email, then opened his favorite game. He hadn’t even completed the third level when the secretary appeared at the door.

“You told me not to disturb you, but…”

“Then what the fuck do you want?!” Ostoja snapped harshly.

“Mr. Petrović is here! He surprised me too. You ordered that when Mr. Dragon arrives – everything stops… and that you’re always available for him.”

“You silly goose, why are you clucking… bring him in immediately!!!” Ostoja jumped up, tucked his shirt into his pants, and began tidying up the office.

At that moment, Dragan Petrović, also known as Dragon, co-owner of the “Jinx Export” company, appeared at the door. He rarely dropped by – but each visit of his provoked a similar reaction from the powerful director Novičić. A tall man dressed in a black suit, matching t-shirt, and sunglasses. The only things that stood out were his white sneakers and freshly polished teeth.

“Good morning, Ostoja… how are you?” he said as he sank into an armchair.

Director Novičić was capable of ruining his employees’ day with a single glance, and a single sentence from him was enough to instill fear in employees, business partners, and anyone else who depended on him in any way. Apart from his wife, who had him wrapped around her little finger, the only person he respected was his “partner,” co-owner of the company Zmaj Petrović – and why wouldn’t he? He had found him, pulled him from the yard, and offered him a partnership in a company that dealt with various activities, from wholesale trade to real estate investments. Since becoming director, Ostoja had been living the high life. He renovated the house where he lived with his family, and on his father’s land at the Avala mountain, he built a villa. On top of that, he also bought a house in Banja that few people knew about. In return, he was expected to do as he was told and not ask unnecessary questions. Ostoja knew well that the company’s strategy was crafted in some high place, but he received instructions from Dragan Petrović.

“Good morning, Dragan,” Ostoja said, standing up. “What a pleasant surprise. Would you like some coffee, a drink…?”

“Sit down, please, don’t stand over me… I didn’t come to drink, but to hear how far you’ve gotten with the task I gave you,” his associate replied, briefly and decisively.

“The makeup is in progress; I expect the action to be completed in a few hours!” Novičić replied.

“Let’s see this miracle!” Dragon retorted as he left the office.

Ostoja saw his associate out and was pacing thoughtfully around the office when his mobile phone rang. “Love Me Tender” was the ringtone signaling that his wife was calling.

“Hello, darling, I’m really busy today… What is it?”

Just as he had stood quietly and obediently nodding in front of Dragon Petrović a few minutes earlier, Ostoja adopted the same posture while talking to his wife.

“I know, honey, but why don’t you call the plumber… I know it’s a man’s job, but I really have a lot to do…”

He patiently listened as his wife unleashed a verbal barrage on him.

“Don’t be mad, love… no, no… I won’t let you swim in sewage… I’m calling the plumber now… don’t worry about a thing!”

As soon as the call ended, Ostoja rushed out of his office and ordered his secretary:

“Call a plumber to go to my house immediately. Pay double if necessary, just make sure they go right away!”

MASSACRE

As on every morning, Vasa, the doorman and securitz guard, sat at the entrance of the TV BG9 newsroom. He was carefully peeling an apple with a knife while a heavy folk song blared from the radio. Just two more hours and his shift would be over. He had arranged with his daughter to babysit the grandchildren that day. He was looking forward to spending time with the little ones, but he was as tired as a dog. “You’re getting old, Vasilije, they didn’t send you into retirement for nothing. If only you could actually live off that pittance, it would be wonderful!” he mused. He bit into the peeled apple and felt an explosion of fruity flavor. At that moment, the chief editor, Raka Mandžukić, appeared; as usual, the new boss was the first to arrive at work.

“Good morning, boss,” the doorman greeted him. “Up early again?”
“Someone’s got to work, Vaso! I need to finish something important; don’t let anyone disturb me until I come out of my office!”
Vasa nodded. He chewed the tart-sweet flesh of the apple vigorously, feeling the juices spread everywhere. Raka entered his office, placed his briefcase on the desk, and looked around, admiring the luxurious furniture he had recently bought on the company’s account. He turned on the computer and reclined in his new chair with a built-in back warmer. He clicked the mouse a few times, and scenes from a pornographic film appeared on the screen. His hand reached between his thighs, and he began pressing the most delicate part of his body. No, it wasn’t his eye. He unbuttoned his pants and finished the job. He lit a cigarette, put himself back in order, and turned on some folk music. “It’s good to be in charge,” he gloated inwardly.

Soon, other staff members began arriving. Secretary Bojana greeted the doorman and pulled a wrapped bundle covered with a napkin out of her bag.
“Here you go, Vasa, I made an apple pie. There’s not much left, but I know you like sweets!”
Cameraman Maksa, with his camera slung over his shoulder, greeted his old friend.
“You old flirt, you can’t help yourself. Now the young secretaries are bringing you cakes!”
“Don’t talk nonsense, Maksa! Bojana’s like a daughter to me. Don’t worry about me, but don’t you dare try anything with her! You know the reputation I have with the police. I may be retired, but beating someone up is like riding a bike, you never forget…”
Branko Karajović, the news journalist and TV Dnevnik anchor, elegant and meticulous as usual, walked in unnoticed. He greeted everyone politely and continued on his way. The crew from the control room, joined by the editors, noisily announced their entrance into the building. From their cheerful mood, Vasa guessed they were coming straight from a night out.
“What brings you here so early?” the doorman asked, surprised.
“We’re coming from Boža’s place. We drank all night, didn’t sleep a wink. Is Dara here yet? We need her to make us some coffee so we can recover a bit.”

Raka came out of his office and addressed Bojana in a commanding tone.
“When Pavić arrives, tell him to report to me immediately.”
“He just called to say he’ll be late. He had a flat tire.”
“Bastard!” the editor muttered in disgust.

The harsh neon light revealed the dust floating in the air, trying to hide behind the monitor and keyboard on Bojana’s desk. “Oh, what luck I have,” the secretary thought. “After such a wonderful man, they put this scumbag in charge. I wonder how long they’ll keep me?” Bojana’s previous boss, Nemanja Pavić, had successfully managed the TV BG9 program for years. Besides running the television station, he wrote articles for the independent magazine Scream, which ultimately cost him his position. It was an open secret that Raka Mandžukić had reported him to get his job. Nemanja was officially dismissed for a conflict of interest, but the real reason was the controversial topics he wrote about; that’s why he ended up on the regime’s blacklist. “He’s in trouble because he drinks too much and neglects his family. They say his wife is cheating on him, but I don’t believe it. I’ve known Vesna for a long time, she wouldn’t do that to him!” she thought. Since the new editor arrived, Bojana hadn’t lifted her head from her work. The only good thing was that with so many tasks, the morning flew by like a fledgling sparrow chased by a hawk. She glanced at the clock. It was exactly 1:19 PM. “I hope they arrived safely…” she sighed. (Her children had gone on a field trip with the kindergarten that morning, and a mother’s worry never stops.) She pulled out a sandwich she had prepared at home. As a single mother, she couldn’t afford to buy breakfast every day. This way, it was cheaper. On the way to work, she ate a bagel from “Pituljica,” where she got a discount from a friend who worked there. She had to eat something in the morning, just to soothe her stomach ulcer. When Nemanja Pavić arrived, she was washing down her sandwich with homemade elderflower juice. He looked strange, somehow distant… as if he were a different person. She noticed he was wearing jeans and a long coat, which was definitely not his style. Women notice every fashion detail, even in those who don’t care about fashion. He greeted her coldly, in passing, just for formality’s sake, and continued towards the newsroom. “God, this isn’t the Nemanja I know. He used to always stop and ask about my kids… It seems like he’s deeply troubled. Maybe his wife really is cheating on him?” Bojana wondered.

“Nemanja, the editor said you need to see him immediately. It’s urgent!”

“Alright,” Pavić replied briefly.

When Nemanja entered the editor’s office, Raka Mandžukić’s face lit up with satisfaction. It wasn’t out of love for him but because of the news he was about to deliver.

“You asked for me?” Pavić said lazily.

“It’s time for us to part ways. I’ve had enough of you and your crap! You’ve deluded yourself into thinking you’re a revolutionary, playing the role of an investigative journalist at my expense. Well, not anymore!”

Nemanja remained silent, his hand in the pocket of his coat.

“You’re fired! The decision has been confirmed by the Board of Directors. You have the right to appeal, but you’d be better off not stirring things up because the same people who fired you will decide on the appeal. Now, go down to HR, get your severance, if there is any!” Raka gloated, flushed with triumph.

“No problem,” Pavić responded. “But there’s one more thing…”

“What the fuck do you want now?! We’ve listened to enough of your shit. Your time at this TV station is over, get that through your head! You’ll feel better once you do!” Mandžukić shouted.

Nemanja pulled out a semi-automatic rifle from under his coat and fired a short burst into the editor’s body. Raka collapsed onto the desk first, then slid down towards the padded chair where the back warmer was still running. Pavić calmly left the office and immediately shot Bojana, who didn’t move from her spot. Then he entered the newsroom. His colleagues were in shock. There was surprise, disbelief, but mostly fear. Screams were heard, and the smell of gunpowder filled the air. Nemanja fired mercilessly. As he coldly “stitched” his colleagues with bullets, his face showed a devilish expression of inexplicable satisfaction. He paused briefly, changed the magazine, and then continued. On the floor and across the desks, lifeless bodies lay still, with blood flowing everywhere, while the eerie silence was momentarily broken by the doorman.

“What have you done, you poor soul!” Vasa cried out before the next burst mowed him down.

Nemanja looked around, his dull gaze scanning every corner. It seemed to him that there was no one left in the building, so he returned the weapon to the inner pocket where the semi-automatic rifle fit without any trouble. It looked like the coat was tailored precisely for such actions. Journalist Pavić left the TV BG9 premises unhurriedly. Suddenly, an ominous, eerie silence fell, boding nothing good. During the bloody act, Nemanja had forgotten to enter the control room, where the directors and editors were hiding. When the shooting started, they ducked wherever they could and managed to keep their heads intact. On his way to the car, which he had parked right in front of the entrance, he encountered passersby who had no idea what had just happened. Nemanja turned off the hazards lights, placed the rifle beside him, and calmly drove to his next location. He drove with the composure of someone returning from vacation, even yielding to an elderly woman with a shopping bag at a pedestrian crossing.

A few miles from the city center, the suburbia, stood the house of director Balša Torbica, whom Nemanja suspected of harassing his wife. He followed the GPS instructions and turned from Sinđelićeva Street into a side alley where wealthier citizens lived. He quickly found number 8 and stopped the car. He paused in front of the large two-story house with a freshly decorated facade. In the yard was parked Balša’s Mercedes. It was clear that the host was home. Nemanja entered the courtyard, climbed the steps, and rang the doorbell. Inside, he heard commotion, children’s voices, and someone calling out… He waited a few moments, and then the front door opened. Before him stood the man he was looking for. At first, Balša was surprised, then for a moment, pleased, and finally, gravely regretted it… Without a word, Nemanja Pavić fired a short burst across the host’s chest, and Balša crumpled onto the steps. Blood trickled from under the lower lip of Vesna’s boss. He was still alive, and his wide-open eyes revealed a question – why? His executioner didn’t care much, firing another shot to finish him off. Cries and screams echoed from the house… First, his wife, then his daughter came out. They watched in silence as Nemanja walked towards the gate and then drove away from the crime scene in his Volkswagen Passat. Balša’s daughter noticed that the front left tire had recently been replaced.

ZEC

The Belgrade Police Department is surrounded by a lawn adorned with flower petals of various colors. This botanical arrangement leads visitors directly to the main entrance of the police station. A casual passerby or an unwilling visitor might think that the building houses a sophisticated institution where gentle-hearted people work, placing nature above all else. However, both the police officers and the arrested individuals used the side entrance, which was surrounded by residential buildings, allowing neighbors to see who had broken the law and when. At the entrance was a reception desk, and on the ground floor, several service counters. On the upper floor were the inspectors’ offices and interrogation rooms for detained individuals. In the past, the police used to beat people in the basements; now they had elevated violence to a higher level.

“Hey, Raja, the chief called you urgently!” said the secretary of Belgrade’s top police officer. “It’s probably about that shooting at the TV station.”

The chief’s ID read Milorad Miloradović, but due to his silence and cold demeanor, the police officers called him Buda. Unlike Buddhist monks, Milorad knew how to rough up suspects, but his colleagues who gave him the nickname didn’t want to nitpick. There was a story that in his youth, he single-handedly “neutralized” five bar thugs who had tried to demolish Buda’s favorite restaurant one night. The doctor from the emergency service wanted to meet the man personally who could inflict such injuries with his bare hands. “It was like a combine harvester ran over them!” the doctor commented. Since becoming a manager, Milorad had avoided conflicts and delegated tasks to his subordinates, of whom he valued Inspector Zec the most.

Senior Inspector Raja Zec was finishing his breakfast. As was his habit, he first dismantled a quarter of the burek into its basic components before proceeding with a detailed analysis. He peeled off each layer of pastry, generously dousing it with yogurt. The bakers chronically skimped on the beef filling, so Raja meticulously counted 24 grains of minced meat. He raised the glass, filled with thick, fermented liquid, and realized he wouldn’t have enough to wash down the last bites. He gathered the crispy crumbs with his thumb and licked his fingers. The secretary called him just as he was crumpling the grease-soaked paper and preparing to theatrically toss it into the trash can.

“I’m coming, just need to wash my hands!” Raja replied.

He entered the chief’s office, filled with cigarette smoke. Buda was nervously pacing with a cigarette in his mouth. On the desk were a photo of his wife, a picture of former president Tito, and in the center, a beer mug filled with a greenish liquid. Raja stared at the glass.

“What kind of green beer is that, boss?” Zec asked, puzzled.

“If only, Raja… it’s a tea to cure my prostate problems! My wife makes me drink two liters of this crap every day. She’s teamed up with the secretary, and if I skip it, that little one reports me to my wife. ‘Feed a dog, and it bites you!’” Milorad complained.

Inspector Zec settled into a comfortable chair in the corner of the office. The chief paused his pacing for a moment and sat down beside him.

“Boss, I heard about the mass murder at the TV station,” Raja spoke up. “Can I take the case?”

“Who else but you?” Milorad replied, surprised. “I don’t have anyone better, and the people from govermment are panicking like brides before a wedding. They keep calling nonstop. Conduct the investigation and keep me regularly informed of its progress!”

On his way out of the building, Inspector Zec heard from his colleagues that another murder had taken place on the suburbia. “I wonder if it’s the same perpetrator?” he thought, greeting the police officers heading toward him. As he unlocked the official Škoda, he noticed a beautiful young woman entering the neighboring building. His thoughts immediately turned to his Marina. They hadn’t seen each other for two days. When he got home, she was already in bed, and in the morning, it was the opposite because Marina left for work early. He shifted into first gear and placed the rotating light on the roof of the car. The TV station was near the police department, so he quickly reached the destination.

In front of the TV BG9 building, blue lights chased red ones through the air; police and ambulance vehicles, tricolored tape, and a crowd of bystanders filled the scene. On the faces of the observers, Raja recognized curiosity and concern. They didn’t know exactly what had happened, but they sensed a tragedy. As he made his way through the crowd, a uniformed police officer approached him and briefed him on the massacre.

“Inspector, it’s terrible! Six people dead so far. Only those in the control room survived. According to their testimony, the perpetrator is journalist Nemanja Pavić, who immediately fled the scene,” the officer recited in one breath and, after inhaling, continued in the same tone. “I spoke with the producer Vukman, who can’t believe it. They say Pavić was a good man, the best editor they ever had. He was recently dismissed, and it seems something snapped in his mind.”

Raja nodded. He thanked the officer and entered the newsroom. The mixed smells of gunpowder, stale air, tobacco, and blood blended into one – the stench of death. The carpet was soaked with lifeless red mass, corpses everywhere. Forensic experts were conducting the investigation, while the surviving TV employees silently watched what was happening around them. Meanwhile, Inspector Zec walked around, analyzing the details at the scene. In the corner of the newsroom, he spotted Inspector Rosić.

“What a slaughter, damn it!” the younger colleague remarked. “If there’s any silver lining in all this, at least we know who the killer is.”

“Take the witnesses’ statements, and I’ll check out the other location. There’s been another murder on the city’s outskirts. Who knows, maybe the crimes are connected?” Raja said and hurried towards the exit.

He drove through the city traffic, thinking about the mass murderer. They knew each other. Nemanja Pavić was an excellent journalist. He had a TV crime show The Trap and published articles in various newspapers and magazines. They had often worked together. Raja had appeared twice on panel discussions hosted by Pavić. “I truly think the world of Nemanja, both as a person and as a journalist!” Raja thought. “There was no hint of the beast lurking within him!”

The Škoda approached the house where the most recent murder had taken place. There were fewer official vehicles at the crime scene than in front of the TV station. “I’ve been doing this job for years, but I don’t remember a tragedy like this. It seems all our teams are out in the field,” Raja thought as he approached his colleagues who were conducting the investigation. Inspector Danilo was taking notes at the crime scene, and when he looked up from his notebook, he addressed his colleague.

“What brings you here, Zec?” he asked, surprised. “Aren’t you leading the investigation into the massacre at the TV station?”
“Rosić stayed behind to gather information, and I came to check who did the shooting here. How are things on your end, Dača?” Raja asked.
“It seems too straightforward to be true. The perpetrator is journalist Nemanja Pavić. He rang the doorbell and, without a word, fired a burst at Balša Torbica. The wife immediately identified the killer,” his colleague Dača reported in detail. “I had a feeling it was the same person! Thanks, my friend. I’ll head back to the TV station to dig around a bit more, and then I’ll visit Pavić’s family. We’ll have to tackle this together,” Inspector Zec concluded.

He drove back to the TV BG9 building. In the meantime, the families of the victims had started to arrive. Although the victims’ names hadn’t been officially released, as soon as they heard about the shooting, they came to inquire about their children, husbands, wives, parents… The atmosphere was growing increasingly tense. Women were crying, men were shouting and nervously asking questions. Unfortunately, the bad news was looming, and the answers were becoming apparent. Rosić was trying to calm and reassure them, urging them to be patient and brave… He added that “no matter how hard it gets, hope is the last to die.” While gathering information from the forensic experts, Raja overheard his younger colleague speaking with the grieving family members.

“Jeez, Rosić, it’s like you’re trying to finish them off! As if their suffering isn’t enough, now they have to listen to your moaning. Encourage them, man, say something uplifting… That’s what they need!”

The young inspector bit his lower lip and instinctively shook his head. The older colleague moved on towards the control room and ran into the producer, Vukman, whom he had known since childhood. Vukman shook Inspector Zec’s hand and asked him for a cigarette.

“What the hell happened, Raja? Nemanja was such a cool guy, a great person… You know him, man! None of this makes any sense to me.”
“Did you see him during the shooting?” the inspector asked.
“Only from behind,” the producer replied. “Poor Bojana was talking to him… And so was Raka…”

Raja gave him a firm hug and unconsciously patted him on the shoulder.
“You have my number, Vumkane, call me… And if you remember anything…”

He pulled a few cigarettes from the pack and handed them to the tearful producer. Raja quickly left the TV station building. As he descended the stairs, he thought about what to do next. “I’ll visit Pavić’s parents first,” he decided. “His wife is probably with the kids, trying to explain the inexplicable to them. I’ll let her recover from the shock, but I’ll definitely learn the most from his father and mother,” he weighed his options as he got into the car.

When he turned the key, the Škoda greeted him with its familiar sound coming from under the hood, and a female voice came through the car’s speakers. The inspector had recently downloaded an audiobook from the internet. He had listened to the first half of the book and was curious about where the story would take him. Listening to audiobooks helped him kill the time he spent in the car but also distracted him from the grim events in which he was, through no fault of his own, a daily participant. He was annoyed by comments like “I don’t like those audiobooks. Nothing beats the smell of paper!” It would be nice if a person had time to relax in a chair and read in peace… but who can afford that luxury today? If he waited for everything to fall into place, he’d be lucky to read one book a year! This way, he could enjoy literature even during working hours. “If we’re honest, a writer wants to share their story with the audience – and whether we read or listen to it probably doesn’t matter much,” he concluded. For the first time, he wasn’t paying attention to the progression of the plot because he was replaying a different story in his head with a much more complicated, bloody twist. One thought kept stubbornly returning: “I knew that man, and I just can’t understand how he could kill so many people out of the blue,” he thought. “The world we live in is messed up, and it’s no wonder when someone suddenly has a short circuit in their mind, but still…” He grabbed the steering wheel with his left hand and, with his right, called Chief Buda on his mobile.

“Chief, issue a warrant for Nemanja Pavić! He shot at the TV station today, and Balša’s wife identified him as her husband’s killer. Yes, Balša Torbica from Urban Planning! They say he suspected his wife was cheating on him with Pavić!”

Only when he was deeply stuck in rush hour traffic did Zec realize that everyone was heading home from work at that time. He turned off the radio and was left alone with his thoughts. Hundreds of vehicles on the road. Tension, nervousness, impatience… Stop, go, brake, accelerate… It took him an hour to reach Nemanja’s parents’ apartment in the city center. They lived on the first floor. The neighbors had already gathered in front of the building, engaged in a discussion where everyone offered their version of the events. Among the “analysts,” he recognized one of his old clients – a bully who used to beat his wife until one day Rade Pendrek gave him a good beating. Since then, he had been quieter than a mouse.

“You’re here to see the Pavićs, Inspector?” the former bully asked. “I was just telling the neighbors… it’s a terrible tragedy!”

Raja winked at him as he passed, climbed the stairs, and found apartment number 7. He rang the doorbell. Someone approached the door, hesitated for a moment, and then the sound of a key turning in the lock was heard. Radmila Pavić, Nemanja’s mother, opened the door. A large woman with clearly defined facial features and long, thick hair streaked with gray. He showed his badge to speed up the process of introduction. She nodded and silently led him into the living room. In a large armchair in the corner of the room, partially hidden behind the shade of a floor lamp, sat the bald head of the family. Dr. Stevan Pavić was surrounded by books he wasn’t currently reading. He stood up to greet the visitor. It was clear that both Stevan and Radmila were in despair. Their elderly faces had literally darkened with sorrow. Every wrinkle seemed deeper, and their eyes revealed profound despair. Raja knew from experience that in stressful situations, people could age ten years in an hour. He looked at his hosts and felt their pain. Suddenly, the thought crossed his mind that if eyes are the mirror of the soul, these poor people’s souls were removed the moment they learned what their son had done.

“Please, Inspector, have a seat. We are simply speechless… But also without the strength or will to live,” Dr. Pavić said.

“I gave birth to him, raised him, I know him better than I know myself. Nemanja couldn’t have done such a thing. You’ll see, Inspector, in the end, it will turn out to be a mistake, a misunderstanding… It might seem like the madness of a desperate mother, but my child is not a killer,” Radmila interjected.

Raja sipped the coffee that the hostess had served him and watched the tearful parents. A true bourgeois family, just as described in books: Stevan was a retired internist, and Mrs. Pavić still worked as an accountant for several successful companies. The inspector looked around; classic furniture, carefully chosen and expensively paid for, Serbian painters’ works on the walls, and above the piano, he recognized a painting by Duči Jović. The doctor silently sipped his coffee, skillfully concealing his worry, though his eyes betrayed a desire to wail aloud.

“Have you noticed anything unusual in your son’s behavior that might have hinted at this tragedy? As you said yourselves, you’ve known him the longest and best,” the inspector asked.

Radmila absentmindedly wiped invisible dust from the table. She turned her empty cup upside down, took a deep breath, and, staring into an imaginary void, quietly spoke.

“Nemanja had no peace. Neither as an editor nor after he was dismissed. He was always digging into something, uncovering corruption, searching for justice… That’s how he made many enemies, most of whom are powerful people in important positions. And as for this Balša, that’s a long story…”

“Radmila, don’t start with that nonsense again!” Stevan interrupted his wife’s confession. “The inspector didn’t come to listen to your crazy ideas.”

“On the contrary!” Raja objected. “Every detail could be useful. Please, Mrs. Pavić, continue!”

“She thinks,” the doctor continued, “that Vesna had something with that director, Balša. Our daughter-in-law would never do that… She’s the mother of our grandchildren!”

Radmila angrily stood up and offered the inspector a drink. He declined.

“When did you last see your son?” Raja asked.

“He was here yesterday,” Radmila replied quickly. “We were supposed to babysit the kids over the weekend. As usual, he was working on a new story, searching for evidence, talking to sources… And Vesna was supposed to go to some celebration, a retirement party, or something like that.”

“He seemed tense,” added Dr. Pavić. “Tired and nervous. But that’s become normal when it comes to Nemanja. He’s always in a hurry and under stress.”

Raja didn’t want to revisit the unpleasant topic of Vesna’s possible infidelity. He had gathered useful information, and that was enough for now. From experience, he knew not to touch on wounds too much, as it quickly erodes the trust of witnesses. He would need the Pavićs in the ongoing investigation. He thanked his hosts for their time and left his business card. Radmila and Stevan escorted him to the door and promised to contact him if they had any further information.

Dr. Stevan Pavić sank back into his armchair, lost in deep thought. Images from his youth flashed through his mind – family outings, vacations, Nemanja’s high school graduation, and his college completion. “Oh, if only he had listened to me and chosen a different profession,” he mused. “Anything but that cursed journalism! It wasn’t enough for him to gather information in the field; he secretly copied documents Radmila worked on. These are all big companies and powerful people. Sooner or later, someone was bound to discover it. But now nothing matters anymore because my child will rot in prison for the rest of his life…” He covered his eyes with his hands and quietly sobbed.

As Inspector Zec left the Pavićs’ home, he felt a wave of exhaustion. Mental fatigue was killing the creative threads that were supposed to connect scattered thoughts, details, and evidence… He needed a break. “The investigation is complete, statements have been taken, the suspect is on the run. Except for the officers searching for Nemanja, everyone else has probably gone home!” he mentally reviewed. He decided to stop for a drink and collect his thoughts. This was Raja’s routine at the start of every investigation when he needed to analyze the crime, the sequence of events, and the people involved in the case he was working on. These were always serious violent crimes, so he desperately needed a break. Not far from the Belgrade Police Headquarters was the “Blue” café, where law enforcement officers from the nearby flower-surrounded building often gathered. Raja tried to avoid colleagues during his moments of relaxation, so he chose “Blues,” a café located a bit further away, where the atmosphere was nicer, and, most importantly, the patrons were people he didn’t know. He took a seat in the corner of the café, ordered a brandy, and began to weave the web of facts known so far: “He first killed the editor at work, who was probably the trigger for this crime; then he killed without any order; finally, his wife’s boss, whom he suspected of flirting with Vesna, was also killed… So, Raka and Balša were the targets – and the others were collateral damage!” Inspector Zec’s brain was working overtime. “I’ll focus on the boss and the lover first. I wonder, where did Nemanja escape to?” he pondered. “In situations like this, if they don’t commit suicide, killers usually go to a familiar place, after which they either surrender or desperately offer armed resistance. I can’t allow anyone else to die! But then again, I have to wait for his next move.”

Through the café window, Raja could see a tastefully designed park that had been cared for by the residents of the surrounding buildings for years. Along the entire green belt, trees and small flower beds were harmoniously arranged, and in the center of the park was a modest fountain and a children’s playground. For years, this location had been targeted by officials and businessmen close to the authorities. They persistently tried to clear the most beautiful parts of the park to build a luxury residential complex, but it never worked – every time workers cut down trees and cleared the underbrush, the next day, the growth would be even denser. Some attributed this to supernatural forces, others mentioned the Twilight Zone, while others found similarities with the epic poem Building Skadar on the Bojana. Instead of offering sacrifices, the powerful people decided to abandon the project. Thus, nature triumphed over the insatiable wealthy.

Many stories circulated among the people as they tried to explain this strange phenomenon. Ordinary folks claimed it was none other than the “intervention” of Green Jovan. This figure appears in the folk beliefs of the Balkan natives. His power is associated with the flourishing of vegetation and the very essence of fertility. He often appears as a forest spirit or guardian of plants and animals, a protector of the natural order and transformation. In this role, Green Jovan resembles the Greek god Pan, who embodies the divine force of nature and the renewal of life. Intellectuals, of course, invoked Greek mythology, pointing to the aforementioned Pan, the god of the wild, shepherds, hunters, forests, and nature in general. He was depicted as a being with a human torso, goat legs, horns, and a beard, symbolizing a connection with nature and the wild world. Pan was also the god of pastoral songs and music and was considered powerful and unpredictable, just like nature itself. His name is also the root of the word “panic” because it was believed he could induce sudden fear and chaos among people and animals – in this case, among politicians, tycoons, and mafiosi. Pleased with the happy ending of this supernatural story, the citizens didn’t put much effort into finding logic in it. Since then, on the suggestion of Professor Mudrinić from building number 5, apartment 8, second floor, the residents named this part of the city “Natura perpetua” or “Eternal Nature.”

It was getting dark when Raja returned to the police station. He typed up the report, reviewed the evidence once more, and made a plan for the next day. He got up from his desk, stretched his legs – and found himself in a dilemma about where to go next. He had been quarreling with his wife for several days and didn’t feel like going home… but where else could he go? He was too tired for a bar, it was too late to visit friends, and sleeping in the office didn’t make sense because the scandal would spread quickly. He left the police station and started walking home. Marina came to mind again. “What can I do, I have to put up with her; I chose her! And I love her more than anything!” They had no children, and the arguments mostly started over money and his job. He walked slowly towards his destination. Behind a kiosk, he saw a silhouette and heard the sound of liquid. In his mind, he paraphrased the lyrics of a well-known song: “I don’t like street pissers” and jokingly thought, “I won’t bother him; he must really need to go!” he decided.

RALE

About fifteen miles from Belgrade, on the slopes of Avala, atop a wooded hill, stood an enormous house with a red, pitched roof. It had been built in record time and furnished in the latest fashion. A white facade, new windows, and luxurious furniture… From the depths of the yard peeked an older, much smaller house that looked more like a well-built shack. It had three small rooms and a kitchen, a terrace with a view of the villa, and a shed attached to the building. The detail that clashed with the idyllic mountain setting was the bars on the shack’s windows.

A burly man in his forties was stacking freshly split logs. He balanced them on his extended right arm with his left hand and, after a few steps, placed them in front of the shed. After finishing the task, he sat on the terrace and poured himself a shot of plum brandy from a bottle on the table. He downed the first one in a gulp and then poured another. He smoked and gazed into the distance, missing the chirping of birds that had already migrated south. They had been replaced by the occasional howling of wolves from the nearby forest. “Serves you right, you drunken fool, living in the wilderness where the bears deliver the mail and the wolves serenade you from behind the fence!” Suddenly, the melody of the rock standard Born to Be Wild rang out from his pocket, interrupting his afternoon reverie. It was his brother, Ostoja.

“What’s up, bro?” he answered.

He listened in silence, occasionally muttering “hmm, yeah, okay, sure…”

“And when are they arriving… alright… send food and brandy, I can’t work on an empty stomach,” he concluded with a joke. “Alright, brother, talk to you later!”

Ratko Novičić, affectionately called Rale, was a former philosophy professor, an ex-husband, and a father of two daughters whom he hadn’t seen in a long time. Since the day he considered himself no longer a man, he had lived on his father’s estate in a log cabin his grandfather had built. Of all the roles and family “functions” in his life, he was now only Ostoja Novičić’s brother and a drunkard to the rest of the world. When his brother’s house was being built, he oversaw the workers, ensuring they didn’t slack off and that they followed Ostoja’s instructions. After the construction was finished, he looked after his brother’s villa and did odd jobs. In return, he had a roof over his head, food, and a modest allowance he rarely spent. Ratko Novičić didn’t care that each day was the same as the one before. He broke the monotony with long walks in the mountain forest and copious amounts of brandy. In rare moments of sobriety, he read books from his father’s library. His brother occasionally visited to bring him food and drink, and Rale would, though rarely, go down to the village to buy more brandy or sit in the local tavern. The rest of the time, he spent in voluntary isolation, choosing solitude as a refuge from the troubles that had plagued him for years. He liked being the master of his own body, and solitude suited him best. His household was spared from the poison of the media because he had no radio, TV, or even the internet. His only connection to the outside world was an ancient Nokia phone that he never parted with. To keep him from going completely feral, his brother installed a stereo system and brought him several boxes of old vinyl records and some newer CDs. Since then, loud music always played from Ratko’s cabin, and his mood depended on the music playing and the amount of brandy he had consumed. At the moment, the record on the turntable was O Magnum Mysterium, a choral piece that had been a birthday gift from his wife in happier times. Rale and his wife, Vanja, had been deeply in love. They met one winter evening at the “Kolarac” concert hall. Before the classical music concert began, Rale noticed a beautiful brunette and fell in love at first sight. He asked a friend if he knew the brown-eyed beauty. Zlatko, who had come to the concert slightly tipsy, replied without hesitation.

“I don’t know her name – but I’m sure she plays something.”

Rale didn’t hesitate. He looked around, scanned the audience, and recognized a colleague, Risto, a cellist who taught music at his high school.

“Do you know that girl in the second row?”

“Of course, that’s Vanja. A violinist. We studied together. She was a year ahead of me at the academy.”

They met immediately after the concert and rarely parted over the next ten years. They had two lovely daughters, Sara and Luna, and lived happily – until the devil carved a path into Rale’s consciousness. Depression began to take hold of him, plunging him into melancholy moods and filling him with inexplicable inner fear. Every time he crossed the street, his heart pounded to the rhythm of African tribal music, and when the children went to school alone, he felt a sailor’s knot tighten in his stomach. He was most afraid of various illnesses, feeling imaginary symptoms of the worst, incurable ones. Over time, jealousy also began to consume him. Instead of seeking medical help, he turned to alcohol. Brandy provided temporary relief, but then the madness grew, his mood worsened, and the fears became unbearable. Vanja didn’t fully understand Rale’s mental struggles. She was one of those strong-willed people who didn’t believe in weaknesses, psychological issues, or depression. With determination and hard work, she had achieved much, and when she encountered obstacles, she did everything to overcome them as quickly as possible. Together, they made the mistake of turning a snowball of disagreements into an avalanche of animosity. Instead of sitting down and resolving the problem through conversation, Vanja began to accuse him of being spoiled, calling him a weakling and a coward. Rale’s reaction to these hurtful comments was to retreat to the bar, where he drank himself into oblivion every day. The road from love to hate is short, and the downhill path of misunderstanding usually leads to ruin. Their marriage fell into serious crisis, and their shared life became a living hell with each passing day. In rare moments of clear thinking, Rale noticed that Vanja went out alone and stayed out late into the night. Every weekend, she would take the children to their grandparents, and then she would go out until dawn. At first, he only drank after work, but when he realized that his family was falling apart, he never sobered up again. Within a month, he lost his job, his wife, and his children. He often recalled the day he was fired from the high school. The principal escorted him to the exit, where he handed him an envelope with his final paycheck and a plastic bag containing Rale’s personal belongings from the office. He had only seen such scenes in American movies – though at least they would have given him a cardboard box there. With the bag in hand, defeated and humiliated, he went straight to the bar, but he didn’t get drunk. He ordered coffee and decided to say goodbye to his family sober. He went to the apartment, where he found his mother-in-law instead of his wife, who was out partying. He wanted to bare his soul to the woman he loved. He simply wanted to confess that he knew he had hit rock bottom and that, for the good of everyone, he would remove himself from the lives of his loved ones. He wanted to at least end things as a man, but it wasn’t meant to be. He packed his stuff in a sports bag, kissed his children, and left the family home forever. After becoming homeless, he spent a few months living in a friend’s apartment, and then Ostoja offered him a place on the family estate. From a witty philosopher, a wonderful father, and a loving husband, he became a mountain hermit and his brother’s errand boy. “If nothing else, at least I can drink when and as much as I want,” he consoled himself whenever the alcohol took hold of him.

After finishing the call with his brother, he realized the house was in a complete mess. He cranked up the music, grabbed the vacuum cleaner, and started cleaning. “I may be a drunk, but I’m not a pig yet!” he thought as he wiped the floor with a damp cloth and then tackled the pile of dirty dishes.

BLUE(S)

For the third night in a row, Inspector Raja Zec slept on the couch in the living room. The clattering of dishes in the kitchen, the sound of water running, and the hum of the hairdryer in the bathroom turned his nightmarish sleep into morning agony. He decided to doze a little longer until Marina left for work, fearing another marital argument. Just as the shower stopped spraying water over Mrs. Zec’s naked body, his mobile phone rang.

“Really… Where… Okay, I’m coming right away!”

His colleague, Rosić, informed him that they had found a wedding ring, a coat, and a semi-automatic rifle by the lake in Ada, the weapon used in the television massacre. “Nemanja has committed suicide!” Raja concluded, disappointed. He stretched a bit more on the couch, waiting for his wife to leave the apartment. A loud slam announced that Marina had left for work. She slammed the door so hard that their neighbor, Mile, from the third floor, ran out into the hallway in his underwear, thinking it was an earthquake. The inspector jumped out of bed, threw on clean clothes over his unwashed body, and rushed out of the house. The morning was just as gloomy as he felt. Neither warm nor cold, no sun or clouds, and the air was polluted, smelly, and heavy to breathe. As if that wasn’t enough, Raja lit a cigarette. He got into his car, rolled down the window, turned the key, and turned up the radio to hear the latest news. The authoritative voice of an excited, regime-loyal newsreader analyzed the mass murder, placing all the blame, as expected, on the perpetrator, with the explanation that “he was known for his sharp criticism of the ruling party and the justice-loving policies of our president.” The commentary ended in the style of the regime’s propaganda machine: “No wonder, then, that the enemies of our country’s progress, out of desperation, resort to such actions, expressing their hatred for the government by killing innocent citizens!” The conclusion and the point of the whole story followed: “When it comes to the opposition – you can never be sure. So, dear listeners, ask yourselves, are you next?” Raja could hardly believe his ears. “Damn, these guys don’t hold back! I work for the state, get paid regularly, but my brain is still not for sale. They really went overboard!” he thought to himself.

He drove towards Ada Ciganlija, re-analyzing the tragic story of the crazed journalist who, in the span of an hour, killed seven innocent people. “It all seems too simple…” he thought. Experience had taught him that reality is always much more complicated. A worm of doubt slowly gnawed at the same brain that wasn’t for sale for crumbs of the regime’s pie. It was too early to share his doubts or the details that didn’t fit the story with anyone, and he had no evidence to justify any suspicion. He waited for the facts to align, so he could file the case in the archives as one of the bloodiest massacres in Serbia’s history. After that, he planned to dig deeper into the illogical details of the investigation, but he didn’t want to stir up fresh wounds caused by the mass killing in the public eye.

He passed by the rafts, where peace reigned after a wild night out. He made a detour around the “Ada Safari” restaurant and continued along the bumpy road towards the river. When he arrived at the scene, his colleague Rosić showed him the items the killer had left before jumping into the water. The history of this river matched the legends told about the forest that surrounded it. If you believed the stories that had circulated the city for decades, this arm of the Sava River had swallowed many swimmers. Folk tradition testified that things weren’t entirely normal here. Just as it was impossible to clear the park in the city center, it was equally difficult to understand the reason for the frequent drownings in the Sava River. One of the explanations lay in an old legend passed down from generation to generation. Long ago, a local sorceress, old woman Stoja, whom many considered a witch, disguised herself as a beauty to seduce the evil Turk, Sultan Mehmet. Lustful and filled with lechery, Mehmet immediately fell into the trap and “bedded” the disguised old Stoja without hesitation on the riverbank. Difficult days followed for the Turkish army in these parts, cursed by the Sultan’s sin. Whatever they attempted ended in disaster. They lost battle after battle, soldiers died, and the sultans went mad with worry and misfortune. One day, Mehmet decided to find the girl who had bewitched him. He came to the river, where old Stoja appeared in the form of a seductive mermaid. She invited Mehmet to swim with her. The Sultan couldn’t resist and jumped into the water without hesitation – and never resurfaced. From that day on, this place was cursed, and local grandmothers say that people will continue to drown there until they find and destroy the super-granny named Stoja. When this cautionary tale appeared in the tabloid Postman, many laughed ironically, while others, as often happens in these parts, completely believed it. It’s not uncommon for people today go to the river and call out for old Stoja.

Raja approached the items and began analyzing the evidence: the rifle still smelled of gunpowder, so there was no doubt it had been fired recently; he examined the green coat and noticed a red wine stain and a burn hole made by a cigarette (Nemanja was a heavy smoker and liked to drink). Inspector Zec spent a long time looking at the items and examining the surroundings. The Sava River at that spot was quite deep and full of whirlpools, so if well thought out, the suicide would have been relatively easy to carry out. From his younger colleague, Rosić, he took the wedding band on loan to show it to Vesna Pavić, the wife of the suspected suicide. He maneuvered through the police officers, forensics experts, and divers who had just arrived. The Police Škoda navigated the wooded route from Ada back to the city center. Nemanja and Vesna’s apartment was near the Pavić seniors, whom he had interviewed the previous day. “Nemanja lived in the same neighborhood as his parents. The grandparents could always watch the kids, just as they were supposed to do next Saturday,” Raja pondered. He also noted that Nemanja, just two days earlier, had been making plans for the upcoming weekend. “That’s a bit unusual for a man who committed mass murder and then suicide…” he thought.

When he arrived in front of the building where Vesna Pavić lived with her children, he parked in a no-parking zone and went up to the second floor. The door marked number 12 was opened by a tall brunette. A naturally beautiful woman with her hair tied in a ponytail. She wore tight jeans and a plaid shirt tucked into them. Dark bags stood out under her tear-streaked, bloodshot eyes, while fresh wrinkles covered her entire face. She invited the inspector inside and led him to the dining room.

“I’ve taken the kids to Stevan and Radmila’s; I don’t want them to see me like this. I heard that Nemanja most likely committed suicide. If you ask me, I don’t believe it. Although…” she paused for a moment as she filled a pot with water and set it on the stove. “The whole story about the mass murder also seems illogical to me.”

Raja saw a pack of Ronhill on the table and asked the sad woman if he could light one. Vesna nodded and put a pot of coffee on the stove. The inspector picked up the pack from the table and offered her one of her own cigarettes. Vesna leaned toward the lighter and exhaled a cloud of smoke. She returned to the kitchen with the coffee and an ashtray.

“We found this wedding band by the lake,” he showed the evidence. “Did it belong to Nemanja?”

“Yes, and I have the same one. See…” she showed him her ring finger.

“You say all of this doesn’t seem like your husband’s behavior. What exactly do you mean by that?” Zec asked.

Vesna carefully tapped the ash from her cigarette, as if the answers to all her questions were hidden there.

“For the past few months, Nemanja and I haven’t been on good terms. The reasons are many, but what bothered me the most was his drinking and how he was never at home. I know it’s hard living with a journalist who’s constantly investigating something and whose main source of information is the bar, but I have a feelings too. I tolerated it for a long time… but at some point, enough was enough! I simply needed a husband, in the house and in bed.”

Inspector Zec was a little flustered but didn’t interrupt her. He tried to maintain eye contact with her the entire time. Vesna didn’t avoid his gaze, lit another cigarette, and continued.

“I mentioned this so you understand why I’m angry at him, even though I love him endlessly. Lately, he started suspecting my fidelity, which made me furious because I’ve never even thought about another man,” she said firmly.

“If I understand you correctly,” Raja interrupted, “these are common marital disagreements that, in your case, just dragged on a bit?”

“Exactly. I know it doesn’t sound like much if it’s happening to someone else, but over time, living together gets complicated. Arguments and problems aside, I know that man’s soul. My Nemanja isn’t capable of killing a chicken, let alone that many people! Not because he’s incapable, but because he doesn’t know how to hate. I understand that all the evidence points against him, but it’s my duty to tell you the truth.”

A phrase many had repeated ran through Raja’s mind: “It’s simply impossible that Nemanja did something like this!” But how impossible, for God’s sake, when the evidence is crystal clear! He didn’t want to burden her too much; she had enough on her plate. Raja stood up, shook her hand, and headed for the door. He thanked her again for her time and understanding, and Vesna walked him to the building’s exit.

“I need to step outside for a bit and get some fresh air. Although, from what I can see, the neighbors are peeking out from every corner, circling like birds of prey. We’re such a nosy people, inspector, it’s unbelievable!” remarked Mrs. Pavić.

As he got into his car, Inspector Zec found himself in a dilemma—whether to finish the report first or to stop by the bar. “It’s better to take care of the bureaucratic stuff first, and then I’ll relax properly!” He decided to head to the police station. When a case is simple and the evidence is clear, the report practically writes itself. And this crime, the likes of which hadn’t been seen in these parts for years, was surprisingly solved in no time. The thought crossed his mind that similar tragedies used to be exclusively an American, psychopathic specialty. Every shooting would be followed by some snide comment from our people: “There’s nothing strange about it, those are bullies from the Wild West!” It’s not easy to explain the causes, motives, and mental triggers of mass murderers. There’s no justification for such an act, but it’s important to diagnose the reasons behind it. Only by doing so can the early signs preceding crimes like the one at the Belgrade television station be recognized. Such crimes can only be prevented if the causes of abnormal behavior are uncovered in time. Everyone asks why Nemanja did it—but I’m interested in how and with what he committed the crime. It’s not easy to get a semi-automatic rifle these days. It might be easier for mafia members and criminals, but for a journalist, that would be a big and expensive bite to chew!

In the conclusion of his report, Inspector Zec noted that the name of the killer and the victims were known, as well as how the crime was committed. Although the investigation was officially closed, work was still ongoing to determine the motive and the origin of the weapon used in the crime. He saved the text and filed it in the shared folder for solved cases. He grabbed his jacket from the back of the chair and left the office. On his way out, he cracked open the door to Buda’s office.

“Boss, I finished the report. The investigation is officially over, though I still have a lot of questions.”

“Excellent! Now go home and get some rest, will you, and don’t overthink it!” Buda advised.

He wanted to follow his boss’s advice, but how could he? At home, he was greeted by the wife he loved, but their marital fights showed no signs of stopping. His heart broke as Marina ignored him, punishing him with silence, without him even knowing the real reason. Like most men, Raja hated the tense atmosphere at home. It made him feel insecure and unhappy. “Why must people who love each other make each other suffer? My mistake can’t be that big for Marina not to understand. I’m not chasing skirts or partying in bars. I might have a drink or two, but I’ve never gotten drunk. It’s just this damned job that I love and have fully committed to,” his inner monologue continued. “I know it’s hard for Marina that we can’t have children. We’ve tried everything, but to no avail. For God’s sake, it’s beyond our control, and this cold war isn’t going to help.”

As he left the police building, he decided to have a talk with his wife but first stop by the local pub to have a drink and gather his thoughts. It was a Tuesday, so there were only a few cars in the parking lot at the “Blues” bar. Raja greeted the bartender from the entrance and settled into his favorite corner, where he could enjoy solitude and silence. A cognac at the end of a long workday was a treat, but only if he could savor it alone with his thoughts. Anyone’s presence would ruin the magic. The waiters were his allies in this, making sure to leave him alone. He once again replayed the tragic events at the television station in his mind, trying to mentally erase Nemanja Pavić’s image, which kept appearing before his eyes.

His solitude was interrupted by a man’s voice.

“Hey, colleague, I see you’re avoiding that police café too! Mind if I join you?” asked a balding man, clearly in his sixties by the looks of him.

Zec recognized him immediately—Nikola Kovač, a retired inspector around whom all kinds of stories were spun. What no one disputed was his spotless police record. The cases Inspector Kovač had successfully solved were analyzed at the Police Academy. Some explained his sudden retirement by claiming he had become an alcoholic, while better-informed sources said that as a trusted asset of the Secret Service, he had eventually refused to follow orders. In recent years, Nikola had developed a noticeable limp. The official story was that Kovač had been the victim of a hit-and-run accident. The driver had allegedly fled the scene, and Nikola was found with a high blood alcohol level. The explanation was vague and conveniently unspecific, something along the lines of “an unfortunate accident, with Kovač partly to blame.” However, others still suspected it was a botched assassination attempt. Those same “well-informed sources,” as the press liked to call them, also claimed that after the accident, Kovač had “fallen in line.” They even mentioned a decent foreign currency sum that supposedly secured him a peaceful retirement. This “hush money” was never proven, but it was clear that Nikola had been spending generously at the bar for years, with funds unlikely to have come from his pension.

“Please, Inspector, join me,” the younger colleague replied politely. “We’ve never officially met, but I know you by sight, and by reputation too, for that matter.”

“Ah, my boy, I’m just an old, drunken fool! That reputation is long in the past…” Kovač answered with a hint of sadness in his voice.

They ordered another round. The older inspector didn’t waste time and got straight to the point.

“Don’t take this the wrong way, I really don’t want to interfere with your work, but don’t you think something doesn’t add up in this whole business with the journalist Pavić?”

Raja quickly downed his soda water, then poured the contents of the smaller glasses into the larger one, mixing himself a double cognac. “It’s like this guy is reading my mind!” Zec thought to himself. “Or maybe he’s just trying to provoke me. Once a spy, always a spy!

“What exactly are you getting at?” he feigned innocence.

“I’ve known Nemanja since my days in the force. As a young journalist, he always made an effort to gather information, but he did it in that charming, unobtrusive, and professional way. Later, we would hang out in the bar, and sometimes he’d ask for advice or verify the credibility of his sources. That kid is no killer! Have you ever wondered how he got his hands on a shortened AR-15? Even many police units don’t have those.”

Inspector Zec willed his face to maintain its cold composure, though inside, everything was boiling. The inconsistencies stirred doubt, giving rise to dilemmas. Digging into a closed case was a futile endeavor, especially when the details of the crime were already set in stone and absorbed by a public eager for quick closure. Nobody likes to disrupt the picture they’ve already painted in their mind, especially when it comes to such a heinous crime.

“The investigation is finished. I doubt they’d let me dig any further,” he responded, feigning indifference.

“I’ve been out of the game for a long time, drowning the cop in me with alcohol. But Nemanja Pavić… he mattered to me. His father treated me after my heart attack, and later, he connected me with the orthopedic surgeons when they crippled me.”

There was a strange, newly awakened resolve shining in the old spook’s eyes. He resembled a bear freshly stirred from hibernation. He pressed on.

“I’ve decided to uncover the truth. Your help would mean a lot to me. I can tell you’re trying to act disinterested, but your doubts are eating at you. You’re a professional, son.”

Inspector Zec felt like a kid caught sneaking chocolate before dinner. “He reads me like a book,” he thought. He took a sip of cognac, then summoned the last crumbs of acting ability he had.

“You know I come here often. I’m not making any promises… but if I find anything, I’ll share it with you. I expect the same from you.”

“Deal! Waiter, bring us another round!” Nikola shouted, a faint smile creeping across his face.

Just then, a large, dark-skinned man with a shaved head and a barely visible goatee on his jet-black face walked into “Blues.” He was wearing jeans and a jacket emblazoned with “Arizona Cardinals.” Without even removing his large backpack, he addressed the bartender, Bojan.

“Do you speak English?”

Bojan nodded, and the man began telling his story. Raja took advantage of the lull in their conversation to listen in on what was happening at the bar.

“What’s he saying, for God’s sake?” Nikola asked, curiosity getting the better of him.

“American, name’s Erik,” Raja replied. “He says a friend recommended ‘Blues’ to him, but he ended up going to ‘Blue’ by mistake, where a bunch of cops, both in uniform and plainclothes, gave him a hard time. They messed with him for half an hour, and he didn’t understand a word.”

Bojan poured him a bourbon on the house, and the waiter asked him to raise three fingers for a “selfie.”

PRISONERS

Rale was sautéing onions for goulash. He had already cut the meat, and would cook the pasta last. “I love a good goulash with mashed potatoes, but I’ll save that for another time,” he thought. He went to the pantry and grabbed the last bottle of rakija (plum brandy), realizing that his alcohol supply had run out. Immediately, he felt a wave of anxiety. The nearest store was several miles downhill from his cabin. He had the money, but not the energy to walk that far. “Good thing Ostoja is coming today!” he concluded. He was curious about who these people would be, the ones he would be keeping under lock and key until further notice. He prepared the rooms, reinforced the door hinges, found a chain, and two padlocks. “I’ll have to prepare more food… Now I’ll have to cater to them too!” While the goulash simmered, he kneaded some bread, then took a thick book off the shelf. After his fifth rakija, the words began to dance on the page, and Rale drifted off to sleep. It wasn’t long before the sound of an engine rumbling in the yard woke him up. He pulled back the curtain and saw a black Hummer, from which two bald young men in black T-shirts emerged. They pulled two figures out of the back seat with sacks over their heads. Ratko threw on a jacket and greeted the arrivals. The escorting of the “headless” prisoners was done in silence. He noticed that there was no one else in the car. “Ostoja didn’t come; he won’t risk anything! We’re brothers, but it’s as if we weren’t born of the same mother,” he thought. The young men in black looked at him, asking with their eyes where to take the prisoners. He pointed to the end of the hallway where the rooms with bars were located. The men with sacks over their heads quietly entered their cells, while Ostoja’s men unloaded boxes of food and drinks from the trunk.

“Is there rakija?” Ratko asked anxiously.

“Yes, brother, as much as you want; the boss didn’t skimp this time!” one of the bald guards replied.

The young men checked the chains around the prisoners’ hands and the padlocks on the doors, then bid the host farewell and left the Novičić estate at full speed. Rale watched the black Hummer disappear in a cloud of dust with a wistful look. He sat on the terrace, lit a cigarette, and began his “self-psychoanalysis”: “What’s left of the man who just a few years ago was a caring father, a faithful husband, and a beloved philosophy professor? On the path from a happy parent and educator to a sad jailer of unknown people, only one obstacle stood in the way—alcohol!” He remained on the porch for a while, holding a shot glass in one hand and the remnants of a cigarette in his nostrils. He exhaled the last puff and drained the glass of rakija. Then he started bringing the boxes into the house. This time, the shipment was much more substantial since he had three “hungry mouths” to feed. Rale first brought in the brandy, arranged the bottles in the pantry, and then unpacked the other packages labeled “for guests” in black marker. He opened one of the boxes and found frozen sandwiches and soup packets. The groceries meant for his consumption were placed in the fridge and pantry, and the sack of flour was taken to the shed. He put on some Bob Dylan and chose a book from the shelf. His brother had told him to keep the prisoners in complete isolation, which was an unnecessary instruction given that there was no radio, TV, or internet in the house. With a few more drinks under his belt and his mind starting to resemble the darkened thoughts of the author he was reading, he put down the heavy book and went outside to clear his head. The aroma from the stove indicated that the goulash was ready. He checked the meat with a fork, then ladled the stew into a small bowl. It was only then that he realized he had forgotten to cook the pasta, but he wasn’t too bothered by it. He dipped a piece of fresh bread into the hot stew and washed it all down with beer. Suddenly, noise came from the “guest” rooms—clattering chains and indistinct voices.

“Quiet in there, or I’ll come in and make you quiet!” the host shouted.

He didn’t like interrupting his meal, especially since he enjoyed stews while they were still hot. The “guests” quieted down immediately, so he decided to open another beer and change the record on the turntable. He listened to some light jazz, smoked, and thought about how to approach these unfortunate people. After lunch, he went to introduce himself to the newcomers. First, he opened the room on the left side of the hallway. A tall man in his forties sat on the bed, bald, with a week-old beard. His right hand was cuffed to a large iron ring bolted to the wall. He looked distant and somewhat indifferent, as if the situation he was in didn’t bother him much.

“There are two containers here for you. You piss in this one—it has a lid, so close it after you use it. I empty it once a day,” Ratko explained. “The other one is for taking a dump. When you’re done, wrap it in this plastic and call me to take it out. Got it?”

The man nodded and asked for water.

“I’ll bring you some later! And one more thing: I’m Rale, and that’s all you need to know. I don’t care about your name, because the less I know, the better. I’ll call you Baldy.”

He locked the room and crossed the hallway. The chubby young man in his early thirties was neat, slightly effeminate, wearing a brightly colored shirt under which his love for good food was visible. His eyes were red, showing that he had recently cried. He looked terrified. As soon as he saw Rale, he tried to shield his face with his free hand.

“Take it easy, fatty… I’m not a thug, what’s wrong with you? You heard the instructions for your bodily needs. You’ll get food twice a day. It’s good for you to lose some weight. If you need anything, call me, but not for nonsense! In the meantime, I don’t want to hear a word from you. Got it? Rale’s orders!”

The chubby man nodded obediently and then timidly asked,

“When do you plan on serving the first meal?”

“Damn it, is that the only question you have?” the host laughed. “No wonder you look like a piglet!”

He bolted the “cells” and decided to reward himself with another rakija. He sank into a chair, sipped the fiery liquid, and resumed reading his book. It wasn’t long before Rale dozed off. His afternoon nap was interrupted by noise from the yard. He jumped up, looked out the window, and recognized a garbage truck. He realized it was the day for trash removal. The Novičić estate was far from civilization, so they weren’t on the regular list for the city’s sanitation services. Thanks to the connections of his powerful brother Ostoja, the garbage collectors visited Rale once a month to haul away the trash that had accumulated over the past thirty days. He greeted the driver and went inside to check on the prisoners. He was worried they might get the idea to call for help. The “residents” were quiet, and no sound came from their rooms. “They must be sleeping. I’ll bring them food later!” He put a kettle on the stove and waited for the water to boil. From the room on the right, he heard the chubby young man’s voice.

“Will lunch be ready soon, sir?”

“Don’t give me that crap, fatty, I’m not your ‘sir’! Wait until I finish my coffee, and then I’ll bring you something to stuff your face with. See how Baldy keeps quiet and doesn’t complain!” Rale snapped.

With strong, unsweetened coffee, he smoked two cigarettes and listened to Tom Baxter’s music. When it was time for the song “Tell Her Today,” he turned up the volume almost to the max and then played it a few more times. Immediately, he grabbed a bottle of rakija. After the third shot, the tears started flowing on their own, and Baxter’s voice was relentless:

Don’t wait until tomorrow; tomorrow may be too late,

Tell her while there’s still time,

Tell her before she leaves.

Tell her today, tell her today… That you love her!

He turned off the music, washed his face, and took two sandwiches out of the freezer, then poured water into glasses. First, he opened the left door.

“Food’s here, Baldy!, Rale gave a short lecture before unlocking the door across the hall. “And you, fatty, are like a bad rash! Here, eat, so you stop whining!”

The prisoner grabbed the sandwich, started unwrapping the cellophane, and then complained,

“But the sandwich is frozen!” he said with a sad expression.

“Want me to pop it in the toaster for you? Or would you prefer something else? Maybe a steak?… Just wait a bit for it to thaw; you won’t die of hunger. You’ve got reserves.”

He locked the door behind him and went outside to calm down and collect himself. That song had struck him right in the heart.

VESNA

In the apartment of Nemanja’s widow, Vesna Pavić, an eerie silence filled the space, and sadness lingered in every corner, hidden in the chaos caused by despair. The drawn curtains smothered the daylight, swallowing any faint glimmers of hope that things might ever improve. In the living room, a half-empty cup of cold coffee sat forgotten on the soffe table, abandoned at the moment when Vesna lost her will to live. Family photographs were scattered across the couch, most of them turned upside down, unconsciously hiding the recent past that haunted her. Vesna Pavić swallowed another handful of benzodiazepines, washing them down with tap water. She dragged herself to the kitchen, picked up the kettle, and hesitated—should she make coffee or try to nap?

Three days had passed since the great tragedy. The neighbors had immediately stopped acknowledging her, the doctor had reluctantly granted her sick leave, and her mother-in-law continued to ignore her. When she first heard about Nemanja’s crime, Vesna’s initial reaction was shock, followed by disbelief, and then denial. For hours, she couldn’t snap out of it, couldn’t gather her thoughts or speak. Thankfully, the children were at school and didn’t have to see her in such a state. That first night, she didn’t sleep at all. She remembered moments from long ago: in those nightmares, images from her youth and romantic days with Nemanja didn’t surface, but oddly—those from her childhood did. One memory, in particular, stood out! There was an episode in Vesna’s memory that would resurface whenever something terrible happened. It was a Sunday, five-year-old Vesna was having lunch with her mom and dad. A large black car stopped in front of their yard. Her father stood up from the table as the long priestly robe tangled around his legs. He opened the door and went with the strangers to another room. They talked for a long time. The uninvited guests occasionally raised their voices at her father. He remained silent, twisting his thumbs and biting his lower lip. He was nervous, frightened, and humiliated. That evening, as Vesna watched “The Smurfs” on TV, she overheard her parents whispering.

“I know, but he’s the mayor now, a powerful man,” her mother said fearfully. “You see how the government is turning to the church!”

“They’re turning to Orthodoxy out of fashion, not because of Christianity. They believe in the leader, not in God! Their motive is nationalism, not faith,” the priest concluded.

Her mother cried, trying to persuade her husband.

“Alright, Stojan, why make such a fuss? Baptize his grandson, it’s your job… You’ve baptized so many children!”

“It’s not a problem to baptize a child, on the contrary. The trouble is that he’s asking me to baptize him too, an old sinner. His uncle once rode my father, a priest, around the village dead drunk. That, Nada, is not something you forget!”

Vesna never knew why that Sunday evening had etched itself so deeply into her memory. Her parents had never seemed so bitter and afraid. As a priest’s daughter, Vesna was raised strictly, conservatively, and patriarchally. Nemanja was her first, true, and only man in her life. She had dated occasionally in high school, but those were fleeting youthful romances. That’s why her late husband’s unfounded suspicions had weighed so heavily on her.

The deep depression lasted two or three days, and then, Vesna Pavić clenched her teeth and decided to stop with the self-pity and lamentation. She tried to resume a normal life, as much as that was possible in such a situation. She washed her hair, took another tranquilizer, and set off to visit Stevan and Radmila. The children were at their grandparents’, at least somewhat shielded from the pressures. Journalists were hounding her, the police came and went, while friends and relatives simply fell silent. She had considered attending Balša’s funeral but decided against it. The wife of the killer, who was suspected of having an affair with the victim, was the last person the bereaved would want to see at the deceased’s final farewell. Balša was a wonderful man, full of understanding for all the employees at the company. He had a soft spot for Vesna, but he had never tried anything concrete. She, of course, never gave him any reason to, but other bosses didn’t even wait for an invitation before they would pounce like predators. Balša’s wife had grown up in the countryside. She didn’t care much about education but was a wonderful mother and homemaker who had never doubted her husband’s fidelity. “So many families have been plunged into mourning by one senseless act!” Vesna thought as she crossed the street at the pedestrian crossing. “But what if Nemanja really is the killer? It’s hard for me to believe… but all the evidence points to it! Is it possible that I lived with a monster for so many years without ever knowing it?” The walk to her in-laws’ house did Vesna good. As she walked, she recalled her first meeting with Nemanja’s parents. It was a Sunday. A student from the provinces, eager for a home-cooked meal, Vesna had been invited to the Pavić family for a Sunday lunch. Nemanja had picked her up in his car in front of the building where she lived as a tenant. The Pavić family welcomed her warmly and treated her to various delicacies, but Vesna immediately sensed a certain reserve in Radmila. She knew that Nemanja had previously dated a girl named Sanja, the daughter of Dr. Stojanović, whom his mother adored. When they broke up, Radmila couldn’t forgive him. Vesna had the feeling that her boyfriend still harbored some lingering feelings for Sanja, who had left him for a fellow student. Vesna quickly struck up a friendship with Stevan, finding common ground on various topics. Dr. Pavić was particularly interested in the fact that she came from a priestly family and asked her numerous questions about it. Radmila’s attitude, however, remained unchanged until Igor and Maja were born. Only then did Radmila’s behavior toward her daughter-in-law begin to soften, and over time, the icy smile of the mother-in-law began to thaw. Deep down, though, Vesna felt that this change had come only because of her son and grandchildren. “I wonder if Nemanja mentioned to her that he suspected me of being unfaithful? For weeks now, she has been behaving strangely toward me, and ever since the tragedy occurred, she hasn’t spoken to me at all!”

When she arrived at the door, the children rushed into their mother’s arms. Stevan got up from his armchair, embraced her, and held his head on his daughter-in-law’s shoulder for a long time. Radmila immediately found something to busy herself with in the kitchen, eager to disappear.

“Wait, Radmila,” Vesna pleaded. “I want us to talk and clear things up. I have never cheated on your son, and I don’t care about rumors and gossip. What matters to me is the opinion of the people I love, and aside from my children and my parents, you are the only ones I have left.”

Stevan began to cry.

“I’m sorry, Vesna,” Radmila said, repentant. “When things are going along normally, people seem to search for reasons to worry, and when they are faced with a real hardship, they realize too late that they wasted time and nerves on pointless nonsense. You have always been a model mother, wife, and daughter-in-law. Come here, let me hug you, my dear…”

“We have to stick together! It’s the only thing left for us to do. Not for us old folks, but for these wonderful children,” Stevan added through his tears.

They sat down at the dining table and, over coffee, began to make preparations for Nemanja’s funeral.

BANE

The previous day, after lunch at Bane’s parents’ house, the American guest and his host headed toward the downtown. As they passed Belgrade Waterfront in a taxi, Bane explained to his colleague Erik that his parents had sold their house and land in the countryside to move closer to their only son in Belgrade. They bought a one-bedroom apartment in New Belgrade, while gifting their son a studio in the city center. Along the way, Bane mentioned that he would be staying with his girlfriend the next day, leaving the American to use the studio. The taxi stopped in front of Bane’s apartment building. The gray, peeling concrete walls revealed the building’s age, standing there for hundreds of years. The shadows of autumn leaves swayed under the streetlight like sleeping ghosts. Erik stepped out of the car, inhaling the cool evening air, and glanced around. Belgrade was different at night—darker, more mysterious.

Bane opened the front door, turned on the light, and led Erik up the narrow stairs to the studio. The space was tiny, cramped like a matchbox. The guest dropped his backpack by the door, and they settled on the couch, toasting with rakija. Before bed, the colleagues had a few more shots of plum brandy to end the night. They agreed that Erik would sleep on the bed while Bane inflated an air mattress and slept on the floor. When they woke up in the morning, the first news they heard, along with their morning coffee, was about the mass murder at BG9 television.

“Take a walk and get a feel for the atmosphere, and I’ll join you later. We’ll have lunch in Skadarlija, but that won’t be until around four. For you Americans, that’s practically dinner, but you’ll have to adapt to our customs.”

“No problem, bro. But pour us another rakija to shake off this hangover.”

They toasted each other before Bane Ristić headed off to work. The latest issue of Urlik was in the works. Colleagues were finishing up their articles, polishing and refining them before sending them to the editor. Bane recalled the atmosphere at Voice of Desert, where everything moved at a pace. The editor-in-chief spotted him and motioned for him to come to his office.

“A massacre at the TV station? Is this real, boss?! And Nemanja Pavić, of all people?!” he exclaimed. “If it weren’t for the internet, I’d think this was a cruel joke!”

“Yeah, well, shit happens, Ristić,” the editor responded. “The guy had had enough… To be honest, I kind of understand him in a weird way. Sometimes I feel like killing all of you. But can you write something about it by tomorrow morning?”

Bane lit a cigarette, looked up at the ceiling, and after a brief pause, responded, “I suggest we run the mass murder as just a slightly longer news piece without too much commentary in this issue. At first glance, everything seems clear and uninteresting, and anyone can write that. I plan to dig a little deeper into the whole story…” He paused to take the glass of rakija his boss had just poured for him. “I want to look into what Nemanja was working on. I don’t believe it’s as simple as it seems right now.”

The editor poured another round and thanked him for interrupting his break to help the newsroom.

“When people look at you, they’d never guess you’re such a professional!” he joked.

“And why’s that, boss?”

“You look more like a slacker and a drama queen, and you’re always frowning and grumpy… A real grouch!” the editor teased mercilessly.

“Come on, pour another one as punishment; it’s not nice to talk that way about your best journalist!” Bane shot back in the same tone.

“Contact Inspector Zec. He’s leading the investigation. Oh, and tomorrow is Pavić’s funeral. It wouldn’t hurt to show up.”

After making arrangements with the editor, Ristić said goodbye to his colleagues, shared his impressions of America, and promised to treat them to drinks the next day after they closed the new issue.

ERIK

That morning, Erik Stone woke up in his colleague’s apartment. The October sun filtered through the dusty windows of the downtown Belgrade. He opened the window, and the fresh air filled with autumn moisture immediately revived the American journalist. His host, Bane, had rushed off to the newsroom early in the morning to gather information about the mass shooting that had occurred the day before at a Belgrade television station. Before leaving for work, Bane left his American guest a list of locations he could visit. Erik picked up the paper from the kitchen table, glanced at it, studied it, and immediately noticed an unusual name of an unknown place that sounded exotic to him—Kalemegdan. As he exited the building, the smell of grilled hamburgers from a nearby tavern hit him. “Isn’t it a bit early for a barbecue?” he thought as he headed toward the destination with the strange name. In the pedestrian zone, it was lively, noisy, and cheerful. Street vendors and musicians, the sound of an unfamiliar language, children freely running around, but also hurried passersby who had a clear goal in mind. He felt as if he had arrived at a place where time flowed at a different rhythm, where the past and present intertwined into a unique whole he had never experienced before.

Back home in the southern United States, and even less so in Arizona, where he had lived for years, Erik wasn’t in the habit of walking around the city. During the week, his journalistic duties consumed him, while on weekends, he would visit bars or escape the Arizona desert, heading to cooler regions—like Flagstaff or Sedona. Passersby eyed him curiously but reservedly. Upon reaching Kalemegdan, Erik stopped, surveying the fortress from all sides. The old, monumental structure, shrouded in centuries of historical secrets, testified to the past of a people who had fought to preserve their borders, culture, and way of life. As he walked through the park, Erik came across old cannons that had once defended Belgrade. He wanted to learn more details about the history of Kalemegdan, so he hunted for additional information on this intriguing place online. He still felt the curious glances of passersby. Although Belgrade is a multicultural environment, people were not used to seeing someone with his skin color. In Georgia, where he grew up, racism had not yet been eradicated, but due to the large African American population, at least no one stared at him on the street. In Arizona, where he spent his college days and remained to pursue journalism, there was a broad diversity of races, nationalities, and languages… But here, in the heart of the Balkans, the noticeable stares and muted comments reminded him that he was a foreigner.

After touring the fortress, he decided to take a break. He settled on the terrace of a restaurant with a view of the river, greenery, and, of course, the fortress. He ordered coffee, enjoying the city’s atmosphere while trying to think of what to write about in his first report from Serbia. His thoughts were interrupted by a group of young men sitting at a corner table. He couldn’t understand them, but it quickly became clear they were laughing at his expense. He decided to ignore them. “I’ll just pay and continue my walk. It would be stupid to argue with them,” he thought, looking around for the waiter. The loudest of the young men shouted something across the table at him, and then an object came flying toward him. Erik reacted quickly and caught the lighter! He left the money under the ashtray and left the restaurant. As he walked back toward the fortress, he felt a heaviness in his chest that was not just from fatigue but also from the realization that racism knows no boundaries.

THE FUNERAL

The wall clock in Dr. Pavić’s apartment struck noon. The cuckoo clock, which had mournfully chimed twelve times, shared in the grief of its inhabitants. Stevan and Radmila were preparing to bury their son. The mother wore mourning black, while the father donned a black suit and tie with a white shirt. In a divided country, even in tragic situations, the differences are stark. In rural areas and among devout people who adhere to Orthodox customs, men in mourning wear black shirts and keep them on for as long as the church prescribes. In contrast, in cities and among mourners less connected to religion, respect for the deceased is expressed through a black-and-white combination, where the emphasis is on the classic rather than the pagan. Of course, the deceased care the least about how those sending them off to the next world are dressed. If they were loved and respected in life, it wouldn’t matter if the mourners came naked; while for bad people, even wearing black wouldn’t help.

“The taxi will be here in ten minutes,” Stevan said as he put his mobile phone in his pocket. “Don’t bring any food or drinks, you promised.”

“But how can I bury my son without anything?! In my family, traditions were always respected,” Radmila protested.

“We’ve ordered a flowers, and that’s enough. It’s only right to honor Nemanja’s last wish,” the grieving father was resolute.

They descended to the front of the building, where a pink taxi awaited them. They settled in the back seat and rode in silence. Radmila noticed the driver observing them in the rearview mirror. She felt uneasy, fearing that if he recognized them, he might throw them out of the car. They stopped at an intersection when the driver spoke for the first time.

“Excuse me, are you Dr. Stevan Pavić?”

Radmila flushed with anger. She couldn’t believe how heartless and full of hatred people could be. In the days leading up to this, people had looked at them with contempt and fled as if they were lepers. Some even insulted them, placing all the blame for the crime Nemanja had committed squarely on their shoulders. She couldn’t accept the reality that they might miss their son’s funeral because of the taxi driver.

“Yes, young man, we are the parents of Nemanja Pavić, the journalist accused of mass murder. We called you to take us to his funeral. Have some mercy, for God’s sake!”

The taxi driver was momentarily surprised, feeling uncomfortable. He shifted into first gear and continued toward the cemetery.

“You misunderstood me,” the driver apologized. “Dr. Pavić saved my mother’s life when she had a heart attack a few years ago. I’ll remember that for as long as I live.”

Radmila felt relieved. She apologized and began to weep. “There are still good people in this corrupt, rotten, and ruthless world that holds a noose around our necks, threatening to tighten it at any moment. The human race is vile… except for a few!” she thought through her tears as they approached the city cemetery. At the gate, they saw their daughter-in-law and grandchildren. Vesna’s parents were there too, along with her father Vladan, who was a priest, and Vesna’s mother, Nada, dressed in black. Together, they headed toward the crematorium. Only ten people attended Nemanja Pavić’s funeral. Besides the immediate family, Inspector Raja Zec, his retired colleague Nikola Kovač, and journalist Bane Ristić also showed up. The deceased’s last wish was to be cremated, and to be sent off to the the other matrix not by a priest but by Balašević’s “Wooden Song”. After the tragedy, there was nothing left to cremate, and the priests wouldn’t have appeared even if the deceased had wanted them to. Vesna and Stevan organized the funeral together, while Radmila looked after the children. They bought the most expensive urn, which, though empty, would preserve the memory of their Nemanja. The mother had only one request—that they publish Nemanja’s obituary with a picture from his younger days when he still had hair. Burying a mass murderer is not easy. At the city cemetery, where the Pavić family had a family tomb for years, they refused to accept the urn of “that villain,” as the clerk vividly put it. Fortunately, the cemetery manager’s brother had once been Dr. Pavić’s patient, and the grieving father managed to beg for access to the chapel. A black-framed obituary with a photo of journalist Nemanja Pavić hung on the door. Young and curly-haired, he didn’t look like himself at all; but Radmila’s wish had been honored.

Bane brought a candle, soon realizing the gesture was unnecessary. He offered his condolences and stood aside. Then Raja and Kovač appeared. “I’ll corner Zec here,” he thought. Nikola observed the grieving family members. He noticed how there are no rules when it comes to grief. Maja and Igor stood silently, bewildered by the events that had swept past them in recent days. Vesna tried to hold back her tears so as not to further sadden the children. Dr. Pavić wept like a child, unable to contain his sorrow, while Radmila’s behavior was surprisingly restrained, just like in the epic poem where “the mother’s heart was hard…” Kovač had gone through life’s tragedies himself, so he was well-acquainted with the feeling of refusing to accept the truth. Denying the facts helps the grieving cope with the loss of a loved one, at least in the beginning. Stevan waited for the emotions to settle before saying a heartfelt farewell to his son. Every word from the father tore hearts apart and shattered minds. Everyone wept, even those attending the funeral in an official capacity. At the end of his speech, Stevan invited those present to come to their apartment after the funeral, where they would lay the empty urn bearing Nemanja’s name. A farewell meal was also planned in memory of the journalist Pavić.

“Thank you all so much for coming to bid farewell to our son, father, and husband. It’s a brave act, considering everything that has happened! If you can’t or don’t want to come to the meal, I completely understand. Your presence at the funeral already means so much. The doors of our home are open to you today and always…”

At that moment, from the small speaker next to the urn, the voice of a great poet echoed:

“I dreamt of a coffin, black, silver-adorned…

November… mist…

And a quartet of dear faces…

A small boat… In the middle of the rainy harbor…

To carry me into eternity…

Where did that tree grow, facing which winds?

Did someone mourn under it for someone else?

Why did the lightning spare it, mother of God?

Who spat in their hands before cutting it down?

My only dear… Why did you wake me?

I was so close to the reverse of time…

A tree hides in my chest…

Where will something sprout from that seed… if only I knew?”

As the song ended, a heavy silence followed, as the sobs ceased for a moment. They stood there in silence for a few more minutes before they all began to move toward the exit. Vesna carried the urn, and Dr. Pavić held Radmila, who was crying. The children followed, holding the hands of Vesna’s parents. Raja nodded in greeting to Bane, who took the opportunity to approach him.

“I think it would be appropriate to go to the meal,” Bane suggested.

“That’s the custom,” Nikola Kovač agreed.

“Let’s go then,” Inspector Zec said decisively.

As they exited the chapel, they were met by a group of angry people. The small procession was surrounded, and they were bombarded with all sorts of insults.

“You’re burying a monster, you scum!”

“You’re polluting the cemetery where decent people rest!”

“Get the scum out of here!”

An egg flew through the air and splattered in Vesna’s hair, and a large stone hit Stevan in the leg. Raja rushed forward to protect the grieving family members, pulled out his police badge, and shouted at the idle troublemakers who were advancing toward them:

“Back off! Stop it! Let’s act like humans, even though we live in Serbia!” Raja shouted bitterly, then returned his badge to his jacket pocket and pushed back the most aggressive ones.

“Everyone has the right to be buried,” Nikola interjected.

“This is Christianity in action,” Radmila said bitterly.

Vesna clutched her crying children while Raja called for backup. The mob then calmed down, standing aside to let them leave the cemetery. They all left together, heading toward the downtown. When they arrived at the building where the Pavić family lived, Bane noticed that neighbors were with his girlfriend, Tea. Raja cursed the urban planners, the mayor, and the traffic as he struggled to find a parking spot. Vesna’s parents took the children into the apartment, while Father Stojan paused, turned toward Nemanja’s photograph, crossed himself, and then gave a slight bow.

The silence that ruled the Pavić home seemed to have changed its form from grief. Thick and merciless like an invisible shroud, it weighed heavily on those present. The large dining table set for twelve, with every plate, glass, spoon, knife, and fork, stood as a mute witness to the pain. Only the clatter of cutlery on plates and the occasional sound of chewing could be heard. Many years ago, Dr. Stevan had saved the life of an important politician in power, who, in gratitude, gave him a dining set made of the finest Czech porcelain. Radmila had hesitated for a long time before unpacking it, waiting for the right occasion, and then had completely forgotten about it. Two decades later, that very set was used to serve the last meal in memory of their only son. Instead of a special occasion, it was used in the saddest possible moment. Vesna stared blankly at a single point, while Stevan struggled to swallow his food. Every bite turned into a foreign object that his body refused to accept. Radmila nervously bustled about, unwilling to take her place at the mournful table, delaying the moment of reconciling with the truth. She brought glasses, took away bowls and plates, and immediately replaced them with others. Nikola Kovač poured himself some rakija, spilled a few drops into his plate, and quietly murmured:

“For the peace of Nemanja’s soul!”

“May God forgive him!” added Father Vladan.

After clearing the table, Stevan asked the men to join him in smoking a Cuban cigar.

“My son loved them. Every time he wrote a piece he was proud of, he’d say to me: ‘Dad, do you still have any of those nice Cubans?’”

As they unwrapped the cellophane from the cigars, they spoke in unison; Vesna’s father remained silent, gazing into the distance.

“Vladan, you should have one too,” the host offered him a cigar.

Priest waved one hand while reaching for the pastries with the other.

“My sin is sweets,” the priest replied.

Nemanja’s funeral was in contrast with the principles held by Father Vladan Radić, who had been sending off the deceased according to Orthodox customs for decades. The Church considered suicide the gravest sin, and cremation was yet another Christian heresy. Vladan loved his son-in-law, respected him as a good and honest man who took care of his daughter and grandchildren, and that’s what mattered most to any father-in-law.

“Father Vladan,” Bane began as he exhaled a puff from the thick Cuban cigar, “do you have any idea how many funeral services you’ve performed over all these years?”

Father Vlada, as his parishioners called him, took a sip of red wine and then, looking upward, tried to recall the exact number.

“I used to keep records; I knew exactly when and where I performed a baptism, wedding, or funeral. In my parish, an average of about ten people die each year, and I’ve been there for thirty years—so, young man, you do the math!”

Nikola Kovač listened carefully, and then a wrinkle appeared on his temple… as if something had come to mind. For a moment, he wanted to ask a question, but then quickly changed his mind. Raja noticed but didn’t react. He turned to Father Vlada.

“Father, today we buried Nemanja as he wished. I know the Church doesn’t agree with cremation, but I’m curious about how we came to these customs by which people in Serbia are sent off to the kingdom of God.”

“Before Christianity arrived in our lands,” Father Vladan replied, “people were buried according to pagan customs, some of which we’ve declared Orthodox. For example, the farewell meal we’ve just had has its roots in pre-Christian times. In pagan times, sharing food during and after the funeral was a way to honor ancestors and gods of death.”

“Agape?” Nikola interjected.

“Exactly!” the priest agreed.

“And what about lighting candles for the repose of the soul?” Raja continued.

“The use of light and smoke, as symbols of eternal life and spiritual purification, also dates back to pagan times,” the priest added, continuing. “Today, the burning of incense and candles is an integral part of Christian liturgy, but in the past, it was used to ward off evil spirits. The same goes for pouring wine on the grave. Our ancestors did this as a form of offering to the earth and spirits, to ensure fertility and prosperity.”

As the Cuban cigars slowly turned to ash and dust, the men began to wrap up their philosophical discussion. They all looked at their watches at the same time, signaling to each other that it was time to go. Several times they tried to leave, but the hosts begged them to stay a little longer. It was as if they were afraid to be left alone. The investigation was over, but Raja took the opportunity to gather some more useful information. Although the case was closed, the sloth within him was content, but the policeman in him was restless, pointing out many gaps in the net of evidence gathered so far. He was particularly troubled by how Nemanja had acquired such a deadly weapon, one that was difficult to obtain even on the black market. He hesitated to bring it up on the day of the funeral, but Dr. Stevan seemed to read his thoughts.

“Inspector, I hear you’ve closed the investigation. I don’t mean to interfere, but it seems there are many things left unexplained?”

“You’re right,” Raja agreed. “From the very beginning, I’ve been puzzled by one thing—how was that shortened semi-automatic rifle obtained? It’s not easy to get hold of a weapon like that.”

He deliberately avoided mentioning Nemanja’s name to spare the grieving father any additional pain.

“If there’s anyone in the world who hated weapons, it was my husband,” Vesna interjected. “I just can’t wrap my head around all of this.”

Radmila, who had been silent all evening, serving and cleaning up, suddenly approached Bane and invited him into the kitchen to help her with something. No one paid attention to the journalist as he got up from the table. The others were reminiscing, sharing anecdotes from the times they had spent with Nemanja. The first to speak was Father Vlada.

“I remember when he came to ask for Vesna’s hand. I immediately noticed that he was a bit tipsy.”

“He loved a good drink, the daddy’s boy!” Dr. Pavić commented.

“He brought Nada a big bouquet of flowers,” Father Vlada continued, “and he brought me a bottle of homemade rakija and some coffee. He did everything by the book, following the customs that are sacred in small towns. He said to me, ‘Mister Vlada, I won’t beat around the bush. I love Vesna more than anything in the world, and I’m asking for your blessing!’ Short and sweet, very much like a journalist. He was a wonderful young man, God rest his soul.”

“God rest his soul,” the others murmured in unison.

Bane entered the kitchen and helped Radmila reach a silver tray from the top shelf. Bane was nearly the same height as Mrs. Pavić, so this request surprised him a little. Radmila set her cigarette in the ashtray and retrieved a light brown leather bag from somewhere. She glanced toward the living room to check if anyone was approaching. She waited until Bane handed her the tray and then whispered:

“Nemanja uncovered a major scandal involving powerful people at the highest levels of government. We didn’t talk about the details, but he got the evidence from me. I’m not a psychic, but I know the answer lies in this bag.”

Bane was taken aback. He had experienced a lot during his journalism career, but he had never come across exclusive material in this manner. The mother of his late colleague was determined to bring the truth to light and see justice served.

“Here, son, everything my Nemanja gathered is in this bag. He had a lot of respect for your work; he even made me buy Urlik regularly. You’re the only one I trust to continue what my son started,” Radmila Pavić said, tears streaming down her face.

Behind the round glasses of the Urlik journalist, his pupils dilated in the middle of his wide, astonished eyes. He couldn’t believe what was happening. He had come to pay respects to a colleague—and was leaving with material for a sensational story! He grabbed the bag and slung it over his shoulder. Before leaving the kitchen, he looked straight into Radmila’s tearful eyes and suddenly felt great admiration for this brave woman. In such a difficult moment, she had decided to fulfill what was likely her son’s greatest professional wish.

“Mrs. Pavić, I honestly don’t know how to thank you!” Bane said, his eyes filled with tears. “I’ll do my best to uncover the truth and not let Nemanja down.”

“Please, call me Radmila. Don’t worry, son, I trust you. I know you’re an honest man and an excellent journalist… and that’s what matters most here.”

Bane embraced the grieving woman, thanked her again for her trust, and was eager to leave. On his way out, he waved to the others, offering a quick excuse about being urgently called to the newsroom.

Zec and Kovač exchanged glances and whispered to each other:

“That Ristić managed to slip out like a snake!” Nikola remarked.

“He didn’t bring anything to the funeral but left with a bag over his shoulder,” Raja concluded.

“The journalist forgot that between the two of us, we have at least seventy years of police experience, and that nothing escapes a cop’s eye,” Kovač chuckled.

Suddenly, everyone fell silent. After a few drinks, it seemed they had momentarily forgotten the reason for this somber gathering. Raja discreetly signaled to those present that it was time to leave. The elderly Pavićs gratefully saw their guests off and then returned to the mournful table. The sound of the old wall clock monotonously ticked away. The relentless passage of time was the only movement in the frozen scene of sorrow and parental grief. The ticking… persistent and relentless, reminded them that life, despite its meaninglessness and heaviness, still goes on. Through the window, the daylight slowly dimmed, signaling the end of the hardest day in these unfortunate people’s lives. For Radmila and Stevan, time had stopped, trapped in a great tragedy. They sat in silence for hours at the table, surrounded by the ghosts of the past and the pain they shared without a word.

The audiobook playing on Raja’s stereo was nearing its end. The protagonist, faced with the loss of a loved one, grieved inconsolably, trying to understand the origins of evil in people. He drove along familiar streets, feeling as though he was getting home much faster than usual. He was trying to delay the inevitable conversation with his wife—a discussion that should have taken place long ago. The delay had only fanned the flames of misunderstanding that had smoldered for far too long. Only one chapter remained. He parked the car and waited for the book to finish. “An excellent book!” he thought as he locked the car, entered the building, and stumbled upon a couple in the stairwell. He recognized his neighbor from the third floor kissing a tall young man but pretended not to see them. He climbed the stairs to his apartment, unlocked the door, and stepped inside. The silence surprised him. Marina was usually watching TV at this hour. He left his jacket in the hallway, entered the kitchen, and saw a note on the table with a handwritten message.

“I’ve gone to my mother’s. I’ll stay there for a few days. Once I’ve calmed down, we’ll have a serious talk. Don’t call me until I reach out!”

He stood in the kitchen for several minutes, holding the note. He read it over and over, hoping the words could be interpreted differently. “You’re too late, Zec!” he scolded himself. He had planned to take some vacation days so they could go together to the family house in the countryside, where his late parents had lived until recently. Untouched nature, silence… The perfect place to reconnect. “But maybe I should have asked her how she wanted to spend our time together? Eh, we men—never seem to get it right! Even when our intentions are sincere, we always manage to screw things up in the end…” Raja lamented. He felt overwhelmed. A dull sadness settled in, and an imaginary knot tightened around his stomach. He couldn’t stand to stay in the apartment; it felt as though the walls were closing in on him, the ceiling pressing down. Anxiety, worry, and fear took hold of the best inspector in Belgrade. He quickly changed his clothes and left. In the entrance, his neighbor was still making out with her boyfriend. He got into his car and headed towards Šumgla, this time listening to somber classical music instead of his audiobook.

BALDIE AND FATSO

The rain had poured all night long—a seemingly endless, dreary November rain that draped everything beneath it in a veil of depression. Water cascaded down the tall conifers, creating a sound reminiscent of the tones children produce when they blow on a comb through cellophane. The water filled the gutters and barrels where Rale collected rainwater. As the raindrops drummed on the roof in the rhythm of the folk dance – kolo, Ratko Novičić fought off sleep. The gloomy weather and the hangover from the night before glued his head to the pillow, preventing him from getting out of bed. Along with his heavy eyelids, he opened a new pack of cigarettes. Half-awake and irritable, he put a pot of coffee on the stove and stepped outside to check the roof. “No leaks, that’s good! I’ll need to remind Ostoja to send someone to fix the tiles. Winter’s coming, and this roof might not withstand the snow.”

The smell of freshly brewed coffee filled the cabin. From the left room, the prisoner called out.

“Rale…” the voice called softly.

“What is it, Baldie? Good to finally hear you! You’ve been as quiet as a mouse since they brought you here,” Rale replied.

“Could I ask for a cigarette? I haven’t smoked in days.”

“Look at you, getting all cheeky! What next, you want me to make you some coffee too? No way, you’re not on vacation here!”

“Alright… if no cigarette, could I at least have some breakfast?” the man in the room on the right side of the hallway chimed in.

“Fatso, do you think about anything other than eating? I wonder what you do for a living! Are you a chef, maybe? Breakfast is at noon, and lunch and dinner together at six. That’s it, take it or leave it!” Ratko snapped, his usual calm demeanor fraying.

The whining of the captive guests irritated him, so he rushed to the pantry to grab a new bottle of rakija. He unscrewed the cap and poured the clear liquid into a large glass. He hated drinking from those tiny glasses that reminded him of thimbles. He grabbed the first record that came to hand. “What a choice of music! This sounds like the tunes in the elevator at Ostoja’s company!” He poured himself another generous dose of plum brandy from the bottle when he recognized the sound of a car in the yard. “By the rumble, I’d say it’s the Hummer. What’s this? Ostoja’s goons just came recently,” he mused, puzzled. He stood up and was just approaching the door when two shaved giants barged into the house, followed by his brother, Ostoja. They hugged and exchanged greetings.

“Just a reminder,” Rale said, “you need to send someone to fix the roof.”

“I can’t while these guys are here,” his brother replied. “Anyway, tell me, how are they behaving?”

“They’re good. Not too much trouble,” Ratko replied honestly. “This fat one is always hungry, and Baldie just keeps quiet.”

“Bro, why don’t you take a walk and don’t rush back,” Ostoja suggested. “We’ll have a little chat with the boys, and I’d rather you weren’t around for that.”

“But it’s raining,” Rale said, surprised.

“Then take the car and drive to the village. Buy whatever you need. Just don’t get drunk and be unable to drive back. Though, from what I see, you’ve already started with the rakija…”

Ostoja’s bodyguards unlocked the rooms and began questioning the captives. Ratko took the car keys and left the house. It was only the second time he had driven a Hummer, a beast of a vehicle that was hard to control. Still, for the rugged mountain roads, it was the ideal mode of transportation. The dashboard was like that of a spaceship, the gearshift smooth as silk, and the view from the driver’s seat was like being in a lighthouse in the middle of the ocean. After a few shots of rakija, Rale was in that familiar state where he had enough courage to embrace the unknown. The alcohol was still pumping adrenaline through his veins, urging him to try something new. He drove down the winding, narrow road to the village tavern. The tavern’s owner, Boško, was a good friend. As a kid, Rale had visited his grandparents and played with Boško, who was much older. He taught Rale to fish and climb trees. They went hunting with slingshots, and one time in the woods, they caught a “colorful squirrel,” which later turned out to be a skunk. A few years ago, Ratko had done Boško a favor, so he was always a welcome guest in the tavern. He ate and drank on the house, and whenever he wanted to repay the favor, he would give money to Boško’s grandchildren “for chocolate.” He entered the tavern with a book in hand and a blank expression on his face.

“Good to see you, Ratko Novičić! I’ve got some good apricot brandy, my brother-in-law brought it from Krčedin,” his friend greeted him with good news.

“Thanks, pal, but I’m not quite in the mood. Bring me a beer, and I’ll sip it while I read.”

This was Rale’s old trick from his student days. If he needed to kill time in a restaurant or tavern, he would always order beer, which he didn’t really like. That way, he could sit for hours without the drink on the table tempting him. In this tavern, it wasn’t about saving money; it was about drinking less. He decided to return his brother’s car sober. Boško quickly realized that his favorite guest wasn’t in the mood for conversation, so he left him alone. At the next table, the local postman was gossiping with the tavern’s regulars. The waitress had the day off, so instead of competing in flirting and tipping, they could peacefully gossip about their neighbors. When Rale had worked his way through half the beer bottle, Ostoja called him to return home. “Well, damn it! I didn’t have to bother with all this rain and winding roads just for this!” He bid Boško farewell, got into the Hummer, and drove home. He navigated the rainy, narrow mountain road leading from the village tavern to the Novičić estate. Mud flew everywhere, dirtying the powerful vehicle. He slowed down as he entered the yard and turned the car around to make it easier for the guests to leave. Ostoja and his “gorillas” were already waiting on the porch. He handed his brother the car keys and lit a cigarette.

“My guys got a bit carried away. They beat the crap out of those jerks. Keep an eye on them, give them something for the pain, and let me know if things get complicated so I can send a doctor. It’s important that they stay alive,” Ostoja said on his way to the car.

Ratko remained silent and stayed outside until his brother and his entourage disappeared around the bend at the end of the lane. As he entered the house, he heard groaning. First, he opened the door on the left, where eerie silence greeted him. Baldie lay motionless on the bed, his face covered in blood. “He’s passed out!” Rale thought. He fetched a bowl of water and some clean rags from the kitchen and bleach from the bathroom. He opened the bottle and held it under Nemanja’s nose. Instantly, he regained consciousness. “Ammonia always does the trick…” Rale thought. He wiped the blood from the prisoner’s face, then gently poured water over him.

“They really beat the hell out of you, damn those bastards! What the hell did you do to deserve this? Here’s another rag, clean your face, and I’ll bring some ice.”

From the room across the hall, the whining hadn’t stopped.

“Shut up, Fatso!” the host yelled. “Let me help your buddy first.”

He went to the kitchen, filled a bag with ice, and grabbed the rakija, shot glasses, and a pack of cigarettes. Baldie wiped his face, which still had traces of blood. Rale poured some rakija, lit two cigarettes, and placed one in the bound prisoner’s mouth. While the injured man tried to recover from his agony, Ratko crossed the hallway and unlocked the other door. Fatso wasn’t injured, but fear poured from his wide blue eyes.

“What are you yelling for if nothing’s wrong with you? That guy over there is battered and bruised, but he’s keeping quiet and dealing with it. What’s the matter with you?” he asked irritably.

“They didn’t hit me on the head… but they did beat my stomach, kidneys, and balls!” Fatso complained.

“‘Balls,’ you say —assuming you have any! Now shut up. If you behave, I’ll bring you some goulash leftover from yesterday.”

The scene he had witnessed left a painful mark on the mountain jailer’s conscience. Guarding unknown people without asking too many questions was one thing, but seeing them beaten was too much. “I don’t care why they’re here—they’re still human beings!” he thought angrily. He took some analgesics from the kitchen cabinet, then goulash from the fridge. He filled a pot with water and placed it on the stove. When the water boiled, he added the pasta. He brought the medicine to the beaten prisoners and cheered them up with a warm meal.

“Here, something to eat with a spoon!” he said, with an expression of understanding on his face.

After finishing the task at the mountain cabin, Ostoja and his henchmen sped toward the highway. The most loyal followers of the powerful businessman were the Rašeta brothers, refugees from Kinska Krajina, who never left their boss’s side. The older brother, Božo, was one of the most effective Serbian fighters during the war in Croatia. Legend has it that during the cleansing of Vukovar alone, he broke all records for enemy liquidations. The younger brother, Ljuban, made his way through life with his fists, while weapons took a backseat. The boss called them Lolek and Bolek—after the cartoon characters he had loved as a child.

“Lolek, don’t head toward the city. We’re going to Banja! There’s something else we need to finish.”

“Boss, will we be long in Banja?” asked the older Rašeta cautiously. “Today’s my kid’s birthday.”

“We won’t be long, Bolek. Just need to make an arrangement with Bata.”

When he heard about the new destination, Lolek instinctively stepped on the gas, not wanting to waste time. His sister-in-law had promised to make a birthday cake and a special Vasina cake as well. He didn’t care much for roasts and other meat dishes, but as his countryman Jovo callad American would say—he had a “sweet tooth.” “That’s how they say it in their American language…,” Ljuban thought. The black SUV overtook everything in its path, and they reached Banja in no time. In the town, Ostoja directed where to drive and where to turn until they arrived at a new house on the outskirts of Banja.

“This is a real villa, boss!” Ljuban marveled. “Is it yours too?”

“Nope, it’s yours! Don’t ask too many questions—the less you know, the better!” the boss scolded him.

Ostoja made a quick phone call and immediately entered the house. The brothers stayed in the car, hoping to return home soon, where the birthday feast awaited them. Bata Monstrum opened the door and led the boss inside. From the villa’s entrance, there was a panoramic view of the living room, at the end of which were huge glass doors overlooking the nearby mountain. Bata Monki was taken aback by this visit. He hurriedly buttoned his jeans, not yet wearing anything above the waist.

“Sorry, boss, I dozed off a bit… I didn’t know you were coming. Honestly, I’m bored out of my mind here,” he complained.

Bata put on his shirt, and the boss got straight to the point.

“You did an excellent job, but there’s still a lot more to do. I trust you the most, which is why I give you the toughest tasks. You know very well I don’t leave anyone unpaid,” he said, gesturing with his hands.

“Whatever you need, boss, I’m here. Just give me something to do; I’m rotting away in this house! You ordered me not to go out, but I don’t even know what I’d do outside… maybe chase after grannies in the spa!”

Ostoja poured a drink, took a sip, and grimaced as if he had tasted something bitter.

“This bastard has documents that mustn’t go public. We’ve turned everything upside down, but it’s like those papers have vanished into thin air. My men have searched the house, checked his desk and drawers at work—nothing! We need to search his apartment and his parents’ place. I’m thinking it might not be a bad idea to pressure his family… maybe we’ll learn more that way,” the boss pondered.

Bata Monki sipped his drink, tapping his right foot on the floor and drumming his left hand on the table. He considered his superior’s idea.

“Boss, I think we should kidnap his kids!” he concluded confidently. “There’s no secret people won’t reveal when their children are in danger.”

“That’s a good idea, Monki. I’ll make a plan and call you in a day or two. My Audi is in the garage, and the key is by the fireplace. You’ll start the operation as soon as I send you a message. I’ll use an emoji with a green light. I don’t want to leave a written, digital trail.”

A strange excitement was visible in Monstrum’s eyes, a twisted joy mixed with a demonic expression of satisfaction. He saw the boss out, then gleefully rubbed his hands together. “Time for action!” he thought and poured himself another whiskey.

KOVAČ

A large number of cars were parked outside the “Blues” café. It was only when he arrived that Raja realized it was Friday night, a time when the place was always packed. He entered the café and spotted Nikola Kovač at his usual table. Raja sat down and ordered drinks for both of them.

“What brings you here so late?” Nikola asked, surprised.

“Don’t ask, my friend. I won’t bore you with it, and there’s no use in complaining,” Inspector Zec replied.

“Take care of your family, son. Jobs come and go, but family is forever. I didn’t realize that in time, and I ended up losing both. But I’ve been thinking about that bag the journalist took after the funeral,” Kovač recalled, “It could only have been Radmila who gave it to him while they were talking in the kitchen.”

Raja sighed deeply, took a sip of his brandy, and checked something on his phone.

“What do you think, should we call him?” Zec suggested.

“It’s better to surprise him. If we leave now, we’ll catch him off guard,” Nikola concluded.

They drove through dark streets until they reached the main road, heading toward the city center. It was the start of the weekend, and Belgrade was bustling—more accurately, it was on wheels. “These people are always complaining they have no money, yet everyone’s out driving, paying for the most expensive gasoline in Europe!” Raja thought. “It’s not just that everyone’s driving, but how they’re driving!” he continued. “Sometimes it feels like some higher power is protecting me from all these idiots on the road!” he fumed as he maneuvered his Škoda between the flashy cars out for a weekend spin. The parking lot in front of Bane’s building was half-empty, as many had gone out for the evening. The journalist lived close to his newsroom, just across from the “Seagull” hold on the wall, where they made the best burgers in town. The current and former inspector each grabbed one with kajmak, ate on the spot, and then slowly walked over to the apartment of the journalist” of the magazine Urlik.

Since receiving the bag of documents from Radmila Pavić, Bane had completely lost track of time. He was smoking one cigarette after another, and the furniture in his living room was barely visible through the thick smoke. The only thing discernible was his silhouette in the corner of the room. As soon as he flipped through the documents, he realized the seriousness of the information they contained. It was clear that his colleague had invested a lot of time and effort into obtaining these details. Bane returned to a particular document that had been nagging at him. He set it aside, scanned it, and then put it back in the folder. Just then, the doorbell rang. He wondered who it could be at this late hour. As he stood up, he heard his knees crack, and his back felt numb. Carefully, he approached the door and looked through the peephole. Before he could recognize the visitors, he heard Raja’s voice.

“Come on, open up! We know you’re in there!”

He didn’t wait to be told twice—authority is authority, and it’s to be respected. What worried him the most was Nikola Kovač, about whom many stories circulated around town. The moral of each of those tales was the same—you don’t mess with Kovač. Even after his political fall, his notorious reputation from the intelligence service remained intact. Bane quickly unlocked the door and let them in.

“Son, it’s like a smokehouse in here! What, are you curing meat in here, you poor thing?” Kovač joked.

“Air it out a bit, for God’s sake,” Raja added, moving the darkened curtain aside and opening the window wide.

When he let them in, Bane suddenly realized that all of Nemanja’s documents were spread out on the desk. Raja aired out the room and let the host know the reason for their visit.

“Ristić, we’re here with the best of intentions, but only if you play nice. I really don’t want to argue. Right, Nikola?”

His colleague just nodded and approached the desk.

“When we were at the Pavićs’, everything seemed normal. We sat, ate, drank, smoked cigars, and then you slipped away like a thief. You came to the funeral ‘empty-handed,’ but left the apartment with a bag slung over your shoulder! Young man, those are the kinds of things cops always notice. It’s no use hiding,” Raja concluded.

“Come on, tell mister Nikola what Radmila gave you!” Kovač insisted, flipping through the papers on the desk. “Although, you don’t have to—we can see what’s here on the table. It’s clear you’ve already been studying the ‘material.’ Come on, Raja, take a look at what’s all here!”

Bane looked lost. The contents of Nemanja Pavić’s bag promised a series of articles that would draw massive public attention. Many powerful people could end up in prison. If the police got their hands on the evidence, they would surely cover it up. Opposing the inspectors wasn’t an option. He concluded that his best course of action was to cooperate with them. “These two are professionals,” he thought. “One’s from the Secret Service, and the other’s from the police—you don’t mess around with them!” His only option was to listen to them and try to gain their trust; as his girlfriend Tea says, “a gentle lamb sucks from two mothers!” “I’ll have to play this smart,” he thought. “I wouldn’t want to be the one getting milked in the end!” He brewed some coffee and offered them rakija. The inspectors didn’t refuse the refreshments, nor did they talk much. They carefully analyzed each document, occasionally commenting on details. The rakija bottle was getting emptier, and the room fuller of smoke. Despite the open window, the three chain smokers left little room for oxygen. As dawn approached, the inspectors set aside the papers and decided to have a talk with the host.

“What were you planning to do with this?” Raja asked, tiredly rubbing his temples.

“I was thinking of publishing a series of articles to reveal the facts and bring the truth to light,” Bane replied.

“Do you think your editor would dare to publish it?” Nikola chimed in.

“Up until now, he hasn’t refused me anything!”

To Bane Ristić’s surprise, Kovač and Zec decided to lay their cards on the table. They confided in Bane that they, too, had doubts about the official investigation’s conclusions. While they didn’t question the identity of the killer, the motive and the background weren’t entirely clear to them. They agreed that the journalist from Urlik should write and publish the articles as soon as possible, while they would continue digging into the case.

“There’s enough material here to continue the investigation, but I know they won’t let me pursue it at work,” Raja noted. “We’ll work slowly, covertly, and on our own terms.”

They scanned the evidence and hid the originals. What started as an accidental friendship evolved into something more. The three curious seekers of justice had unexpectedly found themselves on a common mission. The first step on the path to the truth was a vow of silence and mutual trust.

Suddenly, there was a clattering noise outside Bane’s apartment. The lock clicked, and a large man appeared at the door, barely visible in the dim light.

“Sorry, Bane, I didn’t know you had company!” the man said, flustered.

Nikola dropped the papers he had been reviewing, while Raja silently observed the newcomer.

“Who the hell is this?” Kovač exclaimed in surprise.

“This is my guest from America, my colleague Erik Stone. Erik, these are my friends, the inspectors. We’re working together on my new project!”

The guests shook hands and then raised a toast. Inspector Zec kept a close eye on the American, trying to recall where he had seen him before.

“Raja, that’s the poor guy we saw in ‘Blues’ who complained about being hassled by our guys in the cop café!” Nikola remembered.

“Exactly him… Small world, damn it! Anyway, guys, it’s time to wrap this up. It’s already morning!”

After the inspectors left, Erik unfolded the couch, and Bane immediately started writing his article. When he got home, Nikola continued drinking and pondering the evidence that had surfaced out of nowhere, while Inspector Zec headed straight to work.

The next morning, the usual crowd filled the waiting area at the city police department. People were there to renew ID cards, extend passports, report minor thefts, and domestic violence incidents. Citizens waited their turn patiently. An older man, leaning on the counter as if it were a bar, was shouting at the top of his lungs, trying to break through the thick glass of bureaucracy that stood between him and the police clerk. Behind the loud gentleman stood a woman with a distant look in her eyes, hesitating to report her husband for last night’s beating. The third in line was a young man in his thirties, dressed in the latest fashion from global catalogs. Every detail of his outfit was perfectly in place, just like the strands of hair on his neatly combed head. His tight leather jacket was adorned with well-coordinated bright decorations, and his shoes worth half the salary of the clerk behind the counter. The old man was meticulously describing the make, color, and year of his stolen car. The slick young man waited patiently, though his expression didn’t exactly exude inner peace.

“And… what now?” the man lamented through the counter’s circular opening. “I’m supposed to wait? But what am I waiting for, sweetie? They stole my car!”

Inspector Raja Zec, wearing the same suit from the day before, emerged from one of the offices. He had lost his hair long ago, so he didn’t have to worry about his hairstyle. The new trend of shaving to the scalp worked in his favor, so he never even bothered with a comb. Visibly tired and worn out, he was heading for the exit when he ran into an older police officer in a stained uniform.

“Good morning, Života,” Raja greeted him.

“It’s not good, Inspector… I spilled cabbage roll sauce on my uniform. It’s going to leave a stain,” Života lamented.

“How’s your wife? Is she out of the hospital yet?” the inspector asked with concern.

“They discharged her last week. She’s recovering,” he replied.

As he got closer to the exit, Raja noticed the sharply dressed man standing in line.

“Hello, Jovan,” he greeted him. “What brings you here? Is everything okay? Is anyone bothering you?”

About ten years ago, Inspector Zec had saved Jovan Radić’s life, something Jovan never forgot. During one of the first gay pride parades, Jovan and a group of LGBT friends were walking through the downtown, proudly demonstrating their sexual orientation. Hooligans chased them through the streets like rabbits. A group of thugs caught up with the handsome Jovan and immediately started beating him savagely. They didn’t stop even when he lost consciousness. Inspector Zec arrived just in time. Jovan Radić, a pianist and a music teacher by profession, took a long time to recover from his injuries. After a two-month hospital stay, he was discharged to be cared for at home by his partner, Darko Bojić, who affectionately nicknamed him Jo Jo Ra—Jovan Radić, inspired by the musician Yo-Yo Ma.

“No one’s bothering me, Inspector, but my boyfriend has been missing for five days,” he said, worried. “I didn’t want to panic. I called his relatives, friends… The last time he was seen was at the offices of the production company ‘Deception Net,’ where he signed a contract for a new job. After that, he disappeared.”

Raja glanced at his watch, shook his head, thought for a moment, and then invited Jovan into his office.

“I’ll connect you with a colleague who works on missing persons cases.”

The inspector, who was nicknamed “Lost-and-Found” due to the nature of his work, welcomed Joca and recorded the details of Darko Bojić’s disappearance into the police log. Jovan thanked him, left the office, and once again bumped into the man whose car had been stolen. He recognized him immediately.

“Good morning, mister Milan. Do you remember me?” he asked.

“Wait a minute… You’re that fag… uh… Vanja’s friend from college?” the older man corrected himself.

It was the father of Jovan’s colleague, a violinist from the Music Academy. They had been friends during their studies. Joca had been Vanja’s accompanist. They would rehearse together and offer each other advice on the artistic interpretation of various classical music pieces. Since Jovan had been a tenant during his studies, Vanja often invited him to her house. Her parents accepted him, but her brother did not. A die-hard football fan and a well-known thug, he couldn’t come to terms with the fact that a gay man was visiting his home. Once, he even told his sister, “What am I supposed to do if my friends find out, and it gets out that Vlada Kikirez hangs out with queers?”

“How are you, mister Milan? How’s Vanja?” Joca continued the conversation.

“They stole my car last night, so I’m beside myself… Vanja’s fine. She recently got divorced, so the granddaughters are with us all the time.”

“I don’t mean to interfere, but did you check with Vlada? Maybe he borrowed the car and didn’t tell you?” Joca asked cautiously.

“You know… I hadn’t thought of that! That rascal is always causing trouble. And what if they find the car—with him behind the wheel? Who knows what they’d find on him? See, that’s what happens when a man doesn’t think things through and runs straight to the police. Thank you, son, for reminding me,” Dragan said, thanked his daughter’s friend, and left the police station.

“But sir…?” the clerk called out, but mister Milan had already exited the waiting room.

MEMORIES

Late afternoon, the most depressing part of the day, when the morning drunkenness slowly fades, creating a sense of guilt that only a new dose of brandy can erase from the mind. Ratko sat in his log cabin, trying to forget the images of the unfortunate souls brutally beaten by Ostoja’s bodyguards earlier that morning. The weather outside was not his ally. The cold autumn wind reminded him of how weak, drunken, and worthless he was… He added a few logs to the stove and watched the flames, which stirred the ghosts of the recent past within him. After the prisoners were beaten, Ratko began to feel pity for them. He first served them goulash, followed by homemade blueberry juice to help replenish their blood. He had received the bottle of non-alcoholic juice long ago from the tavern owner’s wife. Ratko didn’t care much about his own blood levels, as rakija was more than enough for him. He wondered why these people were here. Ever since he started working for Ostoja, he had tried to drown the part of his brain responsible for emotions in alcohol. He lived day by day, and nothing could pull him out of the web he had woven around himself. This was the first time a spark of morality had awakened his dormant conscience. “These men don’t look like the mafiosi my brother usually deals with. Boldy seems like an intellectual, a strong personality, someone who endures and stays silent for some ideals, whatever they may be! And Fatso is a true good-hearted fellow. Spoiled, soft, and always hungry!” When he brought them food, Ratko left the doors open for the first time. At first, they remained silent, but then fat guy began questioning his fellow prisoner across the hallway—asking his name, why they were imprisoned, when they would be released…

“Quiet, in there!” Ratko shouted at them. “Can’t I leave you alone for two minutes to eat like humans?”

He locked the doors again, afraid that his occasional displays of humanity might cause bigger problems. In the following days, he gave them the same food he prepared for himself. Then, one evening, he placed a chair between the doors of the rooms where Fatso and Baldie were kept. He brought a small table with a bottle of rakija and three glasses. Carefully, he poured out the plum brandy and handed it to the prisoners. He then quickly drank two or three shots, shuddered, and said,

“Now, let’s hear it, little birds! What’s your story? What did you do to end up in Ostoja’s captivity? Why did they beat you like that, the damn bastards?”

Ratko Novičić had long been intrigued by the identity of the two strangers he was holding captive. At first, he didn’t pay much attention to the Bald One and the Fat One, but overnight they had become a puzzle he felt compelled to solve. On the day of the beating, he had consciously avoided too much contact with the prisoners, fearing that they might awaken an even greater sense of humanity within him. Over time, Ratko’s attitude toward the newcomers completely changed. Better food, open doors to the makeshift prison cells, cigarettes, rakija—small privileges that slowly peeled away the layers of indifference he had carefully built.

“It’s time we got to know each other,” Ratko said. “I’m not an animal, for crying out loud! Tell me your name, Fatso, what you do, and all that…”

“I will, Mr. Rale, I’ll tell you everything, but first, I have to ask… Do you have something sweet?”

Immediately, a maniacal laugh echoed from the room across the hall, while Ratko struggled to catch his breath.

“You’re a real genius, Fatso, if you even managed to make the Baldie laugh! I don’t eat sweets, but I think I have some chocolate from last year. Let me check.”

The sweets lover soon found himself breaking pieces off the stale chocolate bar, answering the question between bites.

“My name is Darko Bojić, but my nickname isn’t Fatty; it’s Mascara. That’s what everyone calls me except my Joca. He calls me Daki… which means ‘duckling’ in English,” he began.

“Hold on a second, friend, slow down,” Ratko interrupted. “You’ve said so much so quickly, I didn’t understand a word. Why Mascara, for heaven’s sake? And who the fuck is Joca?”

Darko continued, recounting how he ended up in captivity and wound up in a mountain cabin in the middle of nowhere. He recalled the meeting at the production company ‘Deception Net’ where he signed a contract for the series Land Without Hope. He also remembered meeting the actor who would play the lead role on his way out… Then, feeling full and happy, he had gone to the bakery to treat himself… Afterward, he was on his way home to surprise his boyfriend Joca, whom he affectionately called Jo Jo Ra. In the parking lot, he felt a sharp blow to the head, and he blacked out immediately. When he came to, he saw a stranger who was pouring water over him. They let him come to his senses before telling him what was expected of him. They brought in a man who resembled a bulldog and showed him a picture of another man. They demanded that he make the “mutt” look like the man in the photo using makeup.

“Man, you’re really complicating things! You talk like my ex-wife. So, what do you do exactly? Are you some kind of makeup artist?” Ratko wondered aloud. “Is that why they call you Mascara?”

Darko absently nodded, then explained that they had provided him with the finest professional makeup, the kind only the biggest film companies could boast of.

“I spent over three hours putting makeup on him. It wasn’t easy because the two didn’t look alike at all—one was scruffy, the other bald, one was somewhat handsome, the other ugly as sin. I heard they were of the same build and height, which at least made my job a little easier because makeup can’t make someone taller or shorter,” Darko spoke breathlessly. “But I still don’t understand why they needed that.”

Ratko got up from his chair to pour another round of rakija, but the storyteller declined, saying it didn’t go well with chocolate. Darko drank some water and continued.

“During the makeup session, I occasionally heard a distinct voice from the other room… Slightly high-pitched but authoritative. I heard the same voice this morning when those two were beating us. This man always speaks from the shadows but never shows himself.”

“That’s my brother Ostoja,” Ratko added, swayed by Mascara’s story and the rakija. “He’s my brother, but he’s a real bastard!”

The Bald One asked Ratko for some more ice to ease the pain in his head. They had beaten him all over his body, but they spent the most time on his head. When Ratko stood to get the ice, he stumbled but somehow managed to stay on his feet. He realized he had overdone it with the drink again. He applied the ice pack to the injured man and, with a tone full of understanding, told the tenant of the left room,

“Lie down, get some rest, and tomorrow you can tell us your story.”

He closed the doors and went to lie down himself.

“Rale, thank you for the goulash and the chocolate!” Darko said politely as Ratko left.

KIDNAPPING

The drive from Banja to Belgrade typically takes two hours under normal circumstances. Bratislav Jovanović, known as “Monstrum” to some and “Bata Monki” to his friends, made the trip in 65 minutes. He started the stopwatch when he set off, and by the time he reached the city center, that’s what it showed. He navigated through the heavy traffic, closing in on the home of mass murderer Nemanja Pavić. He parked the car, opened a bag of peanuts, cracked open a can of beer, reclined the seat slightly, and waited. Around noon, he began losing patience. He kept glancing at his watch, angrily cracking peanut shells, which he tossed onto the seat beside him. Despite the rain, the streets were crowded… Office workers dashed out briefly to grab a bite, pensioners were already returning from paying their bills at various offices, spending the remainder of their small pensions at the market. “Damn, what kind of people are these?” thought Bata. “They worked for the state like horses all their lives, and now the same state pretends to give them some miserable pittance, only to have them give it all back to the state as soon as they get their pensions through bills!”

Young people with earbuds walked briskly, while a bunch of aimless loafers milled about, yawning and walking without any apparent purpose. Bata also noticed the first schoolchildren with backpacks, happily walking down the street. Monki set aside his beer and peanuts, raised the seat, and took a gun out of the compartment next to the gear shift. He checked to see if a bullet was in the chamber, then cocked it and tucked it into his waistband. He carefully scanned the surroundings and saw what he had been waiting for. Vesna Pavić, with her son and daughter, was hurrying towards the apartment. Ever since the tragedy, everyone looked at her as if she had fallen from Mars. The children were bullied at school, and their lives had turned into a living hell overnight. Monstrum got out of the car and headed toward the building across the street. He entered the hallway and hid behind the mailboxes. When Vesna opened the door, he grabbed her by the head and covered her mouth with his hand. The unfortunate woman quickly realized that this man meant business. He pressed the gun to the back of her head.

“Keep quiet, listen, and everything will be fine,” Bata spoke in a low, monotonous voice that sent chills down her spine. “Now, we’re going to walk slowly across the street to that Audi; you’ll drive, and the kids and I will watch you from the back seat. If you do exactly what Bata Monki tells you, we’ll all be alive, healthy, and happy. But let’s not talk about the other possibility in front of the little ones.”

The terrified mother followed Monstrum’s instructions without question. She got behind the wheel, shifted into first gear, and started driving.

“Head out of the city, then we’ll go ‘to the mountains!’”

Vesna sobbed as she drove where she was told. She neither had the time nor the strength to cry properly. The lives of her Maja and Igor were in the hands that tightly gripped the steering wheel of the luxury car. There wasn’t a single doubt in her mind—she would obey this monster without hesitation. She had already lost her husband and been ostracized by society through no fault of her own. “I won’t give up my children! Dear God, will this nightmare ever end?” she lamented, trying to push away the horrifying thoughts that kept flashing through her mind like scenes from a film. As they approached the mountain destination, Vesna kept glancing in the rearview mirror. The children had fallen asleep, and the kidnapper was staring blankly at a single point. His gaze was evil and empty, his expression dull and dangerous. When they passed the first cottages, Bata gave her more precise instructions.

“At the crossroads, turn left, then take the first right. Then drive uphill and park in front of the garage.”

When they reached the destination at the top of the clearing, a massive mountain-style house came into view. They were on a property several miles away from the town. Vesna quickly assessed the situation: “We’re far away… If I scream, no one will hear. If I try to escape, I can’t leave the kids, and who knows where the nearest house is. We’re completely isolated here! So, Vesna, keep quiet and listen; there’s no other choice!” she thought desperately. They all got out of the car together: Bata unlocked the front door while Vesna clung tightly to her children. The interior of the house resembled the opulence of an American movie. Everything was perfectly arranged, from the furniture to the artworks on the walls. “This definitely isn’t our kidnapper’s house. Whoever can afford such a villa doesn’t kidnap women and children in Belgrade” she concluded.

They climbed the stairs to the upper level, where everything sparkled. New wallpaper, carpets, furniture… In the large living room stood a baby grand piano and a huge TV. Four bedrooms, a modern kitchen… The kidnapper opened the fridge—it was packed. In the bathroom—a jacuzzi!

“You’ve got everything you need here,” Bata said. “If you’re missing anything, just let me know. Stay upstairs, enjoy yourselves—just don’t leave the floor. I’ll lock the door, and you can call me on the intercom if you need anything.”

Vesna led the children into the central living room, put on some cartoons for them, then cracked open a window with bars and lit a cigarette. Nothing made sense to her. “First, he kidnaps us at gunpoint and brings us to this wilderness. Then, out of the blue, he shows us all this luxury and acts as if nothing happened. We have the entire floor to ourselves, comfort, and privacy! Kidnapping—like a vacation! Even though he’s trying to be polite, this Bata is a dangerous man, and I need to be cautious even when he’s being helpful,” she thought.

Monki sprawled out in an armchair on the ground floor, watching football and sipping beer. “A pizza would really hit the spot… but I can’t reveal the location. This was the easiest kidnapping of my life!” he thought, satisfied. He made himself a sandwich and took a big bite—then suddenly remembered something. “I hope these Ostoja’s shenanigans wrap up before the derby. I’ll somehow survive this boredom in Banja, but I can’t miss the showdown with the Gravediggers!” He had always been a die-hard fan of the football club “Yellow Moon” and the leader of their fan group—the infamous Bloodsuckers. The eternal derby was held twice a year, with their rivals being FK “Outlaw.” Over time, Bata thought less about the outcome of the match and focused more on the clash with the Gravediggers fans. The brawls between the Bloodsuckers and the Gravediggers had become an unfortunate tradition in Belgrade’s everyday life. Normal fans feared them, and the police regularly dealt with them using the full force of their batons. When violence is in one’s blood, genes, and mind—then mass brawls are a celebration for all the senses. In the days leading up to this, while he was alone in Ostoja’s villa, Bata had been devising a plan and refining his tactics for the showdown with the Gravediggers on Sunday. Besides personal satisfaction, every brawl with the “Outlaw” fans was a matter of prestige for Bata and a way to maintain his authority among the Bloodsuckers.

EVIDENCE

The November fog was slowly lifting, making way for the weak, morning sun, which timidly began to wake the sleeping Belgraders. As it glided along the road, the Škoda maneuvered through the other cars, of which there were far too many on the city’s streets at nine in the morning. Raja gripped the steering wheel tightly as his thoughts wrestled with the long-buried inner turmoil. The music on the radio drowned out the noise coming from outside. The bass from the speakers rhythmically accompanied the sound of the engine. He was driving toward journalist Bane Ristić’s apartment when, halfway there, he decided to stop for breakfast at the “Hot dog Depot” restaurant. “I’ve dug myself deep into this affair. All these complications surrounding ‘Maler Export’ are a tougher nut to crack than I initially thought,” he pondered as he circled the small establishment, unsuccessfully searching for parking. The restaurant was owned by his distant relative, Toza Kobaja. It was the only place in the city where boiled sausages were sold. After finally managing to squeeze between two cars, the inspector greeted his cousin as soon as he walked through the door. Upon seeing Raja, Toza immediately began making excuses to a woman waiting for a new batch of sausages to be cooked.

“Ruža, take over the register and whip up a portion with mustard and mayonnaise for my brother here. And don’t skimp on the condiments, you old cheap!” he ordered his life partner.

They sat at the only free table, which was right next to the counter. The customers thought the table was reserved for staff, so they hadn’t occupied it earlier.

“Oh, Toza, cut the crap!” Ruža retorted as she handed him a plate with steaming hot sausages in a bun. “Now, get over here; you can see it’s busy! And Raja would prefer to eat in peace without listening to your nonsense.”

Toza obediently returned to his workstation and shrugged helplessly.

“It’s no use, brother… In our family, Ruža’s the one who wears the pants!”

The lady was right; Raja enjoyed his breakfast more without his cousin’s endless stories. The juicy sausage burst between the inspector’s thinning teeth. As he savored his meal, he noticed a paper beside his plate that offered a brief history of the house specialty. “Great idea! Toza really thought this through!” the inspector concluded as he continued reading:

“The term ‘viršla’ comes from the German word ‘Wurst,’ which refers to a wide range of cured meat products, including the ones your master Toza makes without additives. On our menu, all specialties are made exclusively from meat! ‘Hrenovka’ is another term often used, especially in Slavic countries – and this name also comes from the German word ‘Rohrwurst,’ which could be translated as ‘tube sausage.’ It is believed that the first sausages originated in Germany or Austria, although similar delicacies are characteristic of other gastronomic cultures as well. There’s a legend that the sausage Frankfurter Wurstchen got its name from the city of Frankfurt and dates back to the 13th century. Some sources claim that sausages are much older and that they originally date back to the culture of ancient Egypt. Over time, sausages have become part of global cuisine, and in various forms, they are found on tables around the world: from the American hot dog to the British ‘bangers’ and Japanese ‘korokke.’ There’s also an original Serbian word for sausages – devenica[1].

“There’s no messing around with Toza – a scientific approach to sausages, marketing on point! And honestly – they really are the best in the city!” concluded Zec, returning the empty plate. He left “Hot dog Depot” and drove to Bane Ristić’s place to continue the investigation with his comrades.

Flames surrounded him on all sides. Erik tried to find a way out, but every time he thought he had found an exit, the flames would surge, blocking his path. The heat was unbearable, and the air was thick and heavy with smoke. His eyes burned, tears streaming down his face as he helplessly watched the fire devour everything in its path. He tried to call for help but had lost his voice, choked by the hot fog. “I can’t stay here… I have to escape… But where?” His thoughts wandered, dissolving into the fiery inferno. He desperately searched for an exit, pounding on invisible walls while the fire continued its deadly dance.

Suddenly, he woke up. His heart pounded wildly, his body drenched in cold sweat. As his eyes adjusted to the darkness, he noticed that Bane’s apartment was filled with thick cigarette smoke. He was relieved. He was in Belgrade, in the apartment of his host, the Serbian journalist, who sat at his computer, bathed in the bluish light of the screen. He was unaware of the horror his guest had just experienced. Bane was lighting one cigarette after another, furiously pounding on the keyboard. Erik slowly sat up in bed, feeling his lungs tighten with every breath. It felt like he was in a smokehouse as the cigarette smoke wove a suffocating web of discomfort. “How does he even breathe in this?” Erik wondered as he watched Bane absentmindedly light another cigarette while an unfinished one still rested on the edge of the overflowing ashtray. The American journalist got out of bed, walked unsteadily across the room, and opened the window, letting in the fresh morning air that saved him from suffocation. Bane looked at him in surprise, only now realizing that Erik was awake.

“Are you okay?” he asked, as if he didn’t understand why Erik was standing by the window.

“Yeah,” Erik replied. “Just need to get rid of this smoke!”

Bane laughed, as if only now remembering that Erik was a non-smoker.

“I’m used to it. When I write, a cigarette helps me concentrate.”

“One would be fine!” Erik joked.

“Sorry, just let me finish this thought!” Bane requested.

Erik quickly washed up and decided to have coffee in town. Cold water, soap, and toothpaste helped him forget the nightmare that had woken him up early in the morning.

“I’m heading out,” he said, throwing his jacket over his shoulder. “I plan to roam around the city all day and find a topic for my first report.”

“Sounds good!” Bane nodded and continued writing.

It wasn’t long before Nikola Kovač and Raja Zec arrived as guests. Once again, they spread papers across the table. Bane had already scanned and printed the documents, while the originals were stored in a safe place. Raja began reading aloud Nemanja Pavić’s notes:

“The company ‘Maler Export’ officially deals in international wholesale trade. It is the largest exporter of military and hunting equipment in the country. Officially, they export everything except weapons. This includes uniforms, optical devices, holsters, knives, bags… Publicly, that’s their main business, but what’s brewing behind the scenes is much more important. Every Sunday at midnight, empty trucks visit the special products factory. Operations are organized so that on Sundays, all the guards have the day off, and the factory is guarded by ‘trusted, reliable people.’ The trucks enter through a side entrance and disappear within the factory grounds. A few hours later, just before dawn, the same trucks leave the facility and head in an unknown direction. I followed them every Sunday (Nemanja wrote his notes in the first person) and finally managed to find out their contents. All the trucks were loaded with weapons. I drove behind them until they reached the border with Hungary – after which I had to give up.”

Nikola and Bane exchanged glances, surprised by Nemanja’s discoveries. Raja continued reading the notes:

“My mother Radmila handled the “books” for many private companies. I discreetly inquired whether she had worked for ‘Maler Export’ and received a partial confirmation. She managed their accounting until last year when they hired their own man. Just in case, my mom copied the most important documents of her clients. Since most of them were companies owned by newly wealthy individuals and mobsters, she didn’t want to take any risks, so she stored the data on a hidden hard drive, ensuring her safety. Then I began a detailed investigation of ‘Maler Export.’ The owner, Ostoja Novičić, once worked as a director in a state-run special products factory and later became the owner of a construction materials warehouse. During the privatization of a trading company, he won the tender together with a certain Dragan Petrović. I searched everything but found nothing about Petrović – except that he was once a diplomat… but that wasn’t confirmed. From the very beginning, the company ‘Maler Export’ aimed high and quickly became a serious player in the world of trade. Using Ostoja’s connections, they exported construction materials and then traded real estate. They bought apartments under construction and then finished them using the cheapest construction materials. They later resold these same apartments at unrealistically high prices. This was obviously money laundering for the state, but it’s hard to prove. In the end, they moved on to ‘military and hunting equipment.’ With the help of people from the top of the state, they struck gold. To be clear, we’re talking about huge sums – tens of millions of euros annually.”

Inspector Zec put down the papers and wiped his brow in frustration. All three men were in shock. They couldn’t wrap their heads around it. Surprise, anger, disbelief… With their gazes, they silently asked each other – could things like this really be happening right before our eyes? Bane offered them some rakija, but the inspectors declined.

“I’m wondering if this information is true. As much as I know Nemanja, I doubt he made any of this up. I’m afraid no one would dare publish it. Or maybe he was planning to put it on a blog or one of those other platforms? Listening to this, it’s becoming clear to me why Pavić went through all this. Such affairs in the Secret Service are always covered up in tragic and bloody ways. I know that all too well,” Nikola Kovač concluded.

Raja and Bane listened to the experienced agent, trying to untangle the complex web of schemes themselves.

“That Ostoja is a real scoundrel, but his brother is a good man,” Inspector Zec chimed in. “I went to school with Ratko Novičić. He was an excellent student and later worked as a philosophy professor, at least until he started drinking. Once, he was arrested for drunkenly insulting a policeman. I saved him from a beating and told him to reach out if he was ever in trouble. Soon after, he disappeared without a trace. I have no idea what happened to him.”

The three accidental collaborators sat in silence at Bane’s kitchen table. They neither ate, drank, nor spoke. After being bombarded with such incredible information, words suddenly felt unnecessary. Each had their own theory but was afraid to voice it because each one bordered on madness. At this moment, logic and evidence served no one, and any further action would require a lot of luck and courage.

THE DRAGON

A large white house towered over a private beach on the island of Vis, home to just over three thousand inhabitants. The terrace with loungers and umbrellas was enormous, and a concrete bar stood right next to the entrance to the house. Speakers on the walls were connected to a sound system inside… This description might sound like an unattainable dream for the average person, but for Dragan Petrović, it was reality. He sat in a lounge chair, sipping sugar-free lemonade and enjoying the view. He reminisced about his childhood when JNA soldiers helped the masons build this house. His father was a high-ranking officer and later a comuniste party official in the Central Committee. During the era of Tito, the army represented the simplest form of free labor for “comrades from above.” The house was built in a short time with great effort. Because of his party duties, his father didn’t visit often, but his mother, brother, and he spent many summers here. Even later, during his schooling and university years, instead of traveling by train and camping with friends using student discounts, Dragan spent his summers at his seaside home. This island paradise was his favorite and only destination during summer vacations. He brought his first girlfriend here, enjoyed time with his wife, but especially with his mistress. His fondest memories, however, were the vacations spent with his son Petar… while he was still alive!

Dragan had a happy childhood, carefree adolescence, and easy-going youth. He was one of the rare privileged kids from his generation who had everything he desired. He was the son of an “important comrade from the Committee,” and later, one of the pioneers of the anti-bureaucratic revolution and a rider of the nationalist apocalypse – and that explained everything! As a young man, he never wondered what made him better than his peers who didn’t have a villa in the city center, a house by the sea, or clothes from abroad. For him, all these were normal, simple joys that came with the territory. He enrolled in English language and literature, studied, socialized with the local elite, and threw parties… At first, his older brother Goran equally enjoyed the privileges of the red bourgeoisie until the day he suddenly moved to the province. Goran became the secretary of the committee in a small town in central Serbia. Dragan couldn’t understand why anyone would leave the comfortable life of the capital to become a party official in the middle of nowhere. He was never particularly close to his brother, so it didn’t concern him much. It wasn’t long before Dragan himself was introduced to the other side of the coin. At the beginning of his third year of university, some of his father’s friends came over. They drank coffee and whiskey, smoked Cuban cigars, told jokes, and laughed loudly. At some point, all three of them entered Dragan’s room without knocking. They didn’t hesitate. They immediately explained that the life he was leading wasn’t his right but a privilege, and if he wanted to continue living that way, he’d have to earn it. One of the visitors threw in a joke: “If you want to live large, eat and fuck, it costs money!” Another added, “If your brother can do it, why can’t you?!” His father sat silently. Young Petrović was spoiled but not stupid. He quickly understood what was happening. The jokester handed him a folder with instructions on when and where his training would begin. Dragan Petrović continued to live comfortably, but from that evening until today, he worked for himself – and the state. In the meantime, he learned five foreign languages, spent seven years in Russia on various diplomatic missions, got married twice, and lost his only son. In recent years, his task was to oversee and “profile” the newly rich. He was amazed at how ordinary people took that primitive rabble who got rich overnight seriously. Did anyone really believe that was their wealth? Did the people ever wonder how these bumpkins and half-wits became so skilled overnight that they could handle big money and gain power without any problem? That’s why we always keep them in our pocket, to do the dirtiest jobs whenever we need them.”

He got up from the lounge chair, applied sunscreen, wiped his hands, and picked up the phone. He pressed a saved number and soon heard the voice of his business partner and so-called friend, Ostoja Novičić.

“I was just about to call you,” Novičić stammered.

“Did you finish the job, Ostoja?”

“Only partially,” he replied hesitantly.

“Lots of talk with no results. Do you have Pavić’s documents?” Petrović asked curtly.

“No documents, but we have his wife and kids. They’ll talk soon!” Ostoja justified himself.

“You have three more days!” Dragan ordered and ended the call.

“Serves me right for getting involved with amateurs! They’re all incompetent to the core!” he fumed at himself. In the yard, he picked fresh figs, washed them, and then returned to his lounge chair, gazing at the sea. Occasionally, he sipped lemonade and nibbled on the heavenly fruit. An anecdote from his time as a diplomat in Moscow came to mind.

His host Oleg, a KGB officer, had organized a working breakfast in Dragan’s honor. The table was laden with various Russian delicacies: caviar, pelmeni, borscht…

“My dear Draganuška, here you have what Russian cuisine has bestowed upon the world!” Oleg boasted cheerfully.

Dragan nodded in gratitude and spread butter on his bread. “Better safe than sorry”. At that moment, Oleg’s wife, Irina, signaled the waiter to pour her some vodka, then frowned and addressed her husband with disgust.

“This is peasant Russian food that the poor eat. You know how much I love fresh figs, darling! It would be wonderful to serve them to our guest tonight.”

Oleg nodded and called his assistant.

“Genadij, you’d better find me fresh figs by dinner!”

The assistant nervously turned to his boss.

“Comrade General, it’s impossible to find fresh figs in Moscow at this time of year.”

“I don’t care!” Oleg interrupted the discussion. “In Russia,” he continued, “there is no ‘impossible’ or ‘can’t be done,’ only ‘will’ or ‘won’t!’”

Dragan spent the day attending meetings and returned to Oleg’s dacha in the evening. Before dinner was served, the waiter brought a full bowl of fresh, juicy figs. Irina smiled contentedly, and Oleg proudly addressed Dragan.

“I told you, dear friend, in Russia, when we want something, we get it!”

After dinner, the host noticed Dragan’s curiosity.

“Allow me to solve the mystery for you!” Oleg said, pouring vodka into glasses.

Dragan watched as the general pressed a button under the table. A man in a pilot’s uniform appeared at the door of the salon.

“This is Captain Sergei. He piloted a military transport plane that flew near the Black Sea this morning. I ordered him to stop by Sochi.”

The captain nodded.

“Always at your service, comrade general. I perform special missions with special pleasure!”

Dragan was stunned.

“You sent a military plane just to fetch figs?!”

Oleg laughed.

“Dragan, in the world of politics, the display of power is often more important than the power itself.”

“But the costs, the resources…” Dragan tried to understand.

The general raised his glass and, with a smile, continued.

“My dear friend, if you have resources – use them. And if you have power – show it.”

Dragan returned to reality; he ate the last fig from the plate and with a deep sigh whispered, “There’s only one Mother Russia!” He walked over to the computer and opened a folder labeled “Operation TV.” A list of names appeared on the screen: Raka Mandžukić, Boško Karajović, Bojana Dimitrijević, Stojan Maksimović, Vasilije Stamenković, and Balša Torbica.

INTERROGATION

Under the window of the director’s office at “Maler Export,” the city was already on its tedious journey from dawn to dusk. Teenagers balanced themselves carefully, trying not to let their backpacks drag them into the street. They walked lethargically toward school, staring at their phone screens as if hypnotized. A middle-aged man in a Montgomery coat struggled with plastic bags overflowing from a large shopping basket. When he paused to rest, the wind blew off his hat, which he had stylishly matched with the color of his coat. Across the street, bookstore owner Mića, as he did every morning, carefully swept the area in front of his shop. “How do these kids even walk on the street when all they do is stare at their phones? I’m surprised no driver has run them over and taken them to the hospital on their hood!” Novičić thought. He opened the window and, while listening to the city’s mid-morning rhythm, lit a cigarette, further polluting the air that his family also breathed. After the conversation with his partner, Ostoja was deeply scared, worried—but also furious. He took the three-day deadline given by his business partner seriously. He needed to get his hands on the compromising material as soon as possible. He threw the cigarette butt out the window and yelled to his secretary.

“Call Lolek and Bolek and tell them to get their asses in front of the building right now! Hurry up, damn it! I have to beg for everything, but when it’s payday, you’re all first in line!” the director fumed.

“I’ll speed up the action, there’s no other way because you don’t mess with the Dragon!” Novičić recited to himself while waiting for his bodyguards. It was good that Pavić’s children were in their hands because the mother would soon start talking—if she was smart. “I hope she knows where Nemanja hid the documents,” Ostoja continued his mental analysis. About ten minutes later, Ostoja’s bodyguards were ready. The boss demanded absolute silence because he was tired, worried, and nervous. He didn’t like being disturbed when he was thinking.

“Where are we going, boss?” Ljuban asked.

“To the weekend house!” the boss replied curtly.

In silence, they traveled much faster because Lolek was focused on the road and the boss’s stern gaze shooting at him from the back seat. Pressed by his troubles, Ostoja thought, planned, brainstormed, and finally dozed off. His head bobbed rhythmically, bouncing off the rear right window.

“Boss, sorry,” Božo said, fear evident in his voice. “We’ve arrived! You dozed off a bit, huh? No worries, it’s good for you!” he babbled uncontrollably, fearing he might get scolded… and in fact, he was making things worse.

“How do I get to your house?” Ljuban added.

“By spaceship, you idiot!” Ostoja snapped.

Irritated, sleepy, and angry, the boss finally explained how to get to the weekend house where Bata Monki was holding Vesna Pavić and her children hostage. When he heard the sound of the car, Bratislav peeked through the blinds and was overjoyed to see company. He planned to brag to the boss about how he had followed his instructions without question. He hadn’t left the house, kept the captives at a distance unless they urgently needed something, and, of course, hadn’t even thought about assaulting Vesna, something Ostoja had explicitly warned him about.

“Welcome, good people! I’ve gone crazy in this godforsaken place! Thank God I can finally talk to someone,” Monstrum rejoiced.

“We didn’t come to chat with you, Bata, but to interrogate that bitch upstairs. Bring her down immediately!” Ostoja ordered.

“She’s not so bad, boss… and the kids are well-behaved, too. They listen to me and don’t cause any trouble,” Monstrum shared what was on his mind, but he quickly regretted it. As soon as he saw the boss’s face, he bit his tongue.

He greeted Ljuban and Božo and then hopped up the stairs. Upstairs, Vesna was making pancakes. When Monstrum entered the room, she startled and nearly dropped the pan. Bata smiled at the kids and then, in a serious tone, addressed their mother.

“Turn on the TV for the kids, put on some animal shows, cartoons, whatever – and come downstairs right away! We need to talk. That slick guy is a nasty piece of work, don’t mess around with him.”

Frightened but determined to protect her children from any unpleasantness, Vesna kissed Maja and Igor and went down the stairs. The scene in the living room didn’t promise anything good. Two burly men, her jailer, and a refined gentleman of medium height dressed in an expensive suit and even more expensive shoes. Such details are hard for a woman to miss even in a hopeless situation. They ordered her to sit on the couch, with Ostoja standing across from her while the goons stood behind her. She was scared but didn’t want to show it.

“Here’s the deal…” began the elegant gentleman, whom everyone in the room feared. “Vesna, right? Listen, Vesna, I urgently need the documents your husband collected about my company, ‘Maler Export.’ It would be best if you just tell me where he hid them, and then we can all go our separate ways. You and the kids belong at home, not here in captivity.”

Vesna looked him straight in the eye, biting her lower lip. Her mind was racing at three hundred miles an hour.

“Of course,” the speaker continued, “we can solve this problem in another, less pleasant way. You see these two big guys? That’s Lolek and Bolek. God didn’t give them much in the way of brains, but nature blessed them with something else—from the waist down. They love women more than they love bread! I can order them to rape you in front of your children. They’d go at it for hours while your kids watch their mom do things you probably don’t want them to learn about in this way. Be smart, I’m begging you!”

Ostoja’s interlocutor suddenly changed her expression; the flush on her cheeks was replaced by a deathly pallor. She struggled to control her fear and stifle her tears.

“There’s no need for such drastic measures, sir. All the documents related to various companies’ malpractices, Nemanja always got from his mother. As far as I know, Radmila even worked for you.”

“Radmila Pavić?” Ostoja slapped his forehead. “I completely forgot! That’s right, she did my books… but I had no idea she was his mother! Fine, I keep my promises! For now, you’ll stay here until your mother-in-law gives us what we want. I hope you’re not pulling my leg. You’re a serious woman who wants the best for her kids.”

He signaled to Bata to take her back to the children and ordered the bodyguards to move out.

“Can we grab lunch, boss?” Lolek suggested. “My stomach’s stuck to my spine.”

“When I get my hands on you, I’ll stick you all to the wall! You and your spine and your stomach!” the boss scolded him.

As she lit cigarette, Vesna watched from the kitchen window as the black SUV bounced along the uneven mountain road and left the yard that was her prison. She felt lonely, miserable, defeated… She needed her husband now more than ever… But he was gone, not today, not tomorrow, never again… They had fought over trivial things, wasted time on stupid arguments, and now she would forget everything just to have him there, to hug him, to worry about the kids together, to save her from these villains. Her thoughts wandered back further into the past—to the joy of their children’s births, their wedding day, and the first time they made love in her small badroom. She remembered how they met: she was in her third year of collage when a young man approached her in a café and asked for her name. “Why do you care?” she replied with a question of her own. “My friend Nemanja likes you,” the stranger said. “Let Nemanja ask me himself if he’s really interested—or maybe he doesn’t have the guts?” A month later, she went home for the weekend and found her house in a state of near-siege. “What’s going on?” she asked her mother. “A journalist from Belgrade is coming to interview your father. He’s going to talk about his experiences as a provincial priest,” her mother answered proudly. Sure enough, the next day, a young man, about her age, arrived. Tall, slender, handsome, with receding hairline, he spent the entire time looking at her while he spoke with the local priest. At the end of the interview, he introduced himself—Nemanja Pavić. She immediately realized that this was the same Nemanja who had sent a “messenger” because he was too afraid to approach her. “He didn’t come here for my dad—he came for me. Who else would be interested in the activities of a provincial priest unless the journalist was interested in his daughter?” And so it was. They exchanged phone numbers, and as soon as she returned to Belgrade, Nemanja called her. They went out to “Madera”—and they were inseparable after that.

“Mama,” her son Igor interrupted her daydream, “why are we here?”

She snapped out of her reverie, hugged her son tightly, and gave him no answer. The large, black vehicle descended the mountain road. Ostoja Novičić’s favorite car had first been produced in America some thirty years ago. “General Motors” had spent years developing a civilian version of the military armored vehicle “Humvee.” This model was born partly because of Arnold Schwarzenegger’s insistence—he had seen a military convoy during a film shoot in Oregon and immediately began lobbying for a version of the Humvee that would be available to everyone. In 1992, the first civilian version of the “M998 Humvee” was sold, and the first two “Hummer H1s” were purchased by Mr. Robocop himself. Ostoja knew the specifications of his Hummer by heart: when he wanted to distract his thoughts, he would mentally repeat the engine capacity, horsepower, and fuel consumption… Subconsciously, Lolek tried to put all these characteristics to the test. He drove at full speed, ignoring the curves, the slippery road, and other drivers on the highway. Overtaking on solid and dashed lines, diving into sharp turns, cutting through traffic, cursing other drivers… Bolek urged his brother to speed up so that the boss wouldn’t get angry, while Ostoja stopped whispering auto-moto numbers and pulled his mobile phone from his pocket.

“Listen to me, Monstrum: tie Vesna and the kids to the chairs, tape their mouths shut, and don’t say a word… Let them get a little scared and cry. After that, take a photo and send it to me. We need to convince the grandmother that her grandchildren are in danger. Let them soil themselves from fear, then untie them.”

They broke all speed records on their way to the city. Ljuban was proud of his driving skills. Suddenly, images from the Croatian front and the battles in Kninska Krajina flashed through his mind. A man survives a war—only to have to drive like this and risk his life for a rich fool! They arrived in the city center, where the boss ordered them to park in front of a building. Traffic signs didn’t matter to Ostoja Novičić because different laws applied to him. They left the car in the middle of the street and climbed the stairs to Dr. Pavić’s apartment. Ljuban kicked open the door, and they found Stevan and Radmila inside. Without a word, they tied up the shocked couple, who couldn’t comprehend what was happening.

“Well, Mrs. Radmila, now you’ll see what happens to those who betray Ostoja Novičić! And you, doctor, beware—if she betrayed me, why wouldn’t she betray you too?”

“Dear sir,” Stevan replied calmly, “after everything we’ve been through, the last thing on my mind is whether my wife will betray me. After fifty years of marriage and the death of our son, that’s the least of my concerns!”

The Big Boss ignored the doctor; he didn’t want to waste time. He pulled out his phone and showed the Pavićs a photo of their tied-up grandchildren. Both of them instantly turned pale, began to cry, and looked at their visitors with wide, terrified eyes.

“We’ll do whatever you want, just don’t hurt them. We’ve lost our son; we won’t lose our grandchildren!” Stevan said in a trembling voice.

Radmila remained silent because she knew what was coming. She had no choice but to obey this monster. The choice between her grandchildren and the truth was obvious. She knew that Bane Ristić, an innocent man, would now become a target for Ostoja Novičić and his thugs. “Why did I have to go chasing justice?! I lost my son because of the truth, and now I’ve put this young man in danger too!” she thought as everyone fell silent for a moment.

“Dr. Pavić, it’s nice that you want to protect your grandchildren… but you’re not in a position to be cocky! Radmila, you know what I’m asking for,” Ostoja said in a calm voice. “And what I want, I always get! In the end, you’ll share the truth with me, but whether the ‘exchange’ will be peaceful and painless or go another way—that’s up to you. So?”

“God, I’ve always hated this man, yet I worked for him!” Mrs. Pavić scolded herself. As she prepared to reveal to Ostoja what he wanted, she pictured her tormentor in the worst possible situations. She imagined him being raped in prison, and then she imagined his face when he learned that all his assets had been seized. It was a kind of visual curse that Radmila Pavić cast upon her former employer.

“I gave the bag with all the documents and notes on the business dealings and corruption in ‘Maler Export’ to the journalist from Urlik, Bane Ristić. I would never have betrayed him… but my grandchildren are at stake,” she replied shortly, clearly, and without hesitation.

Ostoja wanted to execute Radmila on the spot. It would be a perfect way to show his bodyguards what happens to those who betray Mr. Novičić, but then again—what kind of bravery would it be to kill an old woman who had already lost her only son? “For her, living is a greater punishment!” thought the owner of “Maler Export.” He was surprised by the calmness of the Pavić couple. “This is the indifference to life that takes hold of a person after a great tragedy!” he reasoned to himself.

“Boss, what should we do with the doctor and the old lady?” Bolek asked hesitantly.

Ostoja scrutinized them with his eyes. In Radmila’s gaze, he read pride, defiance, and hatred. “I wonder what’s going through that calm face between those cold, icy blinks? What’s on her mind as she stares at the master of her life?”

And “that face” was thinking about her sins, which had led to this great misfortune. Radmila blamed herself for her son’s death. “If I hadn’t worked for those scoundrels, I wouldn’t have had those important documents that Nemanja found interesting… and my son would be alive today!” she tormented herself with accusations. “Maybe it’s better if we meet our end at the hands of the same man who got us into all this!” She awaited her execution with readiness.

“Nothing, untie them. We’re going to Ristić’s place!” Ostoja decided.

“And Vesna and the kids?” Stevan asked, concerned.

“Don’t worry, Doctor, we’ll release them too. At least the kids are innocent,” Ostoja replied, adding, “if the documents are with the journalist, you’ll see the kids tonight. Otherwise…”

What was said was done. As soon as he left the apartment, Ostoja called Bata and ordered him to return the hostages to Belgrade. Then, with his shadows, he left the building and got Bane Ristić’s address from the private detective on his payroll. Radmila and Stevan sat in stunned silence, surprised by how things had turned out. They were still in shock, worried about their grandchildren but also amazed that they had survived.

TEODORA

After a successful business meeting, painter Teodora Tadić, known as Tea, hurried home to prepare dinner for her beloved. She had just secured a commission to paint several portraits from photographs, for which she would be paid a sum equivalent to someone’s several months’ salary. Abstract painting was her greatest artistic love, but since love doesn’t pay the bills, she earned money for rent, food, and other necessities by painting portraits. In recent years, the nouveau riche, who still had a hint of the countryside in their manners, were not stingy when it came to decorating their modern salons with family portraits or life-size pictures of themselves. In the past few years, Tea had spent summers at the seaside, making a decent living by painting cheerful tourists and grumpy locals, love-struck couples, and kids whose grandparents didn’t hesitate to shell out money for their portraits. Fortunately, she no longer had to spend summers on beaches and squares with a pencil, paper, and tourists, because she could now make good money in her own city.

That day, she had talked with the wife of the owner of some famous casinos in the capital. They had agreed that she would paint a family portrait for their living room, a Disney-themed mural with their daughter as a princess for the child’s room, and a portrait of the head of the family in a Ronaldo jersey, which would adorn the largest wall in the “Marakana” casino. And all this for two thousand euros.

“That’s not too expensive!” the trophy wife had exclaimed.

“It’s a special price just for you and your family,” Tea had feigned modesty.

On her way back, she stopped at the store to buy groceries. She had invited her boyfriend over for dinner and was eager to try out a new recipe. She was approaching the building where her attic studio was located, where she also lived. At the entrance, she bumped into three men. They were rushing as if their heads were on fire; one brushed against Teodora, nearly knocking the shopping bag out of her hand. The second one ran past at the same speed, while the third, the most elegant of the group, calmly walked toward a large black car. As soon as she realized who she was dealing with, she stepped aside to let the idiots pass, and then continued up the stairs to her attic.

Teodora loved trying out new dishes and experimenting in the kitchen, although cooking often served as an excuse to open a new bottle of wine. Today, she was ready for a culinary adventure, so she had just brought home three bottles of Cabernet from the market. She changed into her work coveralls, filled a glass, and started chopping onions. Between wiping away tears, she glanced at the painting she was currently working on. Bane had promised to come around seven, although his sense of time had always been flexible. Since coming back from America, he had been constantly busy, spending more time with some inspectors than with her. “He spends more time with them than with me!” she grumbled. She put the trout in the freshly prepared marinade and set the potatoes to boil. “I’ll get everything ready, and when Mr. Journalist arrives, I’ll season the potato salad and put the fish to bake. In the meantime, I’ll finish off the first bottle…” she laughed. She turned on the music, walked to the other end of the studio, and started painting.

Meanwhile, Bane was sitting at his computer, thinking about Teodora. Suddenly, he realized he was late for dinner. Jurnalist was waiting for his guests to finally leave his apartment. He couldn’t wait to see her again, to hold her, kiss her, and not let go until morning. The parallel investigation by the three friends and the marathon analysis of the documents had started the previous day. Twenty hours later, they were still at Bane’s kitchen table. They had been digging through the evidence, and the deeper they got into the truth, the more they lost track of time. They had stopped drinking rakija to keep their minds clear, but they were chain-smoking, and the room was filled with smoke. At one point, Nikola Kovač opened the window while Raja continued to sift through the papers. Bane occasionally typed important details into his computer and then quickly switched to another document where he was already writing an article about the mass murder at the television station. During breaks, he rubbed his eyes and lit cigarette after cigarette, at times regretting that he had poked the bear. Fatigue had completely taken over. Bane’s gaze finally settled on the number in the bottom corner of the monitor. It read 7:14 PM. “I’ve really overdone it!” he thought.

“Hey, guys, I have to go to my girlfriend’s for dinner!” he suddenly exclaimed. “You can stay if you want, but I have to leave… Teodora is going to kill me!”

“We’ll be heading out too,” Nikola added. “Enough is enough if it’s done well.”

“I’ll take some of the material with me to review at home and compare it with the database at work. You have the originals, right, Bane?” Raja asked.

“Yeah, the originals, and everything’s been scanned and saved on the computer. Go get some rest, and we’ll meet up tomorrow…” Bane said as he escorted them out.

He called a taxi and quickly arrived at Tea’s attic. He unlocked the door, entered, and instead of the loud music that usually filled the studio, he heard a conversation. Teodora was sitting across from Radmila Pavić, the mother of his late colleague and the woman who had given him the documents of invaluable journalistic importance. Surprised to see them together, he greeted the ladies and joined them at the large counter that Tea used instead of a dining table.

“Bane, dear, I’m so glad you came… it’s like I had a premonition,” Radmila greeted him.

“The neighbor has something important to tell you! Oh, Bane, what have you gotten yourself into!” Teodora lamented.

Journalist Ristić had no idea what had hit him. He had spent a long time digging through the dirty laundry of powerful people, so he was well aware that the material he had could land him in trouble. His colleague Nemanja was the best example that a true journalist remains a professional to the end, no matter the cost. Whatever had snapped in that unfortunate man’s mind, it was certainly related to the case he was working on. Bane felt a sense of unease and fear. He scratched his thick beard, which he always did when he was nervous and unsure. He was eager to hear the details.

“I had to tell them the evidence is with you. They kidnapped my grandchildren and daughter-in-law! They’re holding them hostage at an unknown location. I would never have revealed the secret, but my grandson and granddaughter are all I have left of Nemanja!” the distressed woman explained.

Teodora brought two more glasses, poured what little wine was left, and then opened a new bottle to serve her guests. Bane stood up, approached Radmila, and hugged her tightly, resting his head on her shoulder for a long time. Radmila felt as though she were hugging her son. She wept and instinctively wiped her tears over Bane’s bald head. “Just like my Nemanja!” she thought. Radmila reached for the glass on the table, and Bane used that moment to pull away from the embrace and explain the situation.

“Don’t worry, they would have found out sooner or later,” he tried to reassure her. “I’m working with two inspectors. Raja was leading Nemanja’s investigation and has been trying to understand the essence of this tragedy from the beginning. Inspector Kovač is also helping me. He used to be a significant figure in the police. Some time ago, they set him up in a scandal and quickly forced him into retirement. Both are interested in uncovering the truth. We spent the entire night at my apartment, reading documents, analyzing, and searching for new evidence…”

“Take care of yourself, son…” Radmila said quietly, finished her wine, and headed toward the door. “I’ll be going now… and you two, have a peaceful dinner. One more thing… I think it’s safest for you to stay in this apartment for a while, just in case.”

Teodora escorted her neighbor out, turned the key twice in the lock, and secured the door with the additional latch. Bane suddenly remembered that the original documents were still at home. He had hidden them in the neighbor’s basement, for which he had the key since the flood a few years ago. “I doubt anyone would think to look there! At least I brought my laptop with me. What’s done is done; now I need to calm Tea down!” he thought as his mind raced.

They ate dinner in silence. Tea looked at him with concern.

“You’ll never learn, will you?” she said, with more tenderness than reproach.

Bane stood up, hugged her, and kissed her passionately. They interrupted dinner, and carried away by their kisses, they stumbled to the bedroom where they fell into bed and lost themselves in each other.

That morning, after leaving Bane’s apartment, Erik decided to have coffee at the first place he found, after which he planned to spend the entire day walking. As he strolled through the city center, his thoughts intertwined with the images passing before his eyes. “What is it that makes this city different? How can I capture the attention of readers in America? Every corner of Belgrade has a rich history, but what does that mean to someone born on the other side of the world?” He had his coffee at “Blaznavac” and decided to visit the Yugoslav Film Archive. He found information online that it housed a true treasure trove of films and was considered one of the richest archives in the world. As the first visitor, he immediately caught the attention of the curator, who, fortunately, spoke English. As a great film enthusiast, Erik immediately felt a surge of excitement. He breathed in the smell of old paper, celluloid, and dust—the breath of the past trapped in time. The walls were adorned with old film posters, and in the display cases stood projectors from long ago. The curator led him through the museum, acquainting him with the rich history of the Film Archive.

“The Film Archive is not just an archive,” the older gentleman said proudly. “This is a living monument to our culture, our history. Every movie has its own story, its own life. Here, we don’t just preserve our films; there are masterpieces from all over the world, almost everything that has ever been recorded on film.”

Erik was fascinated. “This is what I’m looking for,” he thought as the curator continued his cinematic lesson. “A story about preserving history through art. This could be something that really interests readers in America.” When he left the Film Archive, it was already getting dark, and Belgrade was preparing for its nightlife. He decided to go with the flow of the city. He entered a few cafes and bars, stayed for a moment, and then decided to move on. He spotted a place called “Shisha Bar” and went in. Inside, he found people his age, chatting, laughing, and enjoying themselves over drinks and snacks. He ordered a bourbon and let himself get caught up in the atmosphere. When he was served his third drink, he asked the waiter.

“Why are there no young people in your place?”

“The young ones go to the raft restaurants by the river, sir. It’s too quiet here for them.”

“What do you mean?”

“Restaurants on boats!” the waiter explained.

John Coltrane’s music began to play from the speakers as Erik made a decision. “The first report will be about the Yugoslav Film Archive, and then I’ll write about the raft restaurants by the river!” Just as he raised the glass to his lips, his phone rang. Bane informed him that he would be spending the night at his girlfriend’s place and that his apartment was at Erik’s disposal. “You can even bring a girl over!” he said at the end of the call.

Two days had passed since Inspector Zec had last been home. The first night he spent at journalist Ristić’s apartment, and from there, he went straight to the office, where he quietly compared the new findings with the database at the Ministry of the Interior. What was supposed to be five minutes turned into several hours. When he finally looked up from the monitor, he realized that it was already broad daylight. Colleagues were arriving, and Desa had made him a double coffee. He felt pain throughout his body. He rubbed his forehead and took some ibuprofen from the drawer. As he raised his arms, he realized he hadn’t showered in days. At that moment, Inspector Rosić entered the office.

“Where have you been, boss? You’ve been missing like cement in construction season!” the younger colleague greeted him. “I don’t want to insult you, but you really look terrible.”

Raja shot him a sideways glance and smiled as he replied, “Don’t mess around, Roki. I’ve got problems with the missus… and this Pavić case won’t let me rest.”

“The investigation is closed; the case is solved. Didn’t we wrap that up?!” the young colleague was puzzled.

“We closed the investigation, but whether we solved the case is a big question,” Inspector Zec said grumpily. “I’m off to get some rest. I’ve earned it… call me if you need anything.”

On his way home, sleep was slowly overcoming Inspector Raja. For the first time in his life, he worried about falling asleep at the wheel. Fortunately, his Škoda knew the way on its own; Zec just had to help it along. Despite his fatigue, his cop’s eye noticed a black Hummer that had been following him since he left the police station. “We’re not going to have a chase through the streets, but I’ll outsmart you in the neighborhood!” he thought. He passed the parking lot in front of his building and parked in the neighboring one. He slipped into a building he didn’t live in but knew had two entrances. He entered through one, exited through the other, and then hid by the mailboxes, waiting to see who was tailing him. He recognized Ostoja’s bodyguard, Ljuban, whose police file he remembered well from the photo. “Looks like the brother stayed behind to guard the boss,” Raja thought.

“Looking for me?” Inspector Zec jumped out from the other entrance.

Ljuban was momentarily confused. When he collected himself, he just waved his hand, turned, got back into the car, and left without a word. Raja chuckled. He was pleased he had outwitted his follower, but he was still puzzled—what was Ostoja’s goon doing here? He stepped out of the shadows and headed toward his building. At the entrance, he ran into his neighbor Smilja, the wife of the building council president and the mother of a girl who kissed her boyfriend in the entrance every day. Smilja was the neighborhood’s resident radar; anything that escaped her husband’s watchful eye was unerringly caught by her. The only thing that seemed to escape her notice was her daughter’s nocturnal activities.

“Neighbor, it’s good I ran into you. I’ve noticed that a black car has been circling our building since yesterday. It shows up every now and then. I think it would be good if you informed your colleagues to keep an eye out… for our safety!” she reported in one breath.

Raja would usually dismiss Smilja’s fixations, but this time his neighbor confirmed his suspicions. He promised to notify the authorities and climbed up to his still-empty apartment. “How long does Marina plan to torture me? I love her more than anything… but I don’t know how to show it,” he concluded with a sad expression on his tired face.

THE CHASE

In the corner of Ostoja’s office, a Stanton brand turntable spun an LP record, the name of the album and artist barely visible due to the “centrifuge” effect of 33 revolutions per minute. Meanwhile, the tormented voice of a great poet growled: “Behind the window of restless sleep, I feel their shadows. I watch them dance through the walls. Sons of bitches…” Ostoja poured himself a drink and turned up the music. “In my youth, I was a rebel, and then I became the same ‘son of a bitch’ I once despised. Back then, I lived rock ‘n’ roll, and now I just listen to it… though, on the finest equipment!” the director of “Maler Export” thought. Since he found out that the journalist from Urlik had compromising documents, he felt a slight relief. Perhaps that was why he decided to spare Radmila Pavić’s life. She had betrayed him, gotten him into big trouble—and instead of punishing her, he had acted entirely out of character. “What’s happening to me?!” he wondered. “I’ve softened up a lot lately! I understand that for the Pavićs, life is now the greatest punishment. But… they still have their grandchildren. They will love, care for, and spoil them… and over time, the grief for their son will gradually fade!” He recalled the moment when he ordered Lolek and Bolek to leave the Pavićs alone. The bodyguards couldn’t believe it. Their all-powerful boss had never forgiven betrayal—and this woman had duped him! In the office, he changed his shirt and began planning his next steps. “The most important thing now is to find Bane Ristić!” he muttered to himself between sips of his strong drink.

From the inner pocket of his jacket, he pulled out his mobile phone, took some time to find the desired contact, and then dialed the right number.

“Detective Agency ‘Spy,’ how may I help you?” chirped the secretary.

“This is Ostoja Novičić. Get me Milan!”

After a brief pause, he came on the line.

“I’m listening, Ostoja,” said the agency owner.

“Hello, Milanče!” Novičić continued. “I need you to locate a scumbag for me. Write this down: Bane Ristić, journalist at Urlik—I want to know where he goes, what he does… And most importantly—his briefcase! He’s carrying a leather briefcase with important information about my business. In fact, forget the briefcase, focus on the documents. You know me, Milan, I never leave a debt unpaid. Finish this for me as soon as possible!”

He paced around the office and looked out the window. On Friday nights, he would usually take his wife out to dinner. Now, he wasn’t in the mood for either his wife or food. He poured himself another drink and stared into space. “This Dragon really struts around! I know too much for him to humiliate me like this. If push comes to shove, I’ll sell my skin dearly!” He emptied his glass and, encouraged by the alcohol, decided to make one more phone call. He cleared his throat a few times, just like people do when they’re nervous, and then spoke in a low voice.

“Good evening, Dragan. I still don’t have the documents, but I know who does!” Ostoja said quietly and hesitantly.

“You don’t have the documents, yet you’re wasting time on phone calls! Your deadlines are slipping away. Ostoja, my patience is like sand in your hands; you want to hold on to it, but it slips away uncontrollably… Do you really think I have time for empty talk?!” said angrily. “What’s the problem, Ostoja?”

“We’re chasing him; I’ve even hired Milanče from the detective agency! But… I was thinking…” Ostoja was indecisive.

“If you had been thinking, you wouldn’t have gotten us into this mess! Speak up!”

“It seems that this journalist is being helped by Inspector Zec from the Homicide Department. I was thinking… if you could… maybe bring in your people from… you know where!” Ostoja stammered.

“Ostoja, you’re not a businessman! You’re just a fool and a bungler! Should I interrupt my vacation here on the island because of you?! The sea is most beautiful in the fall! You’ll remember this, Novičić! I’m coming tomorrow—I have no choice… Start with a donkey, and you’ll end with crocodiles!”

Just as Ostoja was about to humbly thank him, he realized the call had been disconnected. He put his head in his hands and sighed, “Now he’s even started philosophizing! Sand slipping… damn you and your sand!”

Dragan Petrović, known as Dragon, had just finished cleaning the octopus that Barba Ante had brought him that afternoon. He took a large pot and set the slimy creature to cook. From the kitchen drawer, he pulled out a Seafood Cookbook and read aloud, “Cut the cooked octopus tentacles into large pieces, remove the skin if desired, brush them with oil, and briefly grill in a non-stick pan until they get color. Remove them to a plate. In the same pan, with more olive oil, sauté diced eggplant until soft, then season it (salt, pepper, finely chopped garlic). Serve the vegetables with the octopus and sauce.” As the sea monster with a pleasant taste simmered, he went down to the cellar, fetched a bottle of white wine, opened it, and poured himself a glass. “From this beauty, I must go to Belgrade to clean up Ostoja’s mess… I’ll book the ticket before dinner, so I don’t forget later!” He called a contact at an airline and secured a seat in business class. He finished preparing the octopus, set the table, and, to the sounds of Italian canzones, concluded his meal.

The next morning, at 10:15, he was seated in the reserved seat of an Adriatic Air flight. The passengers were preparing for takeoff, and he was eavesdropping on the conversation of an elderly couple seated behind him.

“See, it’s nothing scary!” said the corpulent woman to the anxious man beside her. “When I was little, I couldn’t wait to fly, and you’re scared like it’s something terrible!”

The chubby man, with glasses perched on his nose and a pale face, nervously nodded, fiddling with his wedding ring on his right hand, trying to calm himself.

“This is my first and last flight!” he muttered. “It’s pointless to teach an old dog new tricks. As far as I’m concerned, there’s nothing wrong with the bus.”

The pilot landed the plane on the runway as gently as a child’s kite. Dragan Petrović listened to his fellow passengers’ conversation with a smile. “The man is right,” he thought. “You quickly get used to everything when you’re young! It’s harder later…” In his youth, Dragan had flown several times a year: London, Paris, or charter flights to the coast where he spent summer vacations at the family home. Later, when he joined the diplomatic service through the Foreign Ministry, Petrović traveled all over the world. “Our people rarely travel abroad these days. Cocooned in their provincial world, they don’t know better, making them easy to manipulate,” he concluded. As the pilot maneuvered the plane closer to the terminal, Dragon read the newspaper, lingering on the reports about the mass murder at TVBG9. He repeatedly went over the names of the victims, as if he wanted to memorize them and never forget. The plane came to a stop, and he unbuckled his seatbelt and stood up to stretch his legs. He then retrieved his bag and jacket from the overhead compartment and headed toward the exit. The passengers hurried to disembark, and the typical Balkan pushing began as everyone wanted to reach the immigration officers’ windows as quickly as possible. Passports had to be shown, and customs officers had to be informed of any souvenirs, since customs duties fund every state’s bureaucratic apparatus. “Yugoslavia wasn’t good enough for them; they wanted independence, so now they can push and shove!” grumbled Dragan Petrović’s inner voice. He bypassed the large group of domestic tourists returning from vacation in Croatia and headed to the counter where documents are shown by pilots and crew members.

“Hey, big head, where do you think you’re going?!” yelled a young man behind the glass bureaucratic fortress. “You’re too old to be a pilot, and too ugly to be a stewardess… Get in line with the other passengers! You… don’t pretend to be stupid!”

“Big head” calmly approached the counter and addressed the government employee in a quiet voice:

“Take it easy, young man—breathe! Now listen carefully: you’re going to call the head of airport security, right now! Tell him Dragon Petrović is asking for him and that he should come immediately.”

The young man initially sneered, but when he saw the strange seriousness, determination, and confidence in Petrović’s eyes, he froze. He picked up the phone and called his superior. Upon receiving the message, the head of security left the meeting and rushed over immediately.

“Mr. Petrović, I apologize for the misunderstanding! The boy is new…” he justified himself obsequiously.

“The fact that he’s new isn’t the problem. The trouble is that he’s rude and unprofessional. Transfer him to baggage inspection; he won’t be able to mess with anyone there!” Dragon ordered.

The young man was no longer in the mood for jokes. He began to apologize—but it was too late. His boss ordered him to leave the office, and then personally escorted Petrović to a taxi. Dragan had earned the nickname “Zmaj” (dragon) during a visit to China. The hosts struggled to pronounce his name. On one occasion, while an attaché was once again mangling his name, Petrović suggested in English that he say “Zmaj” [dragon], which the attaché had no trouble pronouncing. From that day on, he became “Dragon,” which, incidentally, is an important symbol in Chinese culture. Friends joked that he resembled more of a monster than a dragon, but the Chinese version of the name stuck. After placing him in the taxi, the head of airport security slipped some money to the driver to somewhat make up for the unpleasant experience at the counter. The pink Passat drove him to the family house in Dedinje, which, like the one by the sea, he had inherited from his parents. He asked the taxi driver to wait for him, promising to pay him for the wait as well.

“Don’t worry, sir, the policeman gave me enough. I’ll be here, so take your time,” said the driver of the pink vehicle with a lit sign on the roof.

He left his belongings, changed clothes, and took the same taxi to the city police headquarters. Unlike at the airport, everyone here knew him well, so there was no chance of any misunderstandings. A few minutes after stating his name at the reception, he was already in the office of Chief Milorad Miloradović, whom the officers called Buda. The two were old acquaintances or, as one of Dragan’s friends would say, “brothers by the baton.” They had met at the beginning of their careers when they were still young, ambitious, and determined to change the world. Milorad continued to advance in the police force, while Zmaj rose through the ranks of State Security. They had worked together for years and had mutual respect.

“Welcome, Petrović! It’s been a long time,” Miloradović said as he shook hands with his guest. “What brings you here, Dragan?”

Zmaj Petrović sat down in an armchair, accepted the offered drink, and quickly got to the point.

“Milorad, my friend, help me find the journalist Branislav Ristić. He has documents that must not be made public. Once you locate the bastard, hand him over to Ostoja and his people.”

Buda nodded, waiting for more.

“And one more thing. Your Inspector Zec has started snooping around and investigating my company’s operations. Send him on sick leave, vacation, or better yet, transfer him to traffic police.”

The chief nervously lit a cigarette. He was talking to a man whose requests were not to be refused. He didn’t want to act too self-important, as he only had a few years left until retirement… Yet, personal dignity and police ethics didn’t allow him to obediently carry out orders that went against the principles he had followed all his life. At the same time, he wasn’t in a position to be too defiant, as he had been deeply indebted to Dragon for several years. “You make one mistake, and you spend a lifetime paying for it,” Buda thought, disappointed.

“Alright, Dragan, I’ll do as you ask. You know very well that I can’t refuse you anything, but you also understand that I’m not all-powerful,” he replied vaguely.

“Milorad, you know me, I know you, we’re not children!” Petrović concluded and left the chief’s office.

As he exited the police headquarters, experienced officers greeted him with respect, while the younger ones wondered at the deference shown by their older colleagues.

CONSCIENCE

It’s been five years since Rale started living in the wilderness, far from people, cut off from the world, free from newspapers and television. Each of those one thousand five hundred days had been almost the same for him, but for some reason, he decided to clean his brother’s cottage precisely on Saturday morning. He could do it whenever he wanted, but in Rale’s imaginary schedule, Saturday was reserved for the following activities: dusting, vacuuming, removing spiderwebs, and the weekly consumption of ten-year-old bourbon, Pappy Van Winkle. A bottle of this drink cost over ten thousand euros. It wasn’t that Rale cared much about enjoying the quality of such an expensive drink, as even homemade brandy met his needs—he just wanted to damage his brother’s possessions and hurt him a little. “Ostoja probably can’t even tell the difference between regular bourbon and this expensive shit, but he likes to show off in front of his mafia buddies!” he thought as he carefully poured a small amount of the liquid, which, as the writer said, cost as much as a child’s tear. Although no one lived in Ostoja’s house, cobwebs and dust did their job. After the “party with the captives,” Ratko woke up hungover. “Well, screw him, I’m not cleaning his house first thing in the morning!” he thought. He brewed three coffees and took them to the captives, for whom he felt increasing sympathy each day. He first served the Bald One, even offering him a cigarette, while Darko fussily asked for more sugar.

“My head’s killing me from that rakija last night!” the host complained. “As I get older, I’m slowly losing my touch.”

“I slept like a baby; even the beatings didn’t bother me,” said Mascara. “I don’t want to be a nuisance, but… will breakfast be ready soon?”

Rale crossed himself three times.

“With you around, makeup artist, I might become religious. How do you manage to eat so much, sweet brother? But first, let’s hear from our bald friend, and if you behave, I’ll fry you some eggs.”

The prisoner in the left room had been silent since arriving at the mountain house. A few times, he asked for a cigarette, a cold compress for his lumps, and ice for the bruises on his head. From the start, Rale had found him likable. He didn’t know the reason for his forced stay under his roof, but he seemed like a good man. He was curious about his story.

“My name is Nemanja Pavić, I’m a journalist, a husband, and a father! On the day all this chaos started—and I can’t see an end to it—I drove my kids to school. I dropped them off and headed to work. I hadn’t gone more than three hundred meters when something started banging, wobbling, and the steering wheel pulled to the left. I got out of the car and saw what had happened: a flat tire! I parked on a side street to change the tire, but as soon as I bent down to loosen the bolts, someone hit me hard on the head! I felt an excruciating pain, like the whole world had crashed down on me. I came to in some damp basement, where they put a sack over my head, stuffed me into a car, and brought me here. Since then, I’ve been listening to the neighbor who’s always hungry and hearing you, Rale, drinking rakija and carrying out your brother’s orders. The beatings from a few days ago feel like a bonus. In my job, there’s a golden rule: ‘quick, short, clear,’ so I won’t bore you any longer!” Nemanja finished his short confession.

Rale offered him another cigarette and then kept his promise to Fatso. He fried each of them three eggs and warmed the bread in the oven. While serving breakfast, he remembered the homemade wine in the pantry. He opened the bottle and poured the juice from the darkest fruit into the mugs they had previously used for coffee.

“This will really help you get your blood back in order after the beatings!” he said in a friendly tone. “That juice from the other day is more for kids!”

The captives ate their breakfast with appetite, and then Nemanja, sight unseen, greeted the roommate across from him.

“Hello, Darko, let’s introduce ourselves through the walls.”

The doors of the improvised prison cells were wide open, but the beds to which the prisoners were tied were positioned so that they couldn’t see each other. Rale brought the bottle closer to knock out the plum brandy peg from the previous night. The little homemade wine wasn’t enough. He lit another cigarette and fell deep into thought. “These guys seem like decent people. What on earth is going to happen to them?”

“Before they brought me to this house,” Darko suddenly spoke up, “I had signed a contract for a TV series. The fee was supposed to solve many of my life’s problems and take my Joca to Paris. But look at what’s happened to me!” he lamented.

Nemanja hesitated for a moment, then added to his fellow sufferer’s story.

“I was working on a journalistic feature that would shake the public and expose corruption at the highest levels of government,” he explained.

“Well, there’s your explanation,” Rale thought. “It looks like Baldy crossed Ostoja. For now, I won’t ask too many questions or get involved!” he concluded.

THE WIG

Teodora’s bed was Bane’s favorite spot for the most beautiful erotic moments of his daily life. The long-term relationship hadn’t dampened the passion. On the contrary, he loved his quirky painter more with each passing day. They had planned to spend the whole Saturday together, to laze around, maybe even take a trip to Ada. But things had gotten pretty complicated since yesterday. He urgently needed to get out of town. Ostoja was on his trail, and if he stayed in Teodora’s loft, he might drag her into trouble too. His phone buzzed. The number 3 appeared on the purple icon. Three messages had arrived during the night. He was curious to see what they contained. Apart from him, the members of this Viber group were Raja and Nikola. He clicked on it.

“Today at 2 PM at ‘Blues.’ Enter through the side door. Ask for Laza!” The message was signed with a rabbit (serbian: ‘zec’) emoji, which Bane found particularly amusing.

The aroma of coffee filled the entire studio. He brought a red mug with “Don Cafe” written on it to the bed. A large, sugar-coated Turkish delight with walnuts wobbled on the tray. He smeared some powdered sugar on Teodora’s nose with his index finger and then kissed her passionately. She laughed and ran her fingers through Bane’s prickly stubble, which had once been called hair. Teodora had slept poorly the previous night. She was worried about what would happen to her crazy boyfriend, whom she loved endlessly but who, unfortunately, would never grow wise. They drank their coffee in silence, while Bane lit one cigarette after another. On TV, a panel discussion of experts on the phenomenon of mass shootings played. Outside, annoying rain splattered against the window panes, while the neighbor downstairs slowly woke up to turbo-folk music. Suddenly, Teodora jumped up. Something had just occurred to her. She leaped out of bed and started rummaging through the closet. Old jeans, T-shirts, jackets… She threw them around, determined to find what she had in mind. “Looks like she’s lost an earring or something small like that,” Bane guessed. “Whatever it is, it must be really important!” She kept digging through the closet, so Bane went for a quick shower. Clean, wet, and fragrant, he began to prepare for the meeting at “Blues” when a cry of joy came from deep within the wardrobe.

“Here it is!” Teodora shouted. “Come here, quick!”

She had found a wig she had used many years ago for a multimedia performance at the theatre. Brown, medium length, in fairly good condition… She grabbed a hairbrush and started combing the large piece of fibrous synthetic hair, which she placed on her fist.

“What’s that, you nut?” Bane asked, puzzled.

“Your new hairstyle, slick! From today, you’re transforming from bald to hairy. Go shave your beard and leave the mustache!” she said decisively.

“What are you talking about, for heaven’s sake?” the bewildered journalist wondered.

“Until the heat dies down, you’ll wear the wig, and I’m off to buy you some clothes.”

Bane was still trying to figure out if this was a joke—but there was nothing funny in Teodora’s expression. On the contrary, she was dead serious. In all the years they’d spent together, he knew there was no arguing with her. He could have his way on trivial matters, but when something important came up, Teodora pulled the strings and made the decisions. Arguing with his girlfriend was pointless, so he didn’t want to waste time in unnecessary discussions. He agreed that disguising himself was probably the easiest way to deal with the situation he was in. He shaved his beard, put on and adjusted the wig, trimmed the mustache, and then laughed at himself in despair. Teodora pulled out a pair of brown woolen trousers, a dark shirt, and a checkered jacket from a plastic bag. The only piece of clothing that looked somewhat normal was a pair of light-colored sports shoes, somewhere between brown and beige.

“I look like a guest worker who moonlights as a cattle trader,” he accurately described his new image.

He was so well-disguised that even his own mother wouldn’t have recognized him. As he left the studio, he said goodbye to his girlfriend with a long kiss.

“Take care, my silly boy!” Teodora told him as they parted.

The moment he inhaled the damp autumn air, he noticed a man watching the street activity. The “spy” spotted him leaving the building but didn’t react. “I look like a circus performer. It would be odd if he recognized me!” Ristić thought. In the next street, he caught a taxi that took him to his destination. At the “Blues” cafe, he decided to test the effectiveness of his disguise one more time. He didn’t follow Raja’s instructions and instead entered through the main door. No one recognized him, even though some familiar faces were sitting at the tables. He approached the bar and asked for Laza, who led him to the room where select guests of the cafe usually gambled. Instead of gamblers, Nikola and Raja were sitting at the table. They didn’t recognize him either.

“What’s the matter, inspectors? Panic, huh? How do you like my new look?” he broke the awkward silence.

His friends burst into laughter and praised Bane’s skill at disguising himself.

“What do you look like, damn it?!” Raja exclaimed. “You look like you’ve been caught with a fishing rod!”

“Smart move, son!” Kovač said. “You’re their main target now; you need to be careful. The costume is excellent; I would never have recognized you!”

Laza brought them coffee and brandy on a tray, then left them to calmly work out their strategy.

SCHOOLMATES

Below the peak of Avala, on the Novičić family estate, it was usually quiet and peaceful. Just six months ago, the sound of a dog barking all day long could be heard—his name was Kuče. Before Ratko arrived at the mountain, the dog didn’t have a name. Ostoja had brought him to guard the house from thieves. He never tied him up, nor did he feed him regularly, so the nameless dog was always hungry, nervous, and noisy. But when Rale arrived, things changed. First, the dog started getting food on time, and then his new owner gave him a name—Man’s Best Friend. Rale didn’t overthink it; he saw the situation in the simplest way. After a few shots of rakija, his reasoning was as follows: “I have a dog without a name, and since he’s is my only friend and I am a kind of man,, let him be called Man’s Best Friend.!” The friendship between the drunk, unemployed professor and the locally bred German shepherd grew stronger over time. The dog would always snuggle up and circle around his owner’s feet, while Rale would reciprocate with meat, bones, and other dog delicacies. Twice, the shepherd mauled thieves in their attempts, and once, Ostoja barely escaped with his life. “Smart dogs always sniff out what kind of person someone is!” Rale commented at the time. The genuine friendship between man and dog lasted until recently. One cold winter night, wolves broke into the yard. The dog fought for hours but didn’t make it. That night, Rale regretted not having a firearm for the first time in his life. He watched as the shepherd died in excruciating pain, unable to help him. He buried him in the yard behind the shed and often visited the grave of the only friend he had made during his time on the mountain.

After he fed the prisoners, Rale went out to smoke a cigarette and gather leaves from the grave of the deceased dog, marked by a plank that read “Rale’s Best Friend.” As he was finishing the task with a rake, his mobile phone rang—the melody was “Born to be Wild,” meaning it was Ostoja. He heard his brother’s voice.

“Rale, tomorrow I’m sending a man to eliminate those two. You know where it’s best to do it. Take him to some secluded place and help him bury them.”

There was no response from the other side. After a long silence, Ratko barely mumbled, “Alright,” in a low voice. After the call with his brother, Ratko quickly went back inside the house. Nemanja Pavić, as usual, was silent, while Darko, in the room across from him, couldn’t stop talking. Maskara was reminiscing about his childhood and the cheese-filled rolls his mother expertly made.

“Sometimes, when she had leftover dough, and she loved to experiment,” Darko recounted passionately, “she would fill them with jam, other times with honey, but I loved them best with hazelnut spread!”

The jailer felt a knot in his stomach, growing and spreading through his rakija-soaked consciousness. He knew Ostoja wasn’t joking and that these unfortunate people were in great danger. “I’m so stupid,” he thought. “How could I ever think my brother could be a decent person? I grew up with him and watched him turn into a beast—and yet, I hoped there was a grain of humanity left in him!” He paced nervously around the house, put away the rakija, and washed his face with cold water. “Think, Ratko Novičić! Things are getting complicated. You can’t allow innocent people to die! You’ve been doing dirty work for that idiot for years, but until now, no one’s gotten hurt. This is too much, even for a drunk and the piece of crap that’s left of you!” He didn’t have time to waste but needed to sober up first. He drank black coffee and splashed cold water on his face again. He went to his room and, from a suitcase under the bed, found a note with Inspector Raja’s phone number. A few years ago, his old schoolmate had saved him from going to jail. During one of his usual weekend drunken binges, Rale had stumbled into a nightclub where his students hung out. The high schoolers liked him, so they didn’t mind his drunkenness. Since there was no alcohol in the club, Rale decided to move to a nearby tavern. On his way out, he bumped into a policeman who was calmly watching the youth.

“Why are you pushing, cop?” the drunk Ratko grumbled, trying to show off in front of his students.

“Move along, let’s not cause trouble for no reason,” the policeman replied.

“Trouble? You want to fight, huh? Come on, tough guy, bring it,” Professor Novičić persisted. With a clumsy drunken move, he suddenly shoved the officer.

“You’re really asking for it!” the policeman said reluctantly, grabbed him by the neck, and handcuffed him.

“Just don’t hit my head, Officer Blue,” Ratko sang through laughter.

As he sobered up in the hallway of the police station, Inspector Zec, with whom he had gone to school, passed by.

“What are you doing here, Rale?” Raja asked, surprised.

“Got drunk, screwed up,” Ratko replied as he started to realize what trouble he had gotten into.

“Wait here; I’ll take care of it,” his schoolmate said.

“Even if I wanted to leave, they wouldn’t let me…”

Raja quickly arranged with his colleagues to let him go.

“It’s good you showed up; we were planning to beat the crap out of him,” the duty officer told the inspector.

Raja returned to the hallway, took off the handcuffs, and told his friend to call him if he ever got into trouble. Years passed, and now the day had come to take up the inspector’s offer. He pulled out his phone and dialed Zec’s number.

“Hello, Raja, Ratko Novičić here. Your old schoolmate, the philosopher and drunkard. How are you, my friend? What are you up to?”

“I’m driving home; I was at a meeting,” the inspector replied. “I haven’t slept in two nights, man; I can barely see straight.”

“I’ve got a big problem, Raja!”

“So do I, friend! I’m up to my neck in shit…but never mind…tell me, what’s bothering you?”

“I can’t talk over the phone. Is there any chance you could come to see me? I’m here at Ostoja’s house on Avala.”

When he heard the name of the “Maler Export” owner, a light bulb went off in Inspector Zec’s head. “Oh, God, could it be?! If I had searched with a lantern, I couldn’t have found a better insider!”

“I’m on my way! Send me the location. I’ll come with two friends. Don’t worry; they’re people I trust.”

“Raja, I’ve got this old phone, so by the time I write the message—a blind man could regain his sight! Listen, you know where the ‘Avala’s Mitrović Home,’ is? Ok, continue on the main road for another two miles until you reach a sort of turning point. Then take the side road for another half mile, and you’ll see two houses. You can’t miss it…” he continued to explain.

He was glad Raja had immediately agreed to help. They rarely hung out in school. He had better friends, but they had long forgotten him. “There are people who help you in trouble simply because they have a good heart. Raja Zec is definitely one of them!” he concluded as he tried to plan his next move. He urgently needed to hide the prisoners. “Raja will come with two friends by car, but there will be too many of us. One car won’t be enough! Where can I find another vehicle now?” He thought about who to ask for help. “Maybe I should ask Jova…” he decided. Last winter, the grandson of the village tavern owner had been walking in the forest with a friend. Night had fallen, and the children got lost. Parents, grandparents, and all the neighbors were frantically searching for the missing boys. On the second day of the search, when everyone thought the kids had frozen to death, Rale found them near his cabin. Jova, whom he had known since childhood, had told him then, “I owe you for life!” This would be the first time he would need to ask for a favor. “Without a car, there’s no way I can save them from Ostoja’s executioners!” He considered whether to untie Darko and Nemanja so they would be ready to move. “If I tell them why we’re hiding, they might panic and run, and then the scoundrels would easily find them!” He came up with a way to justify his absence.

“I’m craving some kebabs,” Rale told the captive men. “I’m heading down to the village. Jova makes excellent grilled meat. I’ll buy some for you too, so you can enjoy a good meal.”

“Bravo, Rale, you’re the best,” Darko Maskara cheered. “Get some hot flatbread too! If they have any… I’ve been craving fresh bread!”

“This fat guy is unbelievable!” Rale laughed, despite everything. “He doesn’t care that his life is hanging by a thread; all he cares about is stuffing his face!” He locked the house and started walking toward the village, lighting his way with a flashlight. The evening was cold, and icy rain was drizzling. “In this weather, I’d only send my brother Ostoja out… and no other creature!”

---

After informing Rale about the plan for the next day, Ostoja took out a spare phone with a dark blue frame and clicked on a saved number, then typed a message:

Tomorrow, take the load home. Remind her to keep her mouth shut.

Alright, boss… can I go home afterward?

No way. Return to base. I’ve got another job for you!

But boss, the big derby is in two weeks!

Let me know when you’ve made the delivery. We’ll talk.

Okay.

DEATH SENTENCE

Throughout his childhood, Bata Monstrum lived in a shack on the outskirts of Belgrade. While his dad was alive, he would occasionally fix what could be fixed, but after his father’s death, the house turned into the backdrop of a horror movie where Monki played the lead role. Now he had a villa straight out of a Hollywood melodrama at his disposal, but his heart longed for something else. When he received instructions from the boss, Bata hesitated whether to strictly follow orders or to improvise a little. “Why should I wait in this godforsaken place until tomorrow? Vesna and the kids want to get back to civilization as soon as possible, and I need to meet with my Bloodsuckers to plan our strategy for the derby!” Bata weighed his options and finally made up his mind. “We’re leaving today. No one has to know!” he decided. He went upstairs and told Vesna to get the kids ready.

“Come on, I’m taking you home,” he announced cheerfully.

Vesna quickly gathered their things and packed them into a bag the Pavićs called “the sow.” She prepared food for the trip and shouted from upstairs:

“We’re ready! I made sandwiches in case we get hungry on the way,” she said to Bata in a friendly tone.

“We’ll get there quickly; there won’t be time for sandwiches!” Monstrum replied, satisfied.

The kids played in the back seat, and for the first time in a long while, their mother smiled. Bata turned on the music and sped down the winding road. An hour later, they found themselves in front of the building where the Pavićs lived. Monki brought in the things and checked if everything was okay in the apartment. He had already instructed Vesna in the car not to leave the apartment under any circumstances until the next day.

“For Ostoja, we’re still at Banja until tomorrow!” he emphasized each word.

Mrs. Pavić promised she would do just that and assured him there was no need to worry.

“In fact, we won’t leave the apartment tomorrow either… just in case!” she said decisively.

Bata left the car in the parking lot in front of the shopping center, then took a taxi to the café “Gypsy,” where the supporters of “Yellow Moon”—the popular Bloodsuckers led by Bata—gathered.

“Hey, brother… where have you been? We’ve been looking for you for days! We’ve got a problem, Monki…” Sima Boxer, one of the most loyal Bloodsuckers and followers of Bata Monstrum, greeted him in a panic.

“What’s the problem, Sima? What’s burning, brother…?” the leader asked, concerned.

“Well, brother, the other day, the Gravediggers ambushed little Kikirez and beat the life out of him! We’ve been planning revenge ever since. We thought we’d wait for Boca Gorogan tomorrow morning when he goes for coffee at café “Partisan” “.’ What do you think, brother?”

“We’ll fuck them up, brother! Those… Gravediggers!” Bata reacted angrily. “Get the strongest team together for tomorrow!”

“Gorogan usually stops by the café around eleven. So, by ten, we should be in full force! Bata, sorry for asking… you’re leading us tomorrow, right?” Sima assumed.

“Nope, you are!” Monki snapped. “I wouldn’t miss that for the world!”

At that moment, the coffee with three sugar cubes arrived. Bata liked to say, “I drink sugar water with a bit of coffee!”

“And where’s the Turkish delight?!” Monstrum yelled at the waiter. “Damn it, since when do you serve bald coffee?!”

“Sorry, Bata, please forgive me!” the waiter pleaded. “We’re out of Turkish delight. I’ll send someone to buy some right away.”

Monki was rhythmically stirring his coffee when it dawned on him that he was expected to carry out the execution of Ostoja’s prisoners. “Good thing the boss doesn’t know I’m in town. I’ll have to handle it tomorrow, but—how can I be in two places at once?!” he worried. He listened from the sidelines as the Bloodsuckers discussed the plan for the next day’s attack. The loudest were those he knew would be the first to run away from the battlefield as soon as things got tough. The vibration in his pants pocket announced a message from the boss.

The “pray” is in a smaller mountain stable. You’ve been there; you know where. Let me know when you finish the hunt! My brother will tell you where to store them.

The crew at the bar in “Gypsy” was pumped with adrenaline and ready for the next day’s action. They were beating their chests and announcing the slaughter of the rival fans.

“I can’t back out now. It’s too late. I’ll lose my authority. I have no choice! I’ll carry out the execution tonight, and tomorrow, the fight with the Gravediggers! I’ll take care of those bastards in the mountains quickly, and I’ll tell Ostoja tomorrow. I hope his brother won’t cause any trouble,” he concluded decisively.

TO THE MOUNTAINS

The clock on the nightstand showed 2:34 AM when the mobile phone rang. Mrs. Novičić shifted and turned to the other side, while Ostoja tiptoed out of the bedroom. He stopped, scratched his crotch, and continued toward the kitchen.

“OK, I can talk now,” he said in a hoarse voice while pouring water into a glass.

“Milan from the agency here…” a male voice was heard. “I wouldn’t have woken you if it wasn’t urgent!”

“It’s okay, Milan, tell me what’s going on,” Ostoja encouraged him, yawning.

“Journalist Ristić has teamed up with Inspector Zec and retired Kovač. They just left the city and are driving toward Avala,” the detective Milan reported.

“What are they up to?” Ostoja wondered. “Don’t lose sight of them, I’m on my way. Just need to call those idiots of mine.”

He quickly got dressed. Jeans, jacket, shirt, sneakers… There was no time for one of the expensive suits he usually wore. He returned to the bedroom and gently kissed his wife, who was now soundly asleep. While waiting for the bodyguards, he ate a few biscuits he found in the kitchen. Ten minutes later, Lolek and Bolek pulled up the Hummer in front of the gate.

“Look at the boss, dressed so nicely… like a young man!” Ljuban complimented the boss.

“Don’t talk crap and drive! No, not drive—fly, damn it!” Ostoja fumed.

He thought about the journalist Ristić and the involvement of the inspector in the whole case. “Why is Zec dealing with this case again when the investigation is closed? And why is Kovač with them?! Where could they be heading at this ungodly hour? Whatever they’re planning, it doesn’t bode well for me… They’re ganging up on me from all sides! That journalist… he’s always snooping around… but why the police, and now the Secret Service too?!”

He called the private detective again.

“Milan, send me your current location, and then again every five minutes. We’re on our way!”

“They’re still on the highway; it looks like they’re heading toward Avala. Here, I’ll send you my exact location!” Ostoja realized that his secret base in the mountains had been discovered. “How did they find out?” he wondered.

“Drive to Rale’s place in the mountains!” he ordered Lolek.

“Nice, we’ll get to see Rale. Such a soulful guy,” the passenger, Božo, responded.

“Shut up! And let Lolek drive! And you, idiot, hurry up! Damn it with your ‘Rale’!” Ostoja fumed.

The annoying rain drizzled timidly and persistently. The steering wheel trembled from the high speed, held firmly by Ljuban’s massive hands. They veered off the highway and took a side road toward the mountain summit. They drove through the darkness, the only source of light being the yellow beams from the headlights cutting through the thick fog. In the back seat, Ostoja nervously checked his watch.

“Hurry up, you ape, we can’t be late!” he shouted.

As they sped through the night, Ljuban felt the Hummer pulling to the right. He slowed down, let go of the steering wheel, and realized the front right tire had blown out. He pulled over to the side of the road.

“The tire’s blown, boss!” the driver tried to justify himself.

“You two are such jinxes, damn whoever put you together! Come on, change it, what are you waiting for!”

Bolek held the flashlight while his brother took out the spare tire and the large wrench to start loosening the bolts. Božo continued to illuminate the spot where the damaged tire had been. As the driver wiped rain from his face, his brother directed the light a few meters to the right and noticed animal tracks by the roadside. “Deer and stags… or maybe wolves?” he whispered.

“Hurry up, please!” he said to Lolek.

The punitive expedition consisting of Ostoja, Lolek, and Bolek was approaching its target.

“Boss, is Rale okay? He’s not, God forbid, sick?” Bolek asked, concerned.

Ostoja waved his hand dismissively while checking the location of the detective Milan on his phone.

“And how do you know we’re heading to my brother’s place?” he asked.

“Where else would we be going on this road?!” the bodyguard defended himself. “Boss, are we going to beat up those fags at Rale’s place again?”

“There’s only one fag,” Lolek added. “The other one is…” he began but immediately bit his tongue.

“You’d better just drive and keep quiet!” the boss scolded him.

Ljuban hit the gas, speeding through the pitch-black night. Luck follows the brave, the determined, and the wicked. As the Hummer raced through the mountain’s hairpin turns, Ostoja recalled his childhood and the nighttime trips along the same route. Every other weekend, they would go to Avala. Other kids visited their grandparents during the day, as was customary. Ratko and Ostoja’s father would set off as soon as work ended on Friday. Their mother initially protested.

“Do we really have to go at night?! We just got back from work… I’m dead tired, and the house needs cleaning. You three seem to have a vendetta against the broom and vacuum cleaner!”

“Don’t be like that,” their father would persuade her. “It’s silly to waste time in this smog when we can enjoy the fresh air and mountain paradise. You see, the kids can’t wait to go.”

Of course, the sons would have much preferred to spend the weekend in the city with their friends—but when dad set his mind on something, there was no arguing.

“Stubborn head…” their mother would mutter under her breath. Right after lunch, and Friday’s menu usually featured beans, they would head to the mountains. The drive was peaceful and quiet until they reached Pinosava, where the weekend trip turned into a grotesque adventure—because the countless curves served as a prelude to the “digestive opera Rigoletto” performed by Ratko Novičić. Ostoja’s older brother couldn’t handle car rides and, without exception, would throw up everything he’d eaten that week. Neither bags nor roadside stops nor various pills their mother obtained through connections could help. Once, a fountain straight from Rale’s stomach literally drenched the head of the family—but stubborn father never gave up on the established schedule. This continued until one December Friday. The snow had been falling for days, the roads were slippery, the drivers were confused—but the Novičićs were persistent. On the main road, they encountered an accident, and a bit further along, an overturned truck. The head of the familly skillfully navigated through the drifts until they reached the foot of Avala. Their eyes immediately caught the flashing yellow, red, and blue lights. An endless line of vehicles snaked ahead of them. Father stepped out of the car to inquire about the situation and then returned, soaked, to share the disappointing news with his wife and kids.

“The road is blocked; we can’t go any further!”

“I could have told you that back on Banjica, three hours ago, but what good would it have done? You always think you know best,” their mother fumed. “What now?”

That night, they slept in the hallway of a nearby motel because there were no vacant rooms. From then on, Friday was no longer an exception for nighttime visits to Mount Avala. They still visited their grandparents but much less frequently—and always during the day.

The mobile phone lit up, interrupting Ostoja’s childhood memories. A message arrived from detective Milan:

“You were right. They’re heading toward your brother’s place. I’ll park in the woods. Waiting for further instructions.”

Ostoja’s thumbs rapidly drummed on the phone screen.

“We’ll be there in about fifteen minutes. Observe the situation and keep me updated on what they’re doing.”

BOTH FATHER AND BROTHER

Ratko wanted to get a good night’s sleep, so he went to bed before midnight. The next day awaited him with challenges he couldn’t have imagined. He tried to relax and stop overthinking, but his mind, unfortunately, wouldn’t cooperate. His thoughts took him back to the past. Iva and Luna appeared before his eyes. He returned to a time when they all lived together in happiness and love. He remembered an event that often haunted him in his dreams. That afternoon, he had taken his daughters to the park to give their mother some peace while she practiced the violin. They had first walked a lap, then headed toward the heart of the large park. He led the girls to the playground, and Iva and Luna immediately ran toward the swings. The older one, Luna, was carefully pushing her sister on the swing. Rale watched the children for a while, then dashed to the nearby café for a coffee because he rarely drank alcohol in those days, and never in front of his daughters. He sat in the café’s garden, keeping an eye on the playground at all times. Suddenly, Ratko’s colleague from work entered the café. They greeted each other, and the newcomer, without much hesitation, suggested:

“Shall we have a quick shot of brandy?”

“Thanks, but I don’t drink when I’m with the kids!”

While he sipped his coffee and chatted with his colleague, he never took his eyes off the playground. At one point, a waitress passing by dropped her tray, sending all the drinks flying toward their table, drenching the teachers. Everyone jumped up, and the waitress apologized profusely, trying to clean the stains off their clothes. The commotion lasted only a few moments—just enough for Rale’s attention to lapse. When he looked back toward the swings, his children were gone. He quickly ran out of the café and reached the playground in a few strides. The swings were empty, and there was no sign of Luna or Iva. His friend and the waitress rushed to help, unsuccessfully searching for the girls. They checked the carousel and the seesaw, and near the small football field, they encountered a boy who was crying because he had lost his dog. Rale ran frantically around the park. He clutched his head and wailed. He continued running like a madman for another ten minutes until he heard the waitress’s voice.

“Sir, here they are in the bushes! They found the little dog!”

Luna was holding the dog in her arms, and Iva was crying. Their father ran toward them in a panic, grabbing them both and hugging them tightly, kissing their heads repeatedly.

“Careful, Dad, you’ll squish the puppy!” his older daughter said, frightened.

Later, they found the crying boy and returned his dog to him. From that day, Rale’s fears began. His anxiety grew daily, slowly turning into depression, which eventually led him to alcoholism.

“It’s almost three o’clock, and I still can’t sleep,” Rale grumbled. He turned on the desk lamp and lit a cigarette. He tried to avoid thinking about his wasted life, but his thoughts were more stubborn than he was. He had lived his life taking the path of least resistance, convincing himself there was nothing wrong with that. He had abandoned his family and lived for years as a parasite and servant to his brother. His late-blooming conscience both pleased and scared him a little. “You sure picked the right time and place to finally start acting like a human being!” he muttered to himself. “Ostoja’s men are dangerous, ruthless, bloodthirsty… Oh, brother, brother, damn you a hundred times over, even if you are my brother!”

From their earliest days, when they were still kids, Rale had noticed a sadistic streak in his younger brother. He would never forget a scene in front of their parents’ house. A classmate was chasing Ostoja, and he ran into the house as if his life depended on it, asking their father to protect him. Fatherwent outside. He first scolded the school bully, and when the boy didn’t leave, he pushed him onto the street. The kid tripped and fell onto the sidewalk. Instantly, Ostoja ran out and started kicking him in the head with all his might! He counted on his father’s support, feeling a strange sense of power. They could barely pull him off the boy, whose face was now covered in blood! It was said that before he became a big boss, Ostoja had killed a man over some shady deal. Allegedly, the younger Novičić brother owed money to this dangerous guy. Since he had invested the money in a big deal, he couldn’t repay it immediately. The rival was persistent and started making threats. At that time, Ostoja didn’t have bodyguards—so he took care of the matter himself. The murder was never proven, as some new business partners helped cover it up. “I still don’t know who’s protecting him…” Ratko pondered. “There’s some guy he fears like the devil fears God. He won’t do anything without his say-so, but no one knows who it is!”

Ratko peered out the window. In the moonlight, he could see the reflection of a car parked at the end of the yard. Earlier that afternoon, the local innkeeper, Jova, had lent him the car to help evacuate the prisoners. Ratko felt uneasy, though he knew Jova would never refuse him a favor. The tavern keeper had even insisted that he take the new Mercedes, but Ratko had convinced him that the well-maintained Passat was more than sufficient. He grabbed the car keys and almost forgot the kebbabs he had promised Darko and Nemanja. He mulled over how to explain this unusual order, as Ratko rarely ate at the inn. This time, he was taking three portions to go. He hastily explained that his brother was coming over with his wife, and he wanted to treat them. Although the explanation was illogical, as everyone in the village knew who Ostoja Novičić was, Jova didn’t pry. He prepared the food, packed the flatbreads and kajmak, and then handed Ratko the bag of food along with the car keys.

Later at home, Rale’s thoughts were interrupted by the ringing of his mobile phone.

“We’re getting close to your house. We’re having trouble navigating in the dark, but we’ll be there soon!” Raja Zec informed him.

“I’m waiting for you! Thanks, Raja,” Ratko replied briefly.

He left the room, grabbed a bunch of keys from the kitchen table, and headed toward the prisoners.

“Come on, wake up, I’m taking you on a trip!” Rale shouted.

He turned on the lights and first unlocked the right room. He removed the chain from Darko’s leg, though it seemed like fatso wasn’t too pleased about being woken up in the middle of the night. Maskara got up and rubbed the wrist that had been chained for days. Rale was the first to enter the other room. Nemanja was already awake. As he was freeing Nemanja from his chains, Darko appeared in the doorway.

“We still haven’t properly introduced ourselves like men…” the makeup artist said, then stopped as if he had stepped in wet cement.

When he saw Nemanja, he first turned pale, then green, and finally collapsed to the floor, unconscious!

BLOODSUCKERS AND GRAVEDIGGERS

After deciding to ignore his boss’s orders and complete the task a day earlier, Bata headed home. As soon as he stepped into the foyer, his phone rang. It was Pretty Miško. He apologized for disturbing him and asked if he could fix something urgently. Although he had been known as a tough guy since childhood, feared by everyone, Bata Monstrum had one weak spot—his friend Miško. Pretty was a homosexual, and he and Monki had met at a party. Initially, Bata insulted him and threatened to beat him up, but Miško endured it all and then gently explained that what Bata was doing wasn’t right and that despite their differences, they could become friends. During the conversation, Miško patted him on the head and lightly touched Monki’s ear. Bata glanced around to make sure no one was watching and remained restrained. In that moment, however, he felt a strange warmth and great satisfaction. He recalled intimate moments with a few boys during his time in the juvenile correctional facility. Monki kept his homosexuality as hidden as a politician would the truth. He couldn’t bear the thought of how his followers would react if they found out that the infamous Bata Monstrum was nothing more than a closeted homosexual. So he kept his private life deeply hidden, like a closely guarded secret.

However, during one Pride Parade, he nearly exposed himself in front of his followers from the football stands. The police had secured the event well, so Bata’s Bloodsuckers, temporarily united with their usual enemies, the Scavengers, chased gay activists through the side streets of the capital. Bata led a group of about ten supporters when they ran into Pretty Miško. Homosexuals can often be immediately recognized in everyday life by how they dress, speak, and walk… But there are also those who live for decades in heterosexual marriages, observe Christian customs, and look like an uncle from the provinces or an aunt who knits sweaters. These individuals deceive others, but mostly themselves, hiding their true sexuality throughout their lives. The Pride Parade is a chance for everyone to express pride in who they are, different from the majority but no less good, bad, wise, or foolish… It’s the one day of the year when all members of the LGBT community gather in one place, making it easier for hooligans to hunt them down in the streets. Miško never hid who he was—he was a transvestite. During the ceremony, he gave a fiery speech calling for tolerance and extending a “hand of reconciliation” to those who had beaten and harassed them in previous years. He said people needed time to get used to diversity and to the truth that homosexuals are everywhere around us. “Let’s remind those who beat us that many of them are hiding their true sexuality. We hide nothing, we live openly, while these sprt fans, Christians, and various other right-wingers poke their relatives, neighbors, and priests in the eye—those who still haven’t mustered the courage to publicly admit what they truly love!” Pretty shouted from the podium, interrupted by applause from his LGBT friends. After the official program, the parade participants began their walk through the center of Belgrade. Suddenly Pretty Miško felt the urge to relieve himself. He stepped out of the group and headed to a nearby café. After taking care of business, he was on his way to rejoin the parade when a group of Bloodsuckers, led by Bata Monstrum, intercepted him near the “Moskva” hotel. Miško immediately recognized the leader but didn’t want to out him in front of his followers. He pretended not to know him and pleaded with the supporters not to harm him.

“Well, well, look who we have here!” Kikirez sneered. “Do you know what we’re going to do to you now, you poor sod?”

“Please, don’t!” Miško begged. “I was just heading home; I live nearby.”

“Just going to deliver some medicine to your aunt, huh?” Vlada quipped. “We don’t fall for those faggy lines.”

Miško turned his head toward Bata and gave him a pleading look, trying hard not to let anyone else notice. Monstrum hesitated for a moment, then, to everyone’s surprise, ordered:

“Leave him alone, for fuck’s sake! Look at him, all pitiful and pathetic. We Bloodsuckers are too good to dirty our hands with the likes of him. Let the Gravediggers mess around with him. And you, you tart—get lost, and I better not see you again!”

Miško didn’t wait to be told twice.

“But, Monki!?” Kikirez was shocked.

“Enough talk. Let’s go hunt some real fags, not these who look like they’ve just been washed ashore,” Bata cut the conversation short.

From that day on, the relationship between Bata and Miško took on a new dimension. There was love and passion, but also mutual respect. Occasional visits to Pretty Miško filled Bata Monstrum’s brutal daily life with beauty and tenderness, things he had missed his entire life. After fixing Miško’s faucet, they shared a glass of brandy and then moved to his bed. They lay embraced and content until evening.

When Bata returned to reality, dusk had already fallen. He got into Ostoja’s Audi and sped toward Mount Avala. He needed to complete the job quickly and efficiently so he could return to the city by morning, where he was expected for a scheduled brawl with the Gravediggers.

THE HIDEOUT

The owner of the detective agency “Spy,” Milan Kastratović, was tailing Raja, Bane, and Nikola with the precision of a shadow. Milan had been a police officer for many years, but had recently transitioned into a successful private detective. Thanks to the knowledge and experience he had gained in the police force, he was able to discreetly and effectively track his former colleagues. “It’s easy to follow unfaithful husbands and wives, various managers and their lackeys—but these are professionals!” Milan thought to himself. He knew Raja only superficially and Kovač only by reputation. He respected them both and made sure to stay as focused as possible at all times. “You don’t look a gift horse in the mouth, and besides, Ostoja pays well!” he concluded with a smirk.

The silver Škoda belonging to the Belgrade police turned off the main road and headed towards Avala along a side path. The owner of the detective agency “Spy” quickly dialed a number stored just below Ostoja’s in his phone and called Dragan Petrović, known as the Dragon.

“Sorry to wake you, but you said I could call ‘day or night’ if I located the journalist. He’s with Inspector Zec and Nikola Kovač. They’re heading towards the mountain.”

“Send me their exact location! I’m on my way!” The Dragon ended the call and immediately dialed another number.

When a male voice answered, the Dragon ordered curtly and decisively,

“Send the helicopter to our location. I need to be transported to Avala immediately.”

Dragan Petrović had served the Gouvanement faithfully for decades, executing the orders of the Secret Service. Over time, he had risen to a high position and later became a successful diplomat. Occasionally, however, he would receive different, more operational assignments. It wasn’t unusual for him to attend a reception at an embassy one evening and don a camouflage uniform the next to carry out a hit. The last time this happened was near the end of the wars in the former Yugoslavia. During those years, diplomatic activities had slowed due to sanctions, so trusted personnel were used for less sophisticated operations. He still remembers his last field assignment. One of the leaders of the paramillitary volunteer units, who had been killing for the Gouvanement while plundering for his own gain, began to defy orders. Although he continued to neutralize civilians from “brotherly nations” with his unit, he had developed a taste for the spoils, moving from jewelry, money, and VCRs to cigarette smuggling. However, cigarettes were a forbidden zone, as they were traded by much more powerful players at the top of the Gouvanement pyramid. When he didn’t heed the well-meaning warnings, he was summoned to the headquarters to receive instructions for further actions. The meeting went smoothly, even cordially. The “hero” from the battlefield decided to stay in the city for a few days to spend time with his family and friends. A visit to the gym, of course, was obligatory. He worked out at a sports center in Zemun. For the occasion, the Dragon dressed appropriately. Jeans, a sweatshirt, and a long Montgomery coat. He entered the gym, greeted the young man, and asked to speak privately. The commander sent his bodyguards to the café to wait for him there. After a few casual remarks, Dragan pulled out a silenced pistol and sent the commander to the Hell. After completing the task, he entered the café and warned the bodyguards not to mess around and to take their boss’s body and bury it! All the criminals in Belgrade knew that the word of the Dragon from the Secret Service was not to be questioned. And so it was. The next day, the media reported a brief news item that the commander of the “Roosters” volunteer unit had been assassinated and that the perpetrator was being sought.

That was the last mission during which, despite wearing gloves, he “bloodied his hands.” After that, he delegated the dirty work to others. From the living room where he had ordered the police helicopter over the phone, Dragan went up to one of the smaller rooms on the first floor, which he kept locked. He opened the door and first approached a shelf lined with family photos. In a black frame was a picture of his wife, and in a gold frame, a photo of his son. Both, unfortunately, were deceased. The Dragon had been a widower for about ten years and had recently lost his only son. He paused in front of the photos, lit a candle, and crossed himself. He stood there for a few moments, then kissed the photos and walked over to the opposite wall. He approached a metal cabinet that was secured with a padlock. He removed the chain and opened the doors. Inside were neatly arranged uniforms, bulletproof vests, rifles, and pistols. He quickly donned a camouflage uniform and a bulletproof vest, then armed himself. He took a VZ 61, the popular Skorpion, and tucked an EZ 40 pistol into his belt. As he left the room, fully equipped for combat, he crossed himself once more and extinguished the candle. He went down to the garage, placed the weapons in the trunk, and was about to leave when his phone rang. It was a call from Barba Ante on the island of Vis.

“How are you, Barba Ante? What’s the good news, my friend?” the Dragon asked politely.

“It’s not good, Dragan… your house has been broken into. I called the police, and they’re still investigating. It would be good if you could come!”

“Thank you very much, my good friend. I have some obligations these days. Give the police my number; they can call me when they’re done with the investigation.”

“Alright, friend, I’ll stay here until they’re finished. Don’t worry, I’ll keep an eye on your house regularly!”

The unpleasant news surprised the Dragon and momentarily disrupted his routine preparations for the operation, which he was carrying out with practiced ease. He pondered for a moment, then returned to the memorial room, where he kept both family mementos and weapons. He unlocked the metal cabinet again and took out a phone with a red sticker on the plastic part covering the battery and card. He turned on the cell phone and dialed a number. After a brief pause, he spoke.

“Hello, Zdenko, it’s the Dragon! My house by the sea has been broken into. Send someone to take care of it with the police. I’ve got an important job. I’ll come as soon as it’s done. Thank you!”

“Don’t worry, buddy! They’ve torn our country apart, but the Secret Service and friendship never will. We’ll see each other soon and share a drink. Cheers.”

Dragan put the phone back in the cabinet, left the “special operations room,” and then descended the stairs to the exit. Before opening the garage door, he typed out a message.

Is the vehicle ready?

He received a response.

The helicopter and crew are waiting for you at the agreed location!

EVACUATION

The damp, moldy night covered the arrow-like pines, adding the scent of fresh decay to the mountain soil. The sound of rain drumming on the roof of the silver car was the last thing on the minds of its occupants. The Škoda sped through the mountain curves, racing toward the peak. Raja, Bane, and Kovač quickly reached the Novičić family estate. They turned off the road, entered the yard, and parked next to the café owner’s Passat. Ratko was waiting for them on the patio. As soon as he spotted the car’s headlights, he moved to meet them.

“What’s the emergency, Rale? What’s so urgent, my friend?” asked Inspector Zec, extending his hand to their host.

“Ostoja brought me two poor souls, tied them up, and left them here for safekeeping,” Ratko explained. “Every now and then, he comes with his gorillas, beats the hell out of these unfortunates, and then disappears. I wasn’t too concerned until yesterday when he decided they should be liquidated. If you ask me—these are good people, Raja. I have no idea how they crossed my brother.”

“These are my friends, Bane and Nikola,” Raja introduced his companions. “We wanted to talk to you about Ostoja’s company, ‘Maler Export’… but let’s check on the prisoners first.”

They entered the house together and headed toward the room where Nemanja was being held. A large, balding man was still trying to revive the unconscious Darko.

Ratko retrieved a bottle of bleach from the pantry and placed it under Darko’s nose. “The ammonia should help him wake up!” he thought. Darko’s bewildered expression indicated that he was slowly regaining consciousness. He took a few sips of water and rested his head back on the pillow.

“These are my prisoners,” Ratko said, gesturing to the unfortunate men in the room.

Upon seeing Nemanja, the visitors were struck speechless. Their stiff gazes sought an explanation… but none was forthcoming. Bane, in disbelief, rubbed his eyes and then smacked his forehead.

“What the hell is this?” Raja shouted at the top of his lungs.

“The vampires have risen from the dead,” Kovač joked grimly.

Nemanja recognized all three of them. He wondered how Zec, Kovač, and Ristić had ended up here. The presence of the police officer and his journalist colleague, however, had a calming effect on Pavić.

“Is this some kind of joke?” Bane snapped. “Raja, you said Ratko was a serious man you’ve known since school. If this is a prank or a hidden camera, just tell me now!”

Darko had fully recovered, but Nemanja was utterly confused. His acquaintances didn’t even greet him, and his colleague, with whom he’d always been on good terms, seemed annoyed to see him.

“Ratko, brother, explain what’s going on,” Inspector Zec managed to collect himself. “How did Nemanja Pavić end up here, alive and well—and, as far as I can see, quite surprised?”

“I’ve lived through seventy years, but this is too much even for me,” Nikola grumbled.

“What are you all talking about, and why are you so shocked?” Ratko asked, baffled. “I called you to help save Nemanja and Darko from Ostoja and his thugs because I have a feeling they’re going to be killed. And from what I can see, you all know the bald guy?”

Bane scanned the room, trying to read the expressions on the faces of those present, hoping to find a hint or a grimace that might offer a logical explanation. They all stood there, silent, confused, and utterly stunned.

“Alright, Ratko, if this isn’t a joke, where have you been living, man? Under a rock? Have you watched TV, listened to the radio, read the papers… Everyone’s been talking about him for days!” Bane shouted.

Ratko still looked at him, bewildered.

“Okay, everyone, let’s take it easy,” Ratko tried to calm the situation. “Who’s been talking about Nemanja constantly, and why? I think it’s time you stop being so surprised and explain what’s going on here.”

“A few days ago, Nemanja Pavić committed mass murder and then drowned himself in the river,” Bane said, pausing.

Nemanja instantly turned pale, staring at his colleague as if he’d just seen Peter Pan hanging out with Walter White.

“I called Raja because I have a problem, and you came to help me—but now you’re messing with me,” Ratko grumbled.

“It’s no joke, friend!” Raja replied curtly.

“Come on, let’s get serious!” Kovač interrupted the argument. “The man doesn’t follow the media, and the internet probably doesn’t even reach this godforsaken place. It’s best if Nemanja clears up the mystery for us so we can stop being so confused.”

Still in shock. journalist Pavić began to speak. He recounted the details leading up to his abduction: how he had first driven his children to school and then, while changing a tire, someone had struck him on the head. He lost consciousness, and when he woke up, he was already in Ratko’s mountain house.

“My story is short, clear, and far too simple,” Nemanja said. “But yours sounds insane! What mass murder and suicide are you talking about? Are you people out of your minds? I’ve known Ristić for years. He’s always been a serious and reasonable man… Bane, why do you need all this, colleague?”

Raja pulled out a pack of cigarettes and offered them to everyone. Darko Maskara was the only one who refused.

“Hey, makeup artist, if you don’t want a cigarette—just so you know, I’m out of sweets,” Rale joked.

Darko drank another glass of water, cleared his throat, and began his story.

“Some things are starting to make more sense to me,” Mascara said and continued. “On the day I was intercepted in the parking lot by masked men, they put a sack over my head and took me to a basement—they showed me a photograph of an unknown man. Now I see that it was Nemanja. Based on that photo, I did the makeup for another man, someone I didn’t really know. Well, not completely unknown,” Darko recalled. “He would often shout insults on the street, saying all gays should be killed, but during the makeup session, he pretended not to know me.”

The group exchanged glances. The confusion deepened. All the men began talking at once. They shouted over each other and argued intensely, though none of them were entirely sure what had actually happened. At some point, Rale spoke up.

“Let’s cut the chatter, people! Let’s get these men to safety while we still can! We’ll have time to sort out the details when we’re safe.”

Raja agreed and took command. He instructed their host to pack food, blankets, and some warmer clothes. He insisted that Rale should come with them, as no one knew how Ostoja might react to all this.

“We’re going to my village, Bare. My family home is there, and no one lives in it—it’s hardly known to anyone. Let’s move, folks!”

Bane and Nemanja helped load the supplies into the cars. Raja, Kovač, and Mascara got into the Škoda, while Bane, Nemanja, and Nikola climbed into the Passat. Suddenly, Inspector Zec noticed headlights from another vehicle approaching the house.

“Well, damn it, we’re too late!” he said, getting out of the car.

“What’s wrong, Raja? Weren’t we about to leave?” Bane called out from behind the wheel of the Passat.

“Someone’s coming,” Nikola said through the window. “Rale, take us to a hidden spot where we can stash the cars! You grew up here; you know every bush. Bane, drive wherever Ratko tells you, and we’ll follow. And turn off the lights!” commanded the experienced police officer.

They quickly organized themselves, and Rale led them down a side road, descending a mountain cliff into a hollow dotted with conifers. The bushes and undergrowth provided them with cover. As they distanced themselves from the house, Inspector Zec saw another pair of headlights in the rearview mirror, approaching the Novičić estate. “Now two cars are following us!” Raja concluded.

HELICOPTER

From a clearing at a secret location, a Serbian police helicopter took off toward Mount Avala. Dragan Petrović immediately gave the pilot coordinates that led directly to the Novičić family’s house. Occasionally, he would check his phone, waiting for a report from Detective Milan. Dragon had used his connections with Raja’s superior, Milorad, to secure the helicopter for the final operation. Such a significant favor couldn’t have been granted based on connections alone—but due to Petrović’s influence and a tragic event from the past, the police chief had no choice. Even the pilot was surprised that such a fuss was being made over one person—but when he learned the identity of the passenger, his surprise quickly vanished. Anyone who had spent time in the police force knew Dragan Petrović – The Dragon. Powerful, influential, and dangerous to those who disobeyed. No one wanted to cross him. About ten years ago, Milorad Miloradović had been the deputy chief of the Ministry of Internal Affairs. They had a celebration after a gathering with colleagues from the police. Although he was intoxicated, Buda got behind the wheel, which he deeply regretted. Near the city’s main square, a pedestrian suddenly stepped out, and Milorad’s dulled reflexes failed him. He hit the girl on a marked crosswalk, and she fell into a coma. Through channels only he knew, Dragon was immediately informed of the accident. He pulled strings, called in favors, and mobilized his most influential friends to help Milorad out of trouble. From that day on, Buda was in Dragon’s debt. The girl died a few weeks later. Milorad’s colleagues called him Buda because he was always calm and composed. The real reason for his silence was buried deep within him because he could never forget or forgive himself for the victim of his crime.

The helicopter was making an unbearable noise, and Zmaj’s headphones were malfunctioning. He was deep in thought, wondering where the immense power possessed by privileged individuals in high positions within the Service originated. The strategy was simple, foolproof—simply genius! Namely, individuals with a lot of dirt on them were placed in leading roles across all institutions. Dragan thought, “before assigning them to important positions, the Secret Service already had potential officials in a bind. Most often, these were criminal offenses that would inevitably land them in prison. The blackmailed had a simple choice—either obey and enjoy the privileges, or pursue justice and end up behind bars! The few experts who did their job well and didn’t have skeletons in their closets were put on a ‘waiting list,’ and the Secret Service made sure to bring those skeletons out, For the puritans with no past sins, scandals, traffic accidents, or planted thefts were concocted… Simpley they were framed.”

Dragan Petrović’s phone lit up when a message arrived from Detective Milan:

“The target has reached Ostoja’s cottage. They’ve kidnapped his brother and the prisoners. Ostoja has just arrived too. We’re waiting for you.”

The man who was used to pulling all the strings suddenly felt a flicker of uncertainty. Things were slipping out of his control. The operation wasn’t going according to Dragon’s plan, and he needed to act quickly. Dragan’s mind was racing. He paused, looked up at the sky, blinked a couple of times, and then typed into his phone:

“I urgently need a special operations unit! Location: 44.41° North, 20.30° East.”

He immediately noticed that Milorad was typing a response. Shortly after, a new message appeared:

“I don’t have another helicopter, Dragan. I’ll prepare the unit, but you need to send the pilot back to pick them up!”

Zmaj nodded, even though Milorad couldn’t see him.

“Alright!”

The helicopter’s landing on the mountain clearing attracted everyone’s attention. Ostoja was taken aback but not surprised: “Here he comes from the sky to personally solve the case in grand style!” Meanwhile, the group of fugitives was much closer to the helicopter, feeling the powerful wind from the spinning blades on their faces. Despite his age, Dragan Petrović skillfully navigated the dark, mountainous paths. In front of the Novičić house, besides the owner, stood Milan, Lolek, and Bolek. Frightened and agitated, Ostoja mumbled almost inaudibly,

“They took my brother, those bastards!”

“And you don’t give a damn about the prisoners! Do you realize how serious this is?!” Dragan yelled, trying to drown out the departing helicopter. “They could ruin our lives, man! Do you want to go to prison, Ostoja?”

The question remained unanswered. The leader ordered them to go inside, sat them at the kitchen table, and laid out the plan:

“In an hour, a special police unit will arrive. These are trained specialists who know their job. We must find them, or we’re screwed! They couldn’t have vanished into thin air, damn it! Prepare your weapons. I hope you brought your guns and other gear!”

The others nodded obediently like schoolchildren.

Wise people, great scientists, writers, musicians… All of them testify that they came up with brilliant ideas mainly in moments of solitude: during a walk, under the shower, at their desk, or when the household had gone to bed… Modern times have brought other forms of inspiration, and sometimes creative solitude occurs behind the wheel of a car. According to the level of his wisdom and non-existent genius, Bratislav Jovanović Monstrum used his personal solitude for his own, completely different reminiscences. Three decades of a hard life had filled the drawer of Bata’s mind, which was meant for the sorrow, misery, and woe that had persistently followed him throughout his life. The next compartment of Monki’s life shelf was filled with various misdeeds. When he was alone, Bata would count his victims. Officially, he was convicted of two murders, but under the Secret Service’s orders, he had carried out at least a dozen more executions. One crime, the first and most severe, had permanently etched itself into Monki’s scarce conscience.

From the first grade, the kids in the class didn’t like Bratislav Jovanović. They avoided him because of his poverty and quick temper. In the sixth grade, a new student, Dalibor, a refugee from Slavonia, joined Bata’s elementary school. The kids treated Dalibor the same way they treated Bata. They didn’t care that Dalibor had been forced to leave his home in Hrvatska. Isolated from their peers and ignored by their classmates, Bata and Dalibor became best friends. They spent time together before and after school, coming up with pranks and small acts of revenge against their classmates, who continued to ignore and mock them. The most brutal of the boys in the class was Nebojša Pevac, the son of a well-known boxer who taught his son the “noble art” of using his fists. It was a Wednesday. Bata was absent from school due to the flu, and Nebojša, along with a group of boys, waited for Dalibor outside the schoolyard. Pevac wanted to show off in front of his friends and teach the refugee a lesson. Bata’s best friend managed to escape the bullies for a moment, but Pevac didn’t give up. He picked up a large rock and threw it at Dalibor. Moments later, the boy from Slavonia was lying on the pavement in a pool of blood. Dalibor survived but took a long time to recover from a severe concussion. When Bata heard about it, he decided to take revenge. One evening, he waited for Pevac to finish playing with the neighborhood kids, and when he headed home, Monstrum waited for him in the entrance of his building. He first heard footsteps and then the sound of the light switch. As soon as the light illuminated them, Bratislav sprang into action. He lifted the large rock he had brought with him and struck Nebojša on the head. When Pevac fell to the ground, he looked up at Bata pleadingly, begging for mercy, but Bata knew no mercy. The rock hit Nebojša’s skull several more times until it was shattered. That same evening, Nebojša was found dead near the mailboxes. During the investigation, the police suspected Dalibor’s father, but he had been at work at the time of the crime. Nebojša’s father, a boxing champion, pulled some strings and used his connections, but the killer was never found. The bloody rock that took a life for the first time haunted Bata both in his waking hours and in his dreams. All of Monstrum’s future victims were met with far less emotion; he saw them as necessary evils on the path to survival. But when he was alone, the bloody image of Nebojša Pevac and his pleading eyes would appear out of nowhere.

The mental stroll down memory lane distracted Bata from the correct route. As he was leaving the city, he missed the exit for Mount Avala. Monstrum was furious with himself for wasting precious time for no reason. He braked to get his bearings, then angrily slammed his head three times against the steering wheel of his boss’s Audi. If he hadn’t spent time with Miško, he would have left on time, and if he hadn’t been chasing the demons of his past, he would have been focused on driving… In any case, he wouldn’t have gotten lost. Once he figured out the correct route, Bata pressed the gas pedal hard and reached Avala’s Peak within half an hour, where he was greeted by a “tunnel panorama” filled with darkness. He spent a long time searching for the house where the “job” awaited him. At the Novičić property, he spotted a black Hummer and froze. “What’s Ostoja doing here in the middle of the night?! My plan’s ruined! I’ll have to come back in the morning and finish off those fools. I just hope I don’t miss the brawl with the Gravediggers!” He stood parked by the village road for a few more minutes before turning around and heading back to Belgrade. He drove fast, the speedometer on his boss’s car was pinned at 90 miles. When he got home, it was six in the morning. Bata Monstrum put on his favorite jersey with the number 10 and went out for coffee. This time, instead of going to the “Gipsy” café, he headed to the “Rainbow” café, where he occasionally met with Prety Miško. He walked slowly, and while waiting for the light to turn green at the traffic light, he received a message from Ostoja:

“The operation is postponed. They got away!”

Bata was pleased that he would be able to take care of the planned business with his followers at his leisure. “If I didn’t show up today, I’d lose my authority!” he thought. He crossed the street and entered “Rainbow.” The café owner had just turned on the espresso machine, while the first guests were already in their usual spots. At a table in the corner, he saw Miško sitting with an unknown man. The stranger was handsome, elegantly dressed, and what stood out the most was his impeccable hairstyle. “When did he have time to get all dolled up this early in the morning?” Monki wondered. Hesitantly, he approached their table.

“Hi, Bata!” Miško greeted him cheerfully. “Sit with us. This is Joca, known to his friends as Jo Jo Ra. He’s a pianist, and to his boyfriend Darko, he’s the sun god!” Miško joked.

“What are you doing here so early?” Monki was surprised.

“Joca has a problem, so he asked for my help,” Miško replied.

The elegant young man extended his hand and smiled politely, although it was clear from his expression that something was troubling him. Monki pulled up a chair and sat at their table. The casual conversation felt somewhat forced, and Bata was eager to find out what was going on. Miško sensed what was running through Monki’s mind and immediately brought up the problem that was bothering the pianist.

“Bata, our friend is desperate. It’s been a week since he’s heard from his boyfriend. His name is Darko. He works as a makeup artist in films and TV series. A very nice, intelligent young man. You know people… how could we find him?”

Monstrum was momentarily speechless, and a pallor caused by fear washed over his rough face. He remembered his encounter with Darko on the day he carried out the task at the TV station. Before the murder, he had spent three hours in the makeup chair while Mascara changed his appearance. It wasn’t easy to transform him into Nemanja Pavić. “If they had let me take out the makeup artist as I planned, I wouldn’t have to worry. Now he’s free and could tell the police everything. And this guy here is asking awkward questions… But unlike the questions, Joca is really handsome!” Monki thought lustfully.

“Mr. Bata, if you can, please help me!” Joca pleaded. “If it’s a ransom, I’ll try to gather the money.”

Monki was still recovering from the shock. It wasn’t until they mentioned the escape of the makeup artist Darko, known as Mascara, that he realized he was in great danger. “Ostoja is powerful, but if the truth leaks out, he’ll be in deep trouble too!” he concluded. He tried to remain calm so that Miško and Joca wouldn’t notice his fear.

“I don’t mean to spoil the romance…,” Monstrum spoke up, “but is there a chance he left you? I mean… could he have gone off with someone else?”

“My Darko might be capable of many foolish things, but leaving without a word isn’t one of them! That’s just not like him!” Joca was firm. “He’s quite insecure and avoids conflict at all costs. Besides, the apartment we live in is his. He wouldn’t just leave me like that.”

That morning, the “Rainbow” café was, as usual, full of guests. It was one of the few places where LGBT people in Belgrade and their visitors could quietly enjoy a coffee, smoothie, or protein shake before heading to the gym. Suddenly, all the men in the café turned sharply toward the entrance. A tall, muscular man with a shaved head entered and walked toward the bar.

“Oh my, what a hunk, and a Black man at that!” Pretty Miško exclaimed. “Joca, do you speak English?”

“Of course!” Jo Jo Ra responded. “I’ll invite him over to our table!” he said, his eyes gleaming with excitement.

Bata was about to leave to meet his friends before the scheduled fight, but he decided to find out who the dark-skinned beauty was.

“This is American journalist Erik Stone, and these are Miško and Mr. Bata,” Joca introduced them.

Erik was disappointed when he realized that “Rainbow” didn’t serve rakija, so he ordered another round of non-alcoholic drinks. He confided in his new acquaintances that he had decided to explore the situation of their minority in Serbia in search of a compelling story for his article.

“I’ve been here for just under three days, and I’ve personally felt on my own black skin that people here don’t care much about diversity. I thought I might write a piece on that.”

From the very beginning, Miško had been flirting, with Joca translating. Bata quickly finished his coffee, promised to ask around about Darko’s disappearance, and continued on his way to the café where the fans were waiting for him. On the way to the “Gipsy” café, he called Ostoja.

“Boss, since this gay guy is on the run, we’re all in trouble now! Can I help find him? And then take him out! … You’ll handle it yourselves? Okay! Then maybe I could head across the border, as you promised!” he rattled off in one breath.

On the other end, Ostoja’s nervous voice responded.

“Bata, the big players are looking for him now. I’ve got plenty of worries. Sit tight at home and don’t go out until we’ve caught them all!”

Monstrum stayed silent, hearing Ostoja end the call. He paused and put the phone in his pocket. “He’s talking about the fugitives in the plural. I wonder how many there are. But this makeup artist is the one that matters most to me. If he identifies me, I’m in deep trouble!” he concluded.

As he approached the gathering spot of the “Bloodsuckers,” he thought he might have spotted the police commissioner.

THE MILL

At the top of Mount Avala, not far from the helicopter and their pursuers, hidden in the dense coniferous underbrush, the fugitives were devising a plan. They hesitated, unsure whether to wait for the situation to calm down or to leave the mountain immediately.

“The Dragon arrived in a police helicopter, which could only have been authorized by my boss, Buda,” Inspector Zec noted. “That means he has support from the highest level. It’s possible they’ll send him reinforcements. I suggest we leave right away!”

“Rale, is there another route we could take to avoid your house?” Bane asked.

“There’s a detour that goes all the way around,” Ratko explained.

Nikola Kovač was tapping on his phone, hiding it beneath his jacket. He listened to the others while nervously biting his upper lip. “I’d give anything for a cigarette… but I can’t risk it; that would be the easiest way to give ourselves away!” He put his phone back in his pocket, waited for Rale to finish, and then, in a deep voice made even rougher by his silence, he decisively informed the group:

“I agree that we should go… but we won’t be hiding in your house, Raja. Since it’s registered in your name, they’ll find us quickly. My late wife inherited an abandoned mill near Topola… we never transferred the ownership, so it’s still in her uncle’s name. It’s not much, but it’ll do. We just need to get there before they issue a warrant!” Kovač rattled off in one breath.

Raja considered contacting his boss to ask him to delay issuing a warrant, but he wasn’t sure how wise that would be. “If he sent the Dragon a helicopter, that means Buda is definitely under his thumb. I can’t risk it!” They got into the cars and, with their headlights off, began the descent toward their new destination. As they drove down the mountain toward the main road, the helicopter buzzed overhead before landing again near Ostoja’s and Rale’s houses. This time, a dozen heavily armed special forces officers disembarked from the helicopter. The fugitives, inadvertently descending the slopes of Avala, prayed no one would notice them.

“I told you they’d return with reinforcements,” Raja reminded his companions. ” I wonder what they’re blackmailing Buda with.”

The members of the special operations unit spread out around the helicopter, which caused a whirlwind on the field with its noise and downdraft. The rotor blades stirred up the damp grass and pebbles, sending mountain flora flying through the air, creating a misty curtain around the police team. The Dragon informed the unit commander of the locations where the fugitives might be hiding. Eight members of the police special forces set foot on the mountain terrain. Commander Marko efficiently directed his men, issuing orders and reminding them to stay connected and keep their walkie-talkies on at all times. The chase had begun.

“Alpha Unit in position. Proceeding with the operation!” Marko commanded.

While the special forces carried out their mission, the rest of the team at the house patiently waited to see how the pursuit would end. When Marko informed them that they hadn’t managed to locate the fugitives, the Dragon realized he would have to activate Plan B.

“Oh, Ostoja, you’ve managed to screw up everything that could be screwed up,” the Dragon spoke coldly. “Do you realize that this isn’t just about business and the company anymore? Our lives are at stake! If we don’t catch them, the truth about the massacre at the TV station will come out.”

Ljuban and Božo stared fearfully at their boss, who was drawing imaginary circles on the tablecloth. At that moment, the owner of the detective agency realized he was in a tight spot, through no fault of his own. He knew far more than he wanted to.

“Milan, whether you like it or not, we’re in this together now! Tough luck, that’s just how it is!” the Dragon concluded, reading his partner’s thoughts.

At Captain Marko’s call, the Dragon boarded the helicopter. They headed back to base, and the disappointment on the seasoned operative’s face was clear due to the operation’s failure.

The borrowed Pasat from Jova the café owner and the Škoda belonging to the Serbian Police, drove in strict stealth mode. They merged onto the main road and headed toward Topola, keeping an eye on the sky, alert for any sign of their current enemy, the helicopter. The hour-and-a-half drive felt like a year to each of them. Finally, Raja spotted a sign pointing toward Najdan’s mill. They drove down a muddy, rutted road until they reached the building that Kovač’s wife had inherited.

“Well, folks, welcome to the dowry my wife left me in my old age!” Nikola joked bitterly.

The entire journey went uninterrupted. “It seems the warrant will be issued only in the morning,” Raja thought. “It’s clear they want to keep the operation under wraps for as long as possible.” Inspector Zec had enough police experience to follow the thoughts of a intelligence officer like Petrović, as well as his boss, Milorad. “As young Rosić would say, ‘Policing is like sex—once you learn, you never forget, and the more you practice, the better you get!’” he concluded. They left the cars beneath a large tree and cautiously walked across dark meadows and hilly terrain. Nikola led them toward the mill, which had once sustained the entire district. Back in the day, farmers from the surrounding villages would bring their grain to be ground into fine corn and wheat flour at the mill owned by Master Najdan. Near the end of his life, old Najdan left the mill to his son, who then passed it on to Kovač’s wife, Milena. They had long planned to transfer the property into her name, but Milena suddenly fell ill and passed away within a year. The family didn’t care much for this piece of land, so the plot where the mill stood became practically no man’s land, an ideal home first for mice and rats—and now, out of necessity, a refuge for the fugitives from Belgrade.

As they moved forward, the sound of the river grew louder, and the air became filled with the scent of water and decaying plants from the riverbank. Nikola used a flashlight to illuminate the path for the group, which consisted of both old and newly made friends. Innocent but caught in the abyss of madness that they couldn’t have imagined just days ago, they had gone from being law-abiding citizens to criminals whose names would likely appear on a wanted list—all because of human greed and the misdeeds of others. No one had stayed in the mill for years, but the structure was still in decent shape. They entered the house, and the group instinctively began checking the sturdiness of the walls, beams, doors, and windows. They concluded that Najdan’s cabin was still in solid condition. The roof didn’t leak, and the walls and window panes were intact, keeping the wind out. From the kitchen, stairs led down to the basement where the mill was located—a large, spacious room where the river’s power created a lot of noise and an additional sense of cold. The temperature in the basement was much lower than in the house. The hearth served as a stove, next to which stood a shaky table with several damaged chairs. By the sideboard, there was a door leading to the only bedroom—a large room with three beds, a nightstand, and an old, damp wardrobe.

“A visit to the homeland!” Bane joked. “Get to know your country so you can suffer more.”

The others ignored the comment, each burdened with enough personal problems to care about the lack of comfort in this necessary shelter they hadn’t wanted but were nevertheless grateful for. Nikola inspected every corner of the old mill, checking for rats and whether any supplies were left. Finally, he lit a fire in the hearth.

“We don’t have enough firewood; we’ll have to go to the forest,” the host noted.

Earlier, while they were discreetly making their way from Avala to Topola, Bane had managed to explain the details of the tragedy to Nemanja. Pavić listened attentively but understood little. He struggled to piece together the mosaic of horrific events that had so tragically intersected in the past week. Darko thought less and less about food and more about his boyfriend, Joca. During his captivity, he had begun to fear that he might never see him again. “My beautiful soul, I didn’t even get to surprise him with the trip to Paris,” he lamented in his thoughts. During the drive, Raja had plenty of time for self-reflection. Guilt gnawed at him for once again disappointing his wife. He had missed the dinner they had planned that morning. “God gives, but the devil won’t let you take, my Zec!” he thought regretfully. As for Bane, after explaining everything to his colleague in detail, he began mentally drafting the article he believed would earn him the Pulitzer Prize. Meanwhile, Nikola was organizing the sleeping arrangements in the mill.

“Pavić, Ristić, and Mascara can take the bedroom. Rale, Zec, and I will stay here in the kitchen. Let’s get some rest, and in the morning, with clear heads, we’ll make a plan. We’ll need to take care of food, firewood… We’ll also need to get new SIM cards and chargers for our phones so we can stay connected to the world,” Kovač instructed his companions as he distributed the old blankets.

The accommodations in the mill weren’t to anyone’s taste, but necessity knows no law, so everyone fell asleep without much complaint. Throughout the night, they relived the adventure into which they had been unwillingly plunged. Sleeping in cramped quarters quickly revealed its downside. Darko snored so loudly that his roommates kept nudging and waking him. Rale, deprived of rakija, started to go through withdrawal. He was tormented by hallucinations of white mice snatching the expensive bourbon from Ostoja’s villa right in front of his nose. Bane dreamed of Teodora’s naked body lying on a huge canvas, while Nikola relived the accident that left him disabled. As soon as dawn broke, Kovač stoked the fire. He let them sleep a little longer, then, imitating a bugle call, commanded them to wake up. There was neither water nor electricity in the mill, so they skipped the morning routines they would have followed had they been in civilization.

“Nikola, what about water and food?” Rale asked.

Kovač was smoking his first cigarette, carefully tapping the ashes out the window. As he waited for a response, Raja also lit up.

“Down in the village, I have an acquaintance who I’m sure won’t betray us. He respects me a little, and fears me even more. He’ll give us water, and we can buy what we need at the local shop. But do you guys have any money on you?”

They took out the money they had in their pockets. No one had been prepared for a sudden escape, so there wasn’t much cash among them. Kovač gathered the money, put on his jacket, and set off toward the village. Nemanja followed him out and lit a cigarette in front of the mill. He sat on a large stone, exhaling smoke through his mouth and nose. Once again, images of the kidnapping, the time spent at Ostoja’s house, and the beatings flashed before his eyes. He thought of Vesna, the children, his parents, his fallen colleagues… How had his loved ones coped with the news that he had overnight become a monster, a mass murderer, and a suicide? He hadn’t been a good father or husband. He always put work before family. His parents had given him everything, loved him—and he hadn’t reciprocated. He only reached out to them when he needed something: to his mother for information about the business dealings of newly wealthy individuals, and to his father when he ran out of money. More than anything, he was troubled by the question: who carried out the massacre, and why had they set him up? “Even Tarantino would be proud of such a scenario,” he remarked to himself. “I just wonder—why?! So much effort just to get a journalist behind bars?!” It was hard for him to grasp the motive behind the crime. The question of all questions was: who would be willing to sacrifice innocent lives to settle a score with him?

Suddenly, he realized he still didn’t know which of his colleagues had been killed. They had told him everything in a rush, so he hadn’t had time to absorb the details. He stubbed out his cigarette and wandered down to the river, where Bane joined him.

“I had just returned from America when the tragedy struck!” Bane began, breaking the silence. “Honestly, I couldn’t believe you were capable of something like that. But then again, as my editor says—people can snap!”

“You haven’t told me who among our colleagues was killed…”

“Everyone who was in the building that morning died. Editor Raka Mandžukić, colleague Boško Karajović, secretary Bojana Dimitrijević, cameraman Maksa, and the doorman Vasa. Later, Balša Torbica, the director of the company where your wife works, was also killed,” Bane listed, as if reading from a roster.

“Oh God, those poor people…” Nemanja muttered, his bewildered expression still not leaving his face. “And what have you uncovered so far…?”

“I just picked up where you left off. After your funeral, Mrs. Radmila gave me the bag where you kept evidence of the embezzlement at ‘Maler Export.’ Later, Zec and Kovač joined me.”

Nemanja bummed a cigarette from Bane, and they both walked down to the river, which, after the rain, was carrying debris from the village. Meanwhile, Nikola was making his way uphill from Najdan’s mill. As he approached the village, he spotted a solitary house surrounded by fields. He moved closer to the property and, even from the gate, noticed that the barns, sheds, and garages were in a pitiful state. Even the house itself was quite dilapidated. The estate had once stretched across dozens of hectares. Before the war, Radovan’s father had been the leading landowner in the village. With the arrival of the new regime, the land had gradually diminished until all they had left was the house and about fifty acres of land they cultivated for their own needs. As a promising Secret Service agent and local son-in-law, Kovač had been assigned to deal with subversive elements in the village. He discovered that Radovan was the organizer of a group of villagers who were sabotaging the socialist progress of the area. Nikola had visited him then with two policemen, and soon after, the entire Pešić family had quieted down and even joined the work of the Socialist Alliance of Working People. With the rise of nationalism in Serbia, Radovan became active again. He was involved in politics for a while, but after a family tragedy, he decided to withdraw from public life for good. He shut himself up within four walls, waiting for his time to come. Nikola knew this man despised him but hoped he still feared him a little. That was his only hope, because without water and electricity in the mill, they wouldn’t be able to hide out for long. He entered the yard full of junk and debris; a dog barked, and the chickens momentarily paused their clucking to observe the newcomer. He knocked on the door and waited. A few minutes later, he heard slow footsteps approaching. Radovan opened the door with sluggish movements. At first, he didn’t recognize the visitor. He squinted, scrutinizing him carefully. When he realized who it was, Pešić looked at the guest with curiosity.

“Good morning!” Kovač greeted him. “May I come in?”

“If the devil himself had come, I’d be less surprised,” Radovan replied grimly. “Come in, brother, who’s stopping you? Since when do you lot ask for permission?!”

The house was in complete disarray, with dust on the old furniture and cobwebs in the corners of the rooms. The TV in the living room was humming in the background. They sat at the kitchen table, where remnants of yesterday’s meal still lay. Radovan offered his guest a cigarette and lit one for both of them with a match.

“What brings you here, mighty man?”

“I need your help, Radovan,” Nikola replied directly. “I’m here with some friends, hiding out at Najdan’s mill. Can you bring us water and food? We also need to charge our phones and get new SIM cards.”

The host looked at Kovač with disbelief, drawing on his cigarette with uncontrolled drags. He stood up, brought out a bottle of rakija, and poured it into glasses.

“There’s no water or electricity up there. The nights are getting colder. You won’t last a week in that mill.”

“I know, Radovan, but we have no choice. Powerful people are on our heels, and our lives are in danger,” replied the retired inspector.

“You’re a retired now, right? No one to protect you anymore, so you’ve come to your enemy! Do you remember, Nikola, how your lot beat me to a pulp?” Pešić said bitterly.

Nikola blushed, downed the rakija in one gulp, and replied with a shaky voice, “They say the wheel of fortune always turns.”

“Wait until nightfall and bring them here. The house is big, and I’ve been alone for a long time. Ever since my son and wife died, I’ve been just scraping by, waiting for the day I’ll see them again up there.”

“Are you sure?” Kovač asked. “If they find us here, you’ll be in trouble too.”

“What have I got to lose! Bring them tonight; you’ll be safe here. No one visits me anymore anyway. They say I’m a grouch and a miser… And yet, I’ve helped everyone in this village!”

Nikola thanked his former enemy and then headed back across the fields toward the mill.

After landing from the mountain, Dragan Petrović jumped out of the helicopter and into his car, driving straight to his house in Dedinje. Exhausted, angry, and irritable, he immediately brewed a large pot of coffee. “What should I do if we don’t find them?” he thought. “I’m no longer concerned about the company’s future or the deals with Ukraine—I need to save my freedom and, frankly, my life! I relied too much on Ostoja; he’s not cut out for operations like this,” Dragon regretted. He knew many influential people who were always ready to help him, but if Nemanja Pavić appeared in public, not even the president could save him. “There’s one positive thing that gives me hope. Besides me, the truth is only known by Milan, Ostoja, his bodyguards… Oh yes, and Zec and Kovač! They’ve gotten entangled in this mess, just like that gay guy—I’d almost forgotten about him! There are too many weak links in the chain we loosely forged,” he nervously recounted in his mind. As he finished his coffee, dawn began to break. He mentally reviewed dozens of different scenarios, trying to find a way out of the mess. “We tried kidnapping Pavić’s wife and kids, and intimidating his parents, but we’re still stuck at square one… Enough of this messing around with Ostoja’s amateurs! I’ll have to take matters into my own hands! I’ll take a shower—then it’s time for the final showdown!”

BUDA

His given name was Milorad, but among police officers, he was known as Buda, and his superiors in the Ministry addressed him formally as Miloradović. The Chief of Police hadn’t slept a wink all night. Since Dragon Petrović had rightfully demanded a helicopter and a special unit, Milorad decided to stay in his office. He had approved an operation that constituted a serious breach of service rules, and his colleagues would surely discover this quickly, so he had to issue orders personally. The special forces had just returned from the mission. The commander of the special unit told the chief that Dragon was dissatisfied and had left straight for home after getting off at the training grounds. He then gave his report to the chief. No one was injured, the equipment was intact, but the mission was not successful. Buda thanked the officer and dismissed him.

“I’d ask you to keep this between us,” he said in a half-whisper.

“Of course, Chief, don’t worry,” the commander replied.

Instead of coffee to wake him up in the early morning, Milorad poured himself some brandy. He reflected on the previous night. For years, he had been a model police officer, but then that unfortunate accident happened. He had gotten off scot-free only because the police had deliberately not done their job. From that day on, he had lost his integrity because whenever Dragan Petrović and his associates felt like it, they smeared his reputation with the rancid stench of corruption. “Once you screw up, you’ll never wash it off for the rest of your life,” he thought bitterly. He took a sip of the brown liquid when the phone rang. It was the Deputy Minister of Police.

“Miloradović, what the hell are your people doing, for God’s sake? Farmers are calling, asking if a war has started.”

“Mr.Dragon requested a helicopter and a special unit, and you don’t say no to him,” the chief replied.

“If the minister finds out, you and I are both screwed! I couldn’t care less about Dragon or any other monster! Pray the news doesn’t spread through the headquatter—if this happens again, you’ll answer to me!” the deputy said angrily.

“Boss, I’d love for you to tell all of that directly to Petrović! I’m sure he’d appreciate it. As for me, do as you please—demote, punish, whatever you want,” Buda replied indifferently.

After he ended the call, his cell phone lit up again. It was a message from Raja’s wife, Marina.

“Raja hasn’t come home since the night before last. He’s not answering his phone. Something’s wrong. Please help, Milorad!”

He replied that he would let her know as soon as he found out anything. “What should I do about Zec… He’s my best and most trusted inspector. My reputation is already ruined, but I won’t let my friend down!” Chief Buda thought, and immediately sent a message to Raja.

“I know the situation has gotten complicated. I screwed up, but I won’t let you down. Let me know if you need help.”

He finished the rest of his brandy and took his gun from the safe. He left his office and headed toward the main entrance, where the duty officer was sitting.

“Stop the warrant we issued yesterday and call that young Rosić. Tell him to contact me immediately on my mobile!” he ordered the surprised mustachioed officer at the reception desk and left the building.

The gloomy morning hinted at a long autumn and a police operation that had been simmering in the chief’s mind for a while. As he hesitated between getting a burger from “Seeeagle” or a burek from “Little Neša,” a message arrived on his phone. He thought it was from Zec, but he was wrong—it was from young Rosić.

“Chief, you told me to contact you. I can’t talk; there are too many people around me. Write what it’s about!”

Milorad chuckled. “’Too many people around him,’ ha, he’s probably in the middle of a fling!” he thought, then with surprisingly nimble fingers for his age, began typing on the keyboard.

“Park in front of the house at Kotlinska 5 and wait for my call. Don’t speak to me when you see me. If I don’t come out by noon, call for backup and search the house. No questions.”

He sent the message, marveling at how quickly he had adapted to this form of communication. His son had recently told him that the telegram was invented in 1837, and the telephone in 1876. It took scientists forty years to help humanity move from written communication to direct verbal conversation. Mobile phones had given us the ability to even see our conversation partners during calls. Then the young people decided to reverse the course of technological development, making it almost impolite to call someone when you could just send a text message. “I hope they won’t make us learn Morse code, just to save even more time!” he thought angrily.

“On my way! came Rosić’s reply.”

HOOLIGANS

After submitting his report on the Yugoslav Film Archive, American journalist Erik Stone turned his attention to a new topic—the position of homosexuals and the LGBT community in Serbia. He wanted to use his connection from the café “Rainbow” to gather as much information as possible. Pianist Jovan Radić immediately offered to be his personal guide through the capital, so they set off on their mission right away. They visited the Pride Info Center, then stopped by the restaurant “Tata Mata” for breakfast. Erik was happy, having already pleased his editor with one story and had another ready in his head—he just needed to put it down on virtual paper and send it across the ocean via email.

“I haven’t mentioned this before,” Jovan opened up, “but my boyfriend went missing a week ago, and there’s been no trace of him since!”

“Do you think it has something to do with his sexual orientation or something else?” Erik asked, intrigued.

“I have no idea, my friend! I reported him missing, but the police have been silent. I just hope he’s alive, and we’ll deal with everything else. His name is Darko, and he works as a film makeup artist,” the pianist shared.

From the restaurant, they headed toward the Music Academy, where Jovan worked as an adjunct faculty. As they passed a park, Erik noticed a commotion. They approached the crowd and saw a brutal fight between two groups of young men.

Just an hour earlier, the café “Gipsy” was brimming with a warlike atmosphere. About twenty young men with shaved heads, dressed in red-and-white jerseys or t-shirts with various sports-related slogans, had flooded the café’s patio. These proven brawlers were ready for action. They had arrived an hour early to warm up with some beer and be ready for the showdown. Their leaders occupied the bar, with Vlada Kikirez, the reason for the fight, leading the conversation.

“I’d have kicked their asses, but there were more of them! If I’d brought my gun, we’d be holding a memorial service for them today!”

“We were planning a brawl at the derby anyway; this can be a conditioning workout,” Sima the Boxer remarked.

When Bata Monstrum entered, the fans greeted him loudly, and the café owner immediately served an espresso with Turkish delight to the leader of the punitive expedition. Monki greeted everyone and then detailed the plan of action.

“So, we’ll wait for him at the intersection near Mokranjac, there’s also that park where they won’t see us. If the cops show up, the park is the perfect place to slip away,” Bata summarized. “The action starts in half an hour. And you there, enough with the beer!”

By now, there were more than fifty guys in the café’s patio. Despite Bata’s orders, most of them were still drinking beer, which gave them extra courage. They impatiently awaited the start of the brawl.

“Kikirez called a buddy from TV to film the aftermath, so the Gravediggers can see what Gorogan will look like,” said the shaved-head leader.

“Shut up before Monstrum hears you! He wouldn’t agree to the fight being filmed,” a short guy with a Ronaldo-style haircut hushed him.

Bata led the way, followed closely by the large group of hooligans. No one went empty-handed. There was an assortment of weapons, mostly baseball bats and chains. According to the plan, the group stayed in the park while Vlada Kikirez went on a scouting mission. A few minutes later, he came running back, panicking as he reported to the boss.

“Bata, Gorogan isn’t alone! A large group of Gravediggers is approaching. Although, there are fewer of them than us… maybe twenty or so. How did they know?” he wondered.

“Your TV buddy betrayed you!” Sima snapped.

“What TV buddy?!” Monstrum asked, confused.

“He wanted to show off in front of the cameras, the idiot! Now we’ll have to fight Gorogan’s best men because of him!” Boxer continued.

“There’s no turning back now! We’ll fight; we have no choice! And you, Kikirez, I’ll deal with you later!” Bata hissed.

The Bloodsuckers were the first to attack, but the Gravediggerswere ready for them. The element of surprise was lost as the information about the ambush had reached the opposing camp. Bata charged straight at Gorogan, hitting him with a chain on the shoulder and immediately incapacitating him. Seeing their leader on the sidewalk, his followers attacked even more fiercely, trying to outpace the more numerous Bloodsuckers. Clubs were swinging everywhere… cries, curses, and blood on the pavement… The TV BG9 crew was filming the street brawl the whole time. Dozens of injured fans from both sides lay on the pavement. Bata Monstrum continued to swing his chain and charge at opponents. He glanced to the side—and saw Vlada Kikirez hiding in a nearby bush. He left the Gravediggers and headed toward the coward in his ranks. He immediately struck him with the chain on the back, then followed up with a punch, knocking him out instantly.

“We’re bleeding because of you?! You, the gentleman, called the TV—and now you’re hiding in the bushes!!!”

The Bloodsuckers pushed the rival group to the next intersection, from where everyone quickly scattered. Bata kicked Kikirez a few more times, then noticed a cameraman recording his every move. He shouted at the top of his lungs.

“Hey, you, big head! You want me to shove that thing up your ass?!” he yelled at the cameraman and ordered his followers, “We’re pulling back before the cops show up! Run through the park, and then everyone home!”

After putting Kikirez in his place, Bata glanced around and spotted Joca and Erik, whom he had met that morning in “Rainbow.” Feeling uncomfortable, he pretended not to see them. From the battlefield, Monki headed to Pretty Miško’s place, in case the police came looking for him at home. He analyzed every detail of the fight, particularly worrying about the TV crew. As the brawl in front of the park died down, people began to disperse, and Jovan and Erik continued on to the Music Academy.

“By the way, as soon as Pretty Miško saw you, he fell in love,” joked Jo Jo Ra.

“But I’m not gay!” the American said, surprised.

“You’re not, but he is!”

FRUŠKA GORA

After her abduction and subsequent return home, Vesna Pavić decided not to leave anything to chance. She resolved to immediately take her children to safety. She went to consult with her in-laws and suggested hiding with her parents. Vesna’s parents lived near Srbobran, about a hundred miles from the capital.

“I know, dear,” Dr. Pavić mused aloud, “but that’s the first place they’ll look.”

“My sister has a cottage on Fruška Gora,” Radmila remembered. “Her property is far from the road, and the nearest neighbor is miles away. I’ll call her right away!”

Vesna knew she couldn’t be picky. She was aware of the situation. They were lucky when Bata Monstrum released them. He hadn’t harmed, mistreated, or interrogated them, but she still feared they weren’t done with them yet. Radmila quickly made the call and returned from the kitchen, satisfied.

“My brother-in-law is on his way with the key. I’ll drive you there, and you stay put and keep quiet. Let me pack some food from what we have at home!” Radmila Pavić informed them. “And when we get there, I’ll buy more supplies in the village.”

An hour later, in Dr. Pavić’s Fiat, the mother-in-law, daughter-in-law, and grandchildren were heading towards Fruška Gora.

RADOVAN

As he returned from the village, it started to pour. Soaked to the bone, Kovač entered the watermill.

“It’s pouring cats and dogs; even the opposition and the government will be sleeping together tonight!” Nikola grumbled.

The friends gathered, eagerly awaiting news from the village. Kovač informed them of the change in plans, and for the first time, the fugitives felt a bit uplifted. When a person is in trouble, it doesn’t take much to find a fragment of happiness in the most bizarre little things and twists life offers.

“Colleague,” Bane shouted with a smile on his face, “if one day we write a book about this madness we’re living through, I suggest we call it The Happy Millers!”

“I don’t know how ‘happy’ these ‘millers’ really are,” Darko added, “but I’d give anything right now for a bowl of hot soup and a good schnitzel with potatoes—then the hapiness would be complete!”

“Maybe a better title for the book would be The Asylum or, at least, The Mental Mill!” Raja joked.

Nemanja remained silent. The last week of his life had been more absurd than any version of madness. Any form of joy, even sarcastic, seemed like an impossible mission to him. These people had inadvertently ended up on his side, but he knew he had to be cautious. “Blabbing never did anyone any good,” he struggled with mixed feelings, “but being too reserved can also seem suspicious,” he added to his thought.

“Colleague, I’ve been meaning to ask you… when did you change your style? I know I was cut off from civilization for a while, but I doubt fashion has changed that much.”

“The Happy Millers” burst into laughter, and Bane, with the flair of a runway model, proudly showed off the outfit Teodora had pulled from the theater’s costume fund.

“I even had a wig, in the style of a scruffy hippie from the late seventies, but I took it off. Jokes aside, this costume saved my life because they were following me the whole time.”

A glimmer of normalcy lit up Najdan’s watermill, and its temporary residents couldn’t wait for nightfall. At dusk, the millers left their base and headed towards Radovan Pešić’s house. They were much happier than the day before. Some had smiles on their faces, while others radiated a mysterious optimism. Darko looked forward to food, Nemanja to cigarettes, Rale to rakija, and Bane to the latest news. Inspector Zec was still weighing whether to contact his chief, while a seed of doubt lingered in Nikola’s mind—was Radovan’s invitation sincere or just a way to get revenge for past wrongs? “Whatever happens, happens; there’s no turning back now,” he thought.

As they moved towards the village, Kovač kept urging the “Happy Millers” to stay quiet and avoid drawing attention.

“Just so you know, our host Radovan is quite the grump. The house is a mess, so it wouldn’t hurt to tidy up a bit. If it’s hard, just remember the conditions in the mill.”

“It’s not hard,” Mascara replied. “But how’s the food situation? You said he lives alone… so, who does the cooking?”

“Stop obsessing over food, for heaven’s sake!” Ratko snapped. “Enough already!”

“Well, Rale, if you hadn’t starved us for days, I wouldn’t be!” Darko retorted.

“Quiet back there!” Raja shouted from the front of the line.

When they reached Pešić’s house, Nikola knocked on the door and immediately entered.

“Come on in,” Radovan greeted them. “Make yourselves at home!”

They climbed upstairs and spread out across the bedrooms, and then Nikola organized a work party.

“Radovan, where do you keep the broom, dustpan? And if you have some old rags… We’re going to clean your house. Darko, you handle the dishes since the kitchen is your domain.”

The millers got to work, and within two hours, the house was sparkling clean. Mascara fried some eggs with bacon, and Rale baked a loaf of bread. They all had dinner together and then sat down to watch the evening news on TV BG9.

IN THE DRAGON’S NEST

After leaving the Police building, Chief Milorad Miloradović walked towards Dedinje. It had been many years since he last strolled through the city. Every day, a driver would wait for him in front of his house. He would ride in the official vehicle to work, spend the entire day there, and then return home in the same car in the evening. Weekends were spent with his grandchildren, and his only recreation was the occasional park visit, which he would drive to. Milorad passed by the building where Raja’s parents lived. He used to be treated by Dr. Pavić and had known Radmila since childhood. He remembered how, just before graduation, he harbored a secret crush on her. After all these years, it was ironic that he had to investigate the mysterious crimes involving Radmila’s son! He considered stopping by to offer support, but it seemed too early for that. At the corner of Boulevard Mihajlo Pupin and Milentije Popović street, he spotted Bata Monstrum. Monki didn’t notice him—after all, who would expect the Police chief to be taking a leisurely morning walk through the city center? Milorad quickened his pace towards Boulevard. In front of the café, a police patrol was checking IDs, TV crews were interviewing witnesses, and curious onlookers were watching. “A fan brawl! I completely forgot about that,” he realized, and turned into the first side street. Ten minutes later, he stopped in front of a luxurious villa at Kotlinska Street 5. He surveyed the area and saw no one. Then he spotted the car belonging to his young colleague Rosić. “This kid is good—reliable and loyal,” he noted with satisfaction. He waved to his colleague, and Rosić responded with a nod, signaling that he was ready for further instructions. Milorad entered the gate and quickly slipped behind the house. He used a screwdriver to open the door leading from the living room to the terrace. He entered the spacious salon, where a grand piano stood as the centerpiece. He walked quietly through the house, trying to determine if the owner was home. He climbed the stairs and heard the sound of running water from the bathroom. He cracked open the door to one of the rooms, hid behind it, and peeked through the small opening to observe the situation. The water from the shower stopped. Milorad heard footsteps, the sound of a towel being wrapped around a body, then the opening of a wardrobe and the rustling of clothes. He waited for the shadow to approach and then jumped out of the room with a gun in hand.

“Good morning, mighty Dragon! Let’s not mess around; we’re both professionals. You know I won’t hesitate to shoot if you try anything,” Milorad said sternly.

“Of course, Chief! If you didn’t do it, I certainly would,” Dragon Petrović agreed. “What’s the matter? Your conscience woke up? You want to serve justice—forgetting the injustice you did to the family of the girl you ran over like a dog on the road?”

“Where is Raja Zec, Petrović?” Buda cut the discussion short. “You can blackmail and humiliate me, but I won’t let you take my best inspector. They’re like my children! They grew up and learned the trade under me.”

He motioned with the gun for the host to go downstairs and sit on the couch in the living room, but then suddenly changed his mind.

“Before you sit down, pour us a whiskey. It’s my first time visiting your house.”

The host complied, calmly pouring the drinks into glasses, handing one to his guest, and taking a sip from the other. He slowly approached the armchair and casually slumped into it.

“Milorad, it’s silly to remind you who you’ve crossed,” Dragan said arrogantly. “Whatever you’re planning, it won’t end well for you. I’m too big a bite for you to chew! But… just think about it—you have kids and grandkids, my friend! Don’t play with fire, because the blaze will consume all of you!”

Buda took a sip of whiskey and sat down on the couch opposite Dragon. He made a face as if he was “terribly frightened” by his interlocutor’s threat.

“I’m in no hurry. And I’ve got backup in case something happens to me. I’m not leaving until you tell me where Raja Zec is.”

“And I was, you see, planning to ask you that! Raja disappeared along with some other fugitives,” Dragan nervously recalled the failed operation. “We searched for them all night, but it’s like they vanished into thin air. Think about it, it would be smarter for you to join the winning side, and we’ll look for them together. The police and the Secret Service have forever been on the same side. Now you’re suddenly deciding to change the rules and start a revolution…?”

Milorad pulled out handcuffs and carefully secured Petrović to the metal part of the armchair, took the remote, and turned on the TV. He refilled their glasses and lit a Cuban cigar he found on the table.

“As I said, I have no obligations, and I really like it here at your place,” Milorad concluded. “By the way, where’s your bathroom?”

Dragan ran his free hand along the padded side of the armchair, searching for the lever that would lower the reclining footrest.

“Second door on the right,” Petrović answered. “And when you’re done, make us some coffee, would you?”

“That’s actually a good idea. I could use a cup myself.”

After finishing up in the bathroom, Chief Milorad Miloradović put a pot of coffee on the stove. While he busied himself in the kitchen, the captive Dragon didn’t stay idle. He kept fiddling with the backrest of the armchair. It was only when the coffee was ready that he rested his hand on his lap. Milorad placed the cup of coffee on the armrest of the chair.

“I made it without sugar. I wasn’t sure how you take it,” Milorad said.

“Bitter is fine. Go ahead, put on a channel; let’s watch the news,” Petrović politely requested.

During the news broadcast, fatigue began to catch up with the chief. “I didn’t get a wink of sleep all night, and my age isn’t helping…,” he thought, struggling to stay awake. The decision to confront the powerful Dragan Petrović, known as the Dragon, had been an easy one for Buda. He hadn’t come up with a precise plan but relied on his years of police experience. The most important thing right now was to find Raja. Zec wasn’t just his best inspector; he was also a distant relative since he was married to Milorad’s niece, Marina. Milorad sensed that something big was brewing and was ready for anything. He was risking a lot to take down the man who had held him under his thumb for years. “If I can’t do my job properly and arrest the wealthy criminals, at least I don’t have to help them!” Fatigue was steadily overtaking him. He got up to stretch his legs, walked over to the sink, and splashed water on his face. On the TV screen, there was a picture of Nemanja Pavić, as yet another media tirade on violence in society played out. He tried to focus on the news segment but eventually drifted off to sleep. When Dragon noticed that his “jailer” had dozed off, he grew increasingly agitated and began fidgeting in the armchair. He glanced at the clock, then toward the windows that illuminated the living room. Suddenly, a smile spread across his face as he looked toward the terrace and signaled with his head. It was his men. Dragan Petrović had equipped his house with state-of-the-art surveillance and alarm systems and had people assigned to monitor the happenings within. The cameras were usually off, but Dragon had a button in each room that could activate them in case of emergency. These buttons were strategically placed in convenient locations, like on the nightstand in the bedroom, on the toilet in all bathrooms, under the kitchen table, and of course, on his favorite armchair. When Milorad had ordered him to sit on the couch, Petrović had, at the last moment, settled into the armchair instead. The chief hadn’t noticed, and now he was unexpectedly sound asleep. Dragon’s men carefully entered through the sliding terrace door. When Milorad opened his eyes, he saw three masked men and felt the cold barrel of a gun against his temple.

“Give me the handcuff key!” demanded one of the masked men.

Milorad complied. He was furious with himself for entering the operation unprepared. “Haste makes waste,” he thought. “I should’ve known better!” Petrović’s guards immediately freed their boss and ordered the chief to come with them. As he slowly stood up, he heard a familiar voice.

“Drop your weapons and sit on the couch! All of you!!! Don’t anyone move! I’ll shoot Petrović, and then you can kill me afterward if you want!” said the young inspector Rosić.

The bodyguards looked at Dragon, who nodded for them to lower their weapons. Rosić, who had been monitoring the situation from a car parked outside Petrović’s house, had brought handcuffs with him but didn’t have enough for everyone. He cuffed the bodyguards to each other and then secured the last one to the couch. They looked as if they were playing a seated version of a game of “ring around the rosie.” Petrović remained in the armchair.

“We can’t stay long, Chief! The cameras are probably still recording us,” Rosić urged his superior.

“What can I tell you, son? When you jump into a pond full of crocodiles, there’s no turning back. Just keep swimming and hope for the best!”

Milorad called the commander of the Special Operations Unit and ordered him to surround and block off the house, allowing no one to enter. Within twenty minutes, they saw masked operatives positioning themselves around the yard through the terrace doors.

“Here come your ‘colleagues,’ and they’re wearing masks too,” Rosić joked to the tied-up men.

Milorad took out his phone, handed it to Rosić, and asked, “Type out a message for Raja Zec for me. You’ll be much quicker at it. Write this…”

BACK TO THE BIG, DIRTY CITY

In the village near Najdan’s mill, during the TV news broadcast, a message appeared on Raja’s phone. It was from his boss, Milorad:

“Head to Belgrade immediately. I’ve arrested Dragan Petrović, but I can’t transport him to the station. Dragon’s security is outside the house—they’re armed to the teeth. I need your help. When you see this message, don’t call, just come. Address: Kotlinska 5.”

He hesitated before sharing the news with his friends; he wasn’t entirely sure of his boss’s sincerity. After dinner, their host Radovan was sipping homemade wine, listening to the conversation. The TV news anchor was introducing a segment about the clash between rival fans outside the “Partisan” café. The screen showed a brutal fight between two groups of young men, relentlessly beating each other with clubs, chains, and other weapons. “How did a TV crew end up on the scene right at the moment of the brawl?” Nemanja, who had worked for years as a TV reporter, commentator, and analyst, wondered. “Such a coincidence happens once in a hundred years! Really strange…” After a few minutes of intense fighting, the camera focused on Bata Monstrum beating Kikirez, followed by a close-up of Monki’s deranged face, where satisfaction and the pleasure of inflicting pain were evident.

“That’s him!” Darko Bojić shouted. “The man on the screen is the one I made up to look like Nemanja Pavić…”

Everyone in the room fell silent.

“That’s Bata Monstrum!” Inspector Zec explained. “He’s a gang leader, a hardened criminal, and a psychopath!”

“So, the kind of person who could kill six people without a second thought?” Kovač added with a question.

Nemanja held his head in his hands. Now he was completely bewildered.

“They framed you for the crime because of the evidence you gathered against them,” Bane said, addressing his colleague Pavić. “But wasn’t one murder enough for them?”

Rale had just finished washing the dishes. He sat down at the kitchen table, poured himself some rakija, and joined in on Bane’s comment.

“My brother has a partner whose identity no one but Ostoja and his thugs know. They say it’s a very powerful man, which is why he always operates from the shadows. Maybe that man had a hand in all of this?”

“But… six innocent people… for God’s sake!!!” Raja exclaimed in disbelief.

“That’s how the Secret Service handles important operations,” Nikola added. “They make the situation so absurd that no one would suspect the truth. They don’t care much about human lives.”

The camera suddenly cut away from Bata Monki to the bystanders. Numerous onlookers were watching the rampaging fans. In a close-up, Erik and Jovan appeared on the screen.

“How did my American colleague end up here?” Bane exclaimed. “I completely forgot about him!”

Darko suddenly lost his breath. He saw his boyfriend in the company of another man.

“That’s my Jovan! My God, in the middle of a brawl and with a black guy! Should I be worried or jealous?” Mascara lamented.

Radovan continued to listen to the guests, lighting one cigarette after another, and finally spoke.

“I immediately recognized this journalist who was accused of killing all those people. I admit, you look pretty good for a dead man,” he said to Nemanja. “I didn’t want to ask anything, but now I have my answer. I hate the police so much that I wouldn’t call them even for something this serious. Nikola knows that.”

Kovač nodded. They needed to act quickly, efficiently, and wisely. If nothing else, at least they had uncovered the truth about the mass murder! Raja felt it was the right moment to inform his friends about the message he had received from his boss. Kovač wasn’t particularly surprised. He knew Dragan Petrović well and understood who they were dealing with. “We can’t afford to make a mistake now,” he thought. “The only thing I don’t understand is the chief… First, he gave Zmaj a helicopter and special forces, and now he’s holding him captive in a villa in Babinje! Raja obviously trusts him, so I guess I have to as well.” Inspector Zec poured himself some rakija to clear his throat, sharpen his thoughts, and gather courage. The others remained silent. Darko was watching a sci-fi series on TV, Rale was indulging in plum brandy, while Nemanja and Bane sifted through papers on the table together. Host Radovan sat aside, watching them with satisfaction. “No one has entered my house since my loved ones died. It’s nice to be with people, no matter who they are!” he thought.

“Kovač and I are heading to Belgrade to help my boss prevent a bloodbath and escort Dragon to prison,” Raja announced.

Focused on the sensation of rakija sliding down his throat, Rale was slow to realize that this Dragon was, in fact, his brother’s associate. He suddenly jerked up, walked over to the sink, and splashed water on his face. He returned to his seat at the dining table and, in a hoarse voice, addressed Zec and Nikola.

“Ostoja is rarely afraid of anyone, but he’s terrified of his partner. I think Dragon organized the operations and used his connections, while Ostoja’s job was to handle the dirty work and executions.”

“We should locate Ostoja,” Kovač added. “But for that, we need more people. We can’t underestimate his bodyguards. The Božo and Ljuban brothers from Knin are seasoned warriors.”

“Rale, where do you think your brother might be hiding?” Bane asked, glancing up from the documents scattered across the table.

“Besides the family house on Avala, which he calls a weekend cottage—I really wouldn’t know. A lot of people owe him favors; he could be anywhere,” Ratko Novičić replied uncertainly. Then, suddenly remembering, he added, “He once mentioned he was planning to buy a house in Banja! Raja could ask his people to check into that.”

Zec immediately called his colleagues to comb through the names of property owners in Banja and signaled to Nikola that it was time to move. They had to help the chief bring the operation in “Dragon’s nest” to an end. The former and current inspector gave Bane the task of maintaining communication between Belgrade and Najdanovo, and to await further instructions for action. They removed the license plates from the borrowed Passat, attached them to Raja’s Škoda, and sped off towards the capital.

SIEGE

In the living room of Dragan Petrović Zmaj’s villa, three masked bodyguards sat on the couch. Tied together, they resembled members of a folk ensemble from the “Prisoners” troupe. Since the roles had suddenly reversed, Inspector Rosić approached them and roughly pulled off their balaclavas. Their hairstyles, clothes, and crosses around their necks all radiated the stereotype of local tough guys. “I’ve spent my entire life in the police,” Miloradović thought. “Back in my day, this is what mobsters and scoundrels looked like… If Rosić hadn’t shown up today by chance, I’d be in prison, and these thugs would be the good guys! Milorad, old man, it’s time for you to retire!”

“What do we do now, Chief?” Rosić asked, his voice betraying a hint of hidden fear.

Milorad’s phone rang from his pocket.

“Hello, Raja! Where are you, for God’s sake?! I told you to come, not to call me! … What?! I’m listening… Good… No way! I believe you, man, it’s just… it sounds like something out of a spy movie!” Milorad held the phone, trying to process the information he had just received.

“What’s going on, Chief?” the young inspector asked. “Where’s Raja?”

The chief signaled him to be quiet, as he continued listening to Inspector Zec’s unbelievable story.

“Come with Kovač to Kotlinska 5. The others should stay put. They’re safest there for now. We’re close to finally wrapping up this damn case… Hurry, please!”

After the call ended, Milorad went to the kitchen and put a large pot of coffee on the stove. Then he brought a chair over and sat down next to the captives.

“We’ll wait for Raja. And you, Petrović, better prepare to tell us everything from the beginning. You’re a smart man; you know you don’t have any other choice!”

The commander of the special unit securing the house from the yard entered the living room.

“Chief, about twenty armed men are still standing across the street. They’re not saying a word… those are the most dangerous! What should we do?”

“Same as before. Stay alert, but don’t react. Let them make the first move.”

A smile flickered across Dragan Petrović’s face.

“I told you, Miloradović, you don’t stand a chance!”

That evening, aside from the Presidential Residence, Dragan Petrović’s house at Kotlinska 5 was the most heavily guarded building in the country. The first ring of security consisted of members of the MUP’s Special Operations Unit, while across from them stood a group of about twenty armed and bristling young men who had come to free their boss. The tension was palpable. One wrong look, step, or shot—and there would be bloodshed. Not much time passed before the commander of the special forces re-entered the living room, this time with more urgency.

“Chief, their leader is asking to establish radio contact with Mr. Petrović. They gave us a walkie-talkie.”

Buda Miloradović found himself in a dilemma. If he fulfilled this request, Zmaj could order his men to attack. At the same time, he wanted to prolong the status quo, at least until Raja arrived. “We must avoid conflict at all costs,” he thought. He turned to the prisoner around whom this whole mess revolved.

“Dragan, it’s in no one’s interest to have a shootout. Young men on both sides will die, and nothing will change.”

“It’s not in your interest for your men to die, Milorad. I don’t care either way. Give me that walkie-talkie! I’ll tell them not to do anything for now.”

Milorad hesitated for a few moments, then handed him the walkie-talkie. Dragon kept his word. He told his security leader to stay on location and await further instructions. After the inevitable “over,” a voice from the other end of the radio came through.

“Boss, Vražalić from the BIA is here too. He wants to talk to you and Miloradović. Should we let him in? Over.”

“Let him in, Sheki!” Zmaj ordered.

Soon, Zoran Vražalić, one of the top officials of the Intelligence Service, entered the house—a man who had spent his entire life in the shadows, creating the kind of darkness that would swallow anyone who strayed from the right path. He belonged to the notorious secret police who had long memories and would exact full revenge whenever the opportunity arose. He shook hands with Milorad and merely nodded at the others.

“It’s really heated up here,” Vražalić said. “Let’s simplify things. We’ve known each other for at least twenty years; we’re not kids playing heroes. Whatever you decide, in the end, it’ll go the way I say.”

“What do you suggest, Zoran?” Milorad asked.

“I didn’t come to suggest anything, Chief. I came to give orders.”

The host stared intently around the room, assessing the situation. He was aware of his position but hoped that his old friend had come to save him. He listened carefully to what he had to say.

“Dragon, my friend… We’ve been through a lot together, slipped through fiery hoops. But this time, the Secret Service has decided to let you go downstream. You’ve crossed the line, my friend.”

Petrović’s face turned pale at that moment. He had feared such an outcome, yet still hoped for a different one. He had dedicated decades of his life to the Secret Service, completing every task successfully! It was hard to accept the truth that they had discarded him so casually, like an empty box of spent cigarettes.

“Take the radio and tell Šeki to pull back!” Vražalić ordered.

“Alright,” Dragon replied, taking the walkie-talkie from the chief’s hand.

He hesitated for a few moments, thinking. He looked around as if seeking help, advice, an explanation… He pressed the button on the radio and shouted:

“Šeki, launch the attack!”

There was silence on the other end. Panic-stricken, he pressed the transmitter again. He screamed at the top of his lungs. Still silence…

“Launch the attack, I said!!! Šeki, do you hear me?! Kill those bastards! Hel-looo!!! Over!” he screamed.

He tried in vain; the connection was cut off, and there was no response from the other side.

“As you can see, we made the right decision,” Vražalić remarked with satisfaction. “Before I came in, I ordered them to disperse. It’s as if you’ve forgotten who I am. Oh, my dear Dragan…” Vražalić gloated and continued, “Chief, take him to the station and follow your procedure. Let these three go. I promised Šeki we wouldn’t touch them; they’re his men.”

“Alright, Zoran, thank you! You prevented my men from dying in vain,” Miloradović responded.

He immediately called the number at the top of his phone’s screen.

“Change of plan, Raja! Come to the station; we’re done here!”

“Got it, Chief!” confirmed Buda’s best inspector and cousin.

Raja hung up, lit a cigarette, and felt a double wave of relief with the first puff.

“That’s good, Nikola,” he exhaled. “They’ve arrested Dragon, and we’re heading straight to the station.”

“Excellent,” Kovač replied. “I was afraid of a confrontation! Šeki’s group is tough—and they’re loyal to Petrović. Too many people have already died. We’ve had enough corpses! BIA must have had a hand in this because they wouldn’t have given up so easily…”

There was heavy traffic at the entrance to the city. Raja was getting frustrated, cursing the drivers on the road. He couldn’t wait for the moment when the whole case would finally be closed. He had invested so much effort to piece together the thousands of fragments to complete this bloody puzzle and solve the mystery. Under the city lights, the silver Škoda sped across the new bridge toward its destination, the Police garage in the city center. Raja cursed the driver of the red Renault who cut him off, then delved into his thoughts: “It all started spontaneously when Buda suddenly decided to take on Dragan Petrović on his own. He’d grown tired of his own cowardice and the submissive life he had led for years, following an invisible line of least resistance. He risked everything—his position, the safety of his family, and his own life.”

At the Belgrade Police headquarters, Inspector Rosić and Chief Miloradović sat across from Dragan Petrović, who remained silent in defense. The prisoner was taken to the largest interrogation room. While waiting for reinforcements, they brought him water and coffee. Dragon requested and received a cigarette. The coffee on the table remained untouched. Soon, Raja Zec and Nikola Kovač entered the room. The chief briefly summarized the events at Kotlinska 5 on Dedinje, while the others nodded in silence, eyeing Dragan Petrović, who still refused to speak without his lawyer present.

“Hello, Dragan, it’s been a long time,” Kovač addressed him. “I’m sorry we have to meet under these circumstances after all these years.”

Nikola approached the prisoner and touched his bound hands. It was a forced version of a greeting under such conditions. He took a sip from a water bottle and continued:

“Inspector Zec will inform you of the details of the investigation so far—and you, my friend, can decide whether it’s worth ignoring us or helping us bring this to an end.”

Raja lit a cigarette, cleared his throat, and then asked Rosić to bring them some coffee. He opened his notebook and began:

“The mother of journalist Nemanja Pavić worked as the head of accounting for your company ‘Maler Export.’ With her help, Nemanja obtained documents proving financial fraud. That was just the beginning. As he dug deeper, he discovered even more interesting details about your company’s involvement in arms exports to Ukraine. You, Petrović, knew that Nemanja had a strained relationship with his editor-in-chief Raka Mandžukić and that he suspected his wife of having an affair with the director, Balša Torbica. An experienced intelligence officer like you had no trouble putting two and two together… Your plan was truly ingenious! You kidnapped film makeup artist Darko Bojić, who turned the psychopath, killer, and gang leader Bata Monstrum into Nemanja Pavić’s double. The makeup artist was so good at his job that he did it perfectly. The next step was to kidnap journalist Pavić because he couldn’t be allowed to show up for work. The made-up Bata goes to the television building as Nemanja Pavić. He does what Bata knows best, loves, and enjoys doing. He kills everyone present in the television building and then continues his bloody spree. He goes to Torbica’s place and finishes him off at his doorstep. The next day, Nemanja’s suicide is staged. You planted weapons and clothes from the crime scenes and spiced them up with Pavić’s DNA samples, taken without his knowledge. The kidnapped Pavić and the makeup artist Mascara were taken by Ostoja to his estate. You planned to torture them to find out where he had hidden the evidence against you. A perfect crime, no doubt!”

Dragon stared at Raja with wide-open eyes. He couldn’t believe that the truth had been uncovered down to the smallest detail.

“But as we all know,” Nikola interjected, “there’s no such thing as a perfect crime!”

“Exactly,” Zec continued. “You didn’t anticipate—how could you?—that Nemanja’s mother would hand over the documents to journalist Bane Ristić from Urlik, and even less that Kovač and I would get involved. In the end, even Ostoja’s brother, Ratko, took pity on Darko and Nemanja and decided to free them. That was the beginning of the end for your operation. The blow that tore apart the web of the ‘perfect crime.’”

Petrović’s expression changed. The surprise quickly morphed into a strange indifference. He looked like a man who no longer cared about anything. He drank some water and asked Kovač for a cigarette.

“I quit smoking ten years ago, but I need one more; this is my second today,” he said in a calm voice and continued, “Alright, I’ll tell you everything in order. Bring in Avramović to take the official statement. I believe he’s on duty at the Prosecutor’s Office.”

When the prosecutor arrived, Dragon briefly repeated Raja’s story, and when asked why, besides the editor at BG9 Television, the journalist, cameraman, secretary, and doorman were also killed, Dragan Petrović sighed deeply and fully opened up.

“When we found out that journalist Pavić had evidence about the arms exports to Ukraine, I immediately connected the dots and realized that Radmila had betrayed us. Ostoja didn’t catch on until after the kidnapping of her grandchildren. But something else was on my mind. I had long planned to take revenge on the people who broke my heart three years ago. Those are the employees at BG9 Television, especially the morning shift crew.”

The others exchanged glances, trying to decipher what Petrović was talking about. No one understood what he was getting at.

“My late son, Petar Petrović, also known as Narkos was, as the nickname suggests, a heavy drug addict. I tried everything. I was kind, I was harsh, I tried treatment and punishment… In the end, I even bought drugs for him. The psychiatrist advised me that the best thing I could do was find him a job. I got him a job at BG9 TV. He worked in production, setting up cameras, scenery, sometimes even directing programs. On that day, he was on the night shift. He overdosed. When they found him in the morning, he was still alive. The doorman was waiting for the secretary, who was busy fulfilling the editor’s requests. The cameraman suggested they wait, and journalist Karajović didn’t want to get involved. By the time they finally called for an ambulance, it was too late. Maybe he would have died even if they had helped him immediately, but those heartless people left him to die like a dog. I was told that this crew always gathered early in the morning. I observed them for a long time and concluded that they were all there every morning. Bata Monstrum is one of the few people who enjoys blood, killing, and death. For him, killing is a hobby, murder is a pleasure, and mass murder is a psychopathic feast. I went to the seaside to have an alibi so that I wouldn’t be connected to the mass murder. I left it to Ostoja to finish the operation—and I made a grave mistake! Things quickly got complicated. For one, I didn’t foresee that anyone would go to Pavić’s funeral. That night, Ristić got hold of the bag with the evidence, and later Zec and Kovač joined the investigation. By the way, let me ask you—how did you two even find Nemanja and that makeup artist?”

“Ostoja’s brother Rale called me; we’re school friends,” Raja replied.

“Dragan, I also have something to ask you,” Chief Miloradović interjected. “Why did you want to provoke a conflict between my men and yours? Innocent people would have died.”

Dragon extinguished the cigarette in the overflowing ashtray, took a sip of water, and with a demonic expression on his face, said:

“When my son was dying, no one helped him. I served this country my entire life, and when I wanted to seek my own personal justice—you arrested me! I’m going to prison and will be serving time for the rest of my life. When I realized I had nothing left to lose, I wanted others to feel the pain of losing a loved one, the parental grief, sorrow, suffering, and misery. Before you take me to the detention center,” Dragan Petrović continued, “I have one request.”

“This isn’t a wishing fountain, my friend!” Kovač retorted. “You’ve screwed up too much to make demands.”

“It’s not a demand, just the last flicker of humanity left in me. I have a lot of money in a Swiss bank,”Dragon said, ignoring the previous comment. “Without me, you can’t access it. After you take everything I’ve earned illegally, there will be a few hundred thousand swiss francs that I’ve saved honestly over time. I’d like you to donate it for the construction of a hospital to treat drug addicts.”

Raja nodded, and Kovač gave a thumbs-up in approval. The others looked at each other in surprise. Milorad called a police officer to take the suspect to a holding cell. As Dragan, handcuffed, left the office, the public prosecutor called out:

“I’ll personally see to it that part of the money goes to build that hospital, but you’ll first have to give us the necessary authorization to withdraw the funds.”

Dragon agreed and, with a voice full of gratitude, responded:

“Don’t worry, Avramović. This is very important to me—to at least do something useful at the end of my life.”

BROTHERS

In the rural household of Radovan Pešić, laughter could be heard for the first time since the family tragedy. Even the host joined in the merry gathering. After hearing the good news from Belgrade, the “Happy Millers” spontaneously celebrated the end of the agony they had unjustly endured over the past days. Bane and Nemanja were discussing the best way to use their combined talents to write a series of articles about the well-organized mass murder. Rale and Radovan nibbled on pickled peppers and cheese while drinking rakija, and Darko Mascara was busy making pancakes in the kitchen. On the TV screen, guests in the studio were discussing the growing aggression in society, with scenes from the massacre at BG9 TV being used as background. The public still had no inkling of the true story behind this tragedy.

“When can we call our families?” Darko asked, holding a frying pan.

“Just a bit longer! We need to arrest Ostoja first. Then Nemanja and I will reveal the truth about the whole event,” Bane replied.

Nemanja lit a cigarette, moved the folder in front of him, and suggested, “Bane, you know what would be a worldwide sensation? If I showed up in the studio at my TV station to explain what really happened. ‘The Ghost of a Mass Murderer Sheds Light on the Details of the Crime’…”

Everyone laughed, except for Rale, who was getting increasingly sleepy and drunk. Just then, his phone rang.

“Hello, Raja,” he answered lazily. “What’s up, my friend? I’d do anything for you!”

Inspector Zec explained to Ratko that it was time to arrest Ostoja and that the best way would be for Ratko to explain the situation to his brother and convince him to surrender peacefully.

“Let me tell you something, my friend,” Rale began. “I can call him and relay the message, but I don’t want to be the bait to catch him by trickery. He may be a tough criminal, but he’s my brother, and he’s never wronged me. Whatever trouble he’s caused, he’ll have to deal with it. But everything has to be done fairly.”

Raja agreed with his schoolmate, leaving Ratko to find the best way to persuade Ostoja to turn himself in.

“Bane, Raja wants to talk to you,” Ratko said, handing his phone to Ristić.

Bane nodded as a smile spread across his face. “Great! You’ve made my day… When do you think we should leave? … Okay, it’s settled!”

Radovan and the other “Happy Millers” watched their friend intently, waiting for an explanation.

“It’s almost over; they just need to arrest Ostoja,” Bane satisfied their curiosity. “Raja said we can safely head home. Tomorrow morning at ten, we’ll meet at my girlfriend’s apartment. She lives in the same building as Nemanja’s parents.”

“Wait, guys!” protested Mascara. “We need to eat these pancakes!”

The others ignored him and hurried to prepare for their return. Since they had left for “exile” empty-handed, they didn’t have much luggage.

“Let’s go, everyone! It’s time to leave!” Bane urged.

Rale poured himself another rakija and surprised everyone.

“You guys go ahead. I’ll stay here for a while with Radovan. First, I’ll call Ostoja and ask him to surrender peacefully. And when you’re done, return the car to my neighbor, the café owner.”

Nemanja noticed the smile on Radovan Pešić’s face and felt a slight concern for the man who had saved his life. “I’m afraid these two will drink themselves to death! But in the end, if it makes them happy, who am I to judge?”

The Passat sped towards Belgrade, while Radovan, with a slow, slightly unsteady step, headed to the cellar to fetch another bottle of rakija.

“Hey, bro!” Rale said into his phone. “They’ve arrested your partner, Petrović… Or Dragon… The Dragon… whatever they call him! He confessed to everything. Inspector Raja asked you to turn yourself in… Write this down…”

As he dictated Inspector Zec’s phone number, tears streamed down Rale’s cheeks. At the end of the conversation, Ostoja confided where he had hidden his savings.

“In the yard of our estate, right in the middle between the corner of my house and yours. Count the steps and divide by two. That’s where all the money is!” explained the younger Novičić brother.

“Don’t worry, Ostoja, I’ll take care of your family since I can’t take care of my own,” Ratko said sadly. Then, unexpectedly, he added, “Whatever happens, just know—I love you, brother!”

RESOLUTION

The morning sun filtered through the window of the chief of police’s office in Belgrade. With Ostoja now behind bars, the inspectors opened a bottle of cognac. Although a new day had begun, the longest day in the lives of these inspectors was finally coming to an end. The veterans were reflecting on the recent events, preparing to part ways.

“I haven’t slept in three nights,” Kovač complained. “I’m getting old, Milorad… remember how we used to be?”

“Thank God we have these young ones to take over,” the chief said, glancing at Zec and Rosić. “Let’s have one more cognac, and then we’ll call it a day! As my neighbor Rista Ćemanista would say, ‘Even policemen have souls… or so I hope!’”

In the corner of the office, Raja was recounting to his younger colleague everything he had gone through in the last 48 hours.

“They didn’t teach us this at the police academy,” Rosić commented.

“No wonder, because it’s hard to come up with a plot like this,” Raja agreed, taking a sip of cognac. “If this were a spy thriller, the audience would probably say—this director really went over the top!”

They agreed to write the new report on the old case together, then joined the older inspectors. Kovač and Buda were reminiscing about the old days and the colleagues they had worked with in the past, spending most of the time talking about Dragan Petrović.

“He was a tough character, my dear Nikola!” Milorad sighed. “But no one’s star shines forever.”

They toasted to the successful conclusion of the case.

“I’ve arranged to meet Bane around ten at his girlfriend’s place—she lives in the same building as Nemanja’s parents,” Zec reminded them. “Nikola, shall we go together, or should I drop you off at home so you can get some sleep?”

Kovač finished his drink and, surprised by the question, quickly replied,

“I wouldn’t miss that reunion between Nemanja and his family for anything in the world!”

Chief Milorad seemed distant. He had played a crucial role in solving the most complex case of his career, becoming the hero of the day… but he was sad and reserved. As everyone headed for the exit, he turned to his most trusted inspector.

“Raja, give me a call when you’ve had a good rest. I have a favor to ask.”

“What’s it about, Chief?” Zec asked. “I’m not that tired.”

“Not now, my friend,” Milorad insisted. “We’ll talk about it later.”

The paths of Belgrade’s inspectors diverged in the parking lot of the city’s police headquarters, only to cross again a little later at Bane’s girlfriend’s studio. The Škoda once again left the garage, navigating through the morning rush of the metropolis. During the drive, Raja and Nikola went over every detail of the just-solved case, wondering what the future held.

“Do you think the arms exports will stop? No way, it’s all been sanctioned by the Secret Service, and that’s how it will stay. They’ll let things cool down—and then some new Dragon will find his Ostoja,” Kovač commented with disappointment.

Raja drove in silence, agreeing with his older colleague’s assessment. As they neared their destination, thoughts of Marina flooded his mind again. “I’ve messed up so badly! Not even the Danube and Sava together can wash me clean!” Half an hour later, the “Happy Millers” were together again, full of excitement and euphoria. It was hard for them to contain the urge to talk, to purge themselves of the anguish they had endured. They spoke all at once, not paying much attention to each other. What mattered was telling their stories; listening would come another time. Hostess Teodora was bewildered, hosting a group of talkative men who, through no fault of their own, had gone through a true ordeal. She held Bane’s hand, who was still wearing his hippie-style jacket.

“Where’s your ‘hair,’ darling?” Teodora teased, referring to the wig.

“It ended up in the river by Najdan’s mill,” Ristić replied.

They toasted with champagne that Teodora had prepared for this special occasion.

“Journalists!” Kovač exclaimed. “What will you name the book about this madness we barely survived?”

“Well, Madhouse, what else?” Bane and Nemanja said in unison.

After finishing the champagne, they went down two floors to surprise the grieving parents. Radmila led them into the apartment and offered them seats in the dining room. Stevan put down the book he had been reading and, with great effort, tried to act cordial.

“Please, come in, come in… Welcome! Have a seat… I’ll get some coffee and rakija!”

The three-bedroom apartment in the heart of the city, which Dr. Stevan Pavić had bought decades ago, had never seen as many people, joy, and celebration as it did that autumn morning. All the surviving and freed participants in this story gathered at the Pavić home. It is the writer’s task to convey the atmosphere and emotions of his characters—but the reunion of Nemanja Pavić, first with his parents and soon after with his wife and children, is simply impossible to describe. But let’s begin at the beginning.

THE REUNION

The “Millers” cautiously gauged the pulse of their hosts. They didn’t want to risk causing a heart attack by delivering the most wonderful news in the wrong way. Raja slowly, cautiously, recounted the ordeals they had all endured in the past days. When the time came for Nemanja to enter the story, he looked to Nikola for help.

“My dear friends, Radmila and Stevan, we’ve known each other for years… I understand what you’ve been through, and the last thing you need now is another shock… unless it’s the kind of shock that brings good news,” Kovač philosophized awkwardly.

“Thank you, Nikola,” Radmila replied. “But good news will never come for us again. As long as our grandchildren are alive and well, that’s all that matters. Joy has left this house forever!”

“I can’t stay silent any longer!” Bane interjected. “Your son is ALIVE! Nemanja DID NOT commit suicide, and HE’S HERE WITH US… Come in, colleague! It’s better to get this over with quickly, like ripping off a band-aid!”

Stevan’s face immediately turned red, his bald head taking on a darker, almost burgundy hue. Radmila flailed her arms and struck her hips with them, resembling a large bird with weakened wings still trying to fly… Radmila’s “wings” fluttered with joy. The Pavićs’ reaction was both explosive and silent, wordless but intense. They couldn’t find words. Nemanja Pavić’s entry into his childhood home resembled an early rehearsal for a play, where the actors had yet to master the lines or the stage. Shock, disbelief, joy, happiness, bewilderment… Everyone stood up from their chairs, straining to witness the moment. Darko bumped into Raja, and Nikola nearly dropped his cup. The mother embraced her son tightly, and the father joined them, resting his head on Nemanja’s shoulder.

“Son!” the parents whispered simultaneously.

As they stood in the middle of the living room, still hugging, Igor, Maja, and Vesna burst in, followed by Chief Milorad, who had driven them from Fruška Gora. During Nemanja’s reunion with his wife and children, everyone cried. Friends awkwardly wiped away tears, while the parents didn’t even try because, finally, these were tears of joy! The Pavić family was together again, surrounded by those who believed in them and helped in their darkest hours. Vesna was sobbing and clinging to her husband’s hand. Grandma and Grandpa embraced the grandchildren while the others, as if on cue, quietly left for their homes. They were tired but content… Everyone except Miloradović. For some reason, he remained sad and worried.

TV NEWS

Two days after the final resolution of the great tragedy, at precisely 8:30 PM, the TV BG9 news began. For the first time since the mass murder, the building was buzzing with activity. Journalists were hastily finishing their segments in editing, while the crew in the control room prepared for the start of the flagship news program. The program director gave the order to roll the opening credits, and then the first announcement came from the studio. Instead of the usual anchor, whom viewers had grown accustomed to, someone else appeared. The news was introduced by longtime journalist and reporter for this media outlet—Nemanja Pavić.

“Good evening, this is the News—and I am alive, well, and innocent. The mass murder of employees at our television station has been the focus of all media and the entire public for days. This tragedy, or rather its resolution, has taken an unexpected turn. What really happened—and what was kept from the public—you will see in the report by my colleague and the newest member of our editorial team, Bane Ristić.”

In the following scene, Bane, without a wig and in “civilian clothes,” meticulously explained the entire scheme orchestrated by Dragan Petrović and nearly executed by Ostoja Novičić. The newest member of the editorial crew told viewers how and why this massive deception with a tragic outcome was carried out. In the conclusion of his report, viewers learned that the company “Maler Export” had been taken over by the Goverment, along with the illegally acquired wealth of its owners. At the end, with sad music in the background, he listed the names of the victims with a message that they would never be forgotten. The report concluded with the words: “For TV BG9, from Belgrade, your Bane Ristić.”

A YEAR LATER

“Bear, get ready, we’re getting off at the next stop,” Joca hurried his husband.

“Are you sure, love?” Darko hesitated, looking around suspiciously. “This metro is amazing, but all the stations look the same somehow…”

With the money earned from his work as a makeup artist on the TV series Land Without Hope, Darko Bojić had taken his Jo Jo Ra to Paris. They had gotten married there, celebrating the unforgettable day modestly and without family or friends. Their witnesses before the registrar were Joca’s colleague from college who lived near Place de la République and her French husband. The train stopped at Montmartre station. The couple stepped out of the metro and headed uphill toward the Sacré-Cœur Basilica at the very top of Montmartre. They continued toward the artistic district where Parisian painters created and local vendors traded.

“Love, can I have a crepe? Do you smell how wonderful they are?” Darko pleaded.

“Bear, we agreed! We’ll have a proper meal up on the hill. French specialties, wine, cheeses… We need to celebrate our wedding properly, with class.”

“People eat crepes too!” Darko retorted, a bit annoyed. “But fine, it will be as you say, as always!” he concluded, ending one of their first marital disagreements.

As they navigated through the crowd of curious tourists, Joca managed to stop in front of almost every painting, of which there were thousands at the top of Montmartre. They were suddenly approached by a man with long hair and an even longer beard who offered to do a joint portrait of them. Jo Jo Ra was thrilled with the idea, while Darko’s response was predictable:

“Didn’t you say we’d eat first?!”

Joca convinced his husband to pose first, promising him a crepe after lunch. As they sat still in front of the bearded painter, they watched the passersby. Groups of organized Asian tourists, led by guides holding up agency flags so their “followers” wouldn’t get lost. A tall Black man was selling tiny Eiffel Towers that glowed in the dark, while a shaven-headed man in a sports jersey peddled watches. Darko scanned the area, trying to locate the cart with all the ingredients needed to make crepes. Suddenly, Darko’s gaze fixed on the watch seller’s face. First, he blushed, then turned pale, and finally, he was speechless.

“What’s wrong, Bear? Are you okay?” Joca asked, concerned.

“Let’s get out of here, right now! That’s Bata Monstrum!!!”

THE VISIT

Nikola Kovač was taking advantage of the last warm days to spend as much time as possible on his houseboat. The Sava River shimmered in the early autumn sun as the former inspector finished his afternoon fishing. The phone rang. The call came from an unknown number. It was a brief and very unexpected conversation. He ended it with the words:

“Thank you for calling. I’ll pass on the message and do everything I can to ensure he accepts your proposal. Goodbye!”

It was Vanja Novičić, the ex-wife of Nikola’s friend Ratko, who had played a crucial role in uncovering the truth about the mass murder at the television station. Kovač had completely forgotten that Vanja’s mother was a close relative of his late wife—though, they hadn’t seen each other much even when his wife was alive. He put the caught fish in the fridge, washed his hands, and changed clothes. While pouring apricot brandy his houseboat neighbor had gifted him from Subotica, he began to weigh his next move. “If I leave now, I’ll be driving through those dark forests and mountains… And I haven’t even changed the oil in the car!” He held the glass of brandy for a few moments before deciding to pour it back into the bottle. “I’ll go now,” he resolved. The drive to the mountain took less than an hour. When he turned off the main road, he struggled a bit on the dark path overshadowed by the forest. After some brief wandering, he arrived at the Novičić family estate.

After Ostoja’s arrest, Ratko Novičić had found the money his brother had buried for a rainy day—a day that had come much sooner than expected. His sister-in-law had recently started working, and the large sum of hidden money was being used to finance their modest living needs. Rale had since moved from the shack to a new house where everything was always clean and orderly, with everything in its place. Ostoja’s wife occasionally brought the children for some fresh air. Rale had changed much in his life, but the ever-present rakija still held a central place in his solitary existence.

Nikola knocked on the front door of the shack in the yard, but there was no answer. He then began calling out for his friend. After a few minutes of shouting in vain, a window in the large house opened. Since it was dark, the host didn’t recognize the visitor.

“Why are you yelling, friend! What’s the hurry!”

“Rale!” Nikola shouted. “What are you doing in that bourgeois villa, you capitalist!”

“Nikola?! I can’t believe it! Come on, what are you waiting for! Come in, please! I’m so glad to see you… really… Let’s have a drink, for the occasion.”

The friends embraced and toasted several times. Nikola hesitated, then suddenly became serious.

“Rale, my friend… I came to see you, but I also have an important message to deliver! … Your ex-wife called me.”

The host was speechless. He downed the rakija in one gulp, then poured another.

“Vanja?!” was all he could manage to say.

Kovač slowly, diplomatically, recounted the content of the phone call. Vanja had gone through a tough period herself. She had been in a relationship with a colleague, a violinist, who started out small and humble but eventually became aggressive… He liked to drink, and when he did, he wasn’t himself. She endured his abuse for over a year. She was even forced to send the children to her parents, who drove them to school from across town. She was going through hell until she finally reported him to the police, where she happened to meet Raja; he quickly connected the dots and realized she was Rale’s ex-wife. No one knows how Zec managed it—but the abuser moved out of Vanja’s apartment and was never seen again, not even at concerts!

“She realized her mistake and wants to forgive you for all the sins you committed while drunk over the years. She suggests giving it another try, but under one condition…”

“…That I quit drinking!” Rale completed the sentence.

“Actually, she insists that you go to rehab! I think she’s right. I know some good doctors who could help you.”

Rale poured them both another drink, then responded quickly and decisively.

“I have no choice, Nikola. Rehab is the only way to get rid of this misery and live like a man again. I’m lucky that Vanja is giving me a second chance. She’s the one who suffered the most.”

Nikola spent the night at Avala, and the next morning they headed to Belgrade together. There, Rale was admitted to a hospital for addiction treatment, using some connections.

THE WEDDING

The restaurant “Košuta” on the outskirts of the capital had two large halls: a tavern, mainly for drinking, and a restaurant, intended for dining. Sometimes, for special guests, the owner would allow various celebrations to be held there. It was late afternoon on a Saturday. A select group had gathered at “Košuta” for a special wedding. Journalist Bane Ristić and painter Teodora had been together for nearly a decade and finally decided to formalize their relationship with a marriage certificate signed before a registrar. Besides parents, colleagues, and neighbors, the “hAPPY mILLERS” were present in full force, along with their better halves. Nemanja and Vesna were the witnesses, and Nikola Kovač was humorously declared the “best man.” For this special occasion, Radovan Pešić, who had saved the groom and his friends’ lives a year earlier, had come to Belgrade for the first time in twenty years.

“Hey, Rale, come have a drink! Let’s reminisce about those dangerous but good old times!” Radovan called out, trying to be heard over the music.

Ratko Novičić was sitting across from Pešić, holding Vanja’s hand the entire time.

“Thanks, friend, but I don’t drink anymore!”

“Come on, Rale, don’t joke! You don’t drink?!”

“Seriously. It’s been a year since I’ve touched alcohol, and I don’t plan to!”

Vanja kissed him and squeezed Rale’s hand even tighter. Next to them were Inspector Raja Zec and his wife Marina, and at the same table were Nikola, Radmila, and Dr. Stevan Pavić. The witnesses sat together with the newlyweds. After the toasts and the ceremonial cutting of the wedding cake, the atmosphere became more cheerful and relaxed. The “Happy Millers” continued reminiscing about the events of a year ago and toasted the fact that the whole ordeal had ended happily. Rale stayed on the sidelines, sipping his juice and enjoying the company of the woman he had always loved. At one point, Raja and Nikola decided to play a prank on the newlyweds. They went to the singer, gave him some money, and requested a song dedicated to the newlyweds. The singer smiled, winked, and signaled the band. The song went like this:

“A wedding wreath adorns my gate

Marking the end of my maiden fate

Dear mother, join in the joy with me

For today, I no longer need to hide!

I go to my mother-in-law, gifts in my hands

Let her heart rejoice across the lands…”

Laughter erupted in the hall, followed by dancing and celebration. The newlyweds accepted the joke and joined in the fun, pretending to embrace the traditional wedding emotions.

THE TVE SERIES “LAND WITHOUT HOPE”

Bane and Tea’s wedding took place on a Saturday, while the premiere of the TV series Land Without Hope was scheduled for the following day.

It was a quiet Sunday evening at the Zec family home, recently expanded with a new member. Marina and Raja had adopted a three-year-old boy named Vuk. Since the little one was already accustomed to his name, the parents didn’t want to change it, although they knew their son’s school days wouldn’t be easy. They imagined the scene when the teacher would call out the name “Vuk Zec (zec – rabbit in serbian)” and the reactions of the first-graders… That evening, as usual, Vuk went to bed after watching cartoons; mom and dad sipped wine and watched TV. The new anchor of TV BG9’s Dnevnik, Nemanja Pavić, announced the news that the body of Milorad Miloradović, the head of the city police, had been found that morning. “According to preliminary information, it is believed to be a case of suicide.” Marina and Raja lay embraced, exchanging silent glances. They had heard the sad news earlier, but they had promised each other not to let anything spoil their family happiness.

“May God rest his soul,” Raja said with a sigh. “He was a good man.”

“May the earth be light upon my uncle…” Marina added.

At the end of the Dnevnik, the following news passed almost unnoticed: “At Long Island University in the United States, prestigious journalism awards were presented. The George Polk Award for Investigative Reporting was given to Erik Stone, a journalist from the Voice of Desert newspaper. The winning story is titled ‘”Happy Millers” – Mass Murder at TVBG9.’”

In the following days, the Zec couple stayed in voluntary isolation. They had stocked up on food and drinks, prepared movies and books… They didn’t leave the apartment or respond to phone calls and messages. The only time they ventured outside was in the evening when they would take Vuk for a walk to the nearby park.

“Thank you for taking time off,” Marina whispered, kissing her husband. “We don’t need to go anywhere. Enjoying our home with you and our son is more happiness for me than a vacation in Hawaii.”

“And even if it weren’t, summer is already over,” Raja joked. “Maybe next year… But instead of Hawaii, we could go to the village of Najdanovo. I made a friend there who saved my life. I’d love to spend the summer at Radovan Pešić’s house. And Vuk will benefit from the fresh air.”

“Whatever you say, love… but for now, let’s watch the series.”

After the commercials, the first episode of “Land Without Hope,” for which the makeup was done by “millers” Darko Bojić Mascara, was announced. In front of the loving Zec familly appeared the opening scene: a man with large lips and a Lucifer-like smile looms over a Samsung TV and devours it in one bite. The anchors are in a panic, not knowing what hit them, trying to save themselves, banging on the screen— all in vain. Then—cut! And the opening credits roll.