I pull the heavy drapes back to see the city lights are painting a pretty, postcard scene against a midnight-black sky.
It’s nearly showtime.
I want everything to be perfect.
My head whips around and checks the bedside clock. I know mummy and son are about to leave for an elegant Christmas Eve dinner at a restaurant downtown.
My heart bleeds for their reunion—not!
I’ve got a few minutes yet, so I check myself one more time in the bathroom mirror.
My disguise is fucking perfect. I stroke my thick, white, regulation Santa costume beard, which hides my real identity so well, because I also have a white Santa face—not that Mathias ever saw me unmasked—but one can't take too many precautions.
It is, after all, a true hunt of patience, skill, and creativity. Even me eyes have their little costume of contact lenses. Me jolly fat, red-and-white suit covers my muscular frame concealing my well-maintained build, making me appear overweight and slow moving.
What a trip this will be. I can't wait to see Mathias's face up close and revel in the knowledge; he'll have no fucking clue who breathes the same air with him. I’m the man who was once his boss and has been stalking him.
No one ever lives past their use-by date—except for me. Mathias won’t know how close he is to taking his last breath. He thinks he’s free, but I know better. Free? No such thing when you’ve worked for Cezar. It will feel like I’m taking the Mickey. He won’t suspect a thing.
Parents let their children sit on Santa’s lap without question or knowledge of the man in the suit’s background, all the time and take a photo with him like he's a family friend—not some fucker they don't know. Then they sit said picture somewhere like their mantel or desk, having pride and place in their home. The guy could be a pedophile for all they knew or a serial killer, but trust they do. I could have a selfie with the traitor, and he wouldn't have a fucking clue who he was grinning stupidly next to, because nobody ever looks past the Santa suit.
But this Santa has a naughty list, and I'm just starting to cross names off.
I secure the droopy red hat onto the thick, white mane of hair and smile at me reflection. I'm an impressive copycat of the fictional man, who brings joy to the rug rats faces. Not that I ever received that joy. I sniff to myself.
I hear confirmation in my ear they are about to leave their suite.
It’s time to get my Santa on and face the Norwegian traitor. I’ve softly been practicing my ho, ho, hooo.
It’s showtime!
I grab my Santa sack and head out me suite door, just in time to beat them opening their door and begin trudging down the hallway.
I busy myself with looking distracted by the weight I’m carrying over me shoulder and trip over an invisible object and bowl right into his mother—accidentally of course. She lets out a little gasp of surprise as she and I nearly go arse-over-tit.
The traitor gallantly comes to his mother's aid as I go down on one knee, mummy's handbag slipping out of her grip, and I almost fall flat on me face—accidentally of course—for extra effect.
It takes a few seconds for the traitor to know his mother is unharmed and then he’s multitasking as his hand shoots out to grip my padded forearm and pull me back up into a standing position.
Everybody trusts Santa.
“Whoa! Santa, are you all right?”
He’s a disgrace to me sentinels being worried about hurting a Santa. I force myself not to sneer at him.
Mathias's hands steady me, but my plan is already put into play
Always so trusting of the man wearing the jolly, fat suit.
Mathias suspects nothing since he's dropped all knowledge on how-to-be-a-good-fucking-sentinel. He's lost all sentinel standards and thinks he's having a lovely, carefree holiday with his mummy. No idea I'm right in front of him.
Too. Fucking. Easy.
It’s child’s play.
I stare straight at him saying in my best American accent, “Ho, ho… hoooo. Meeerrry Christmas. Thank you, young man.” And then I bow my head slightly to his mother. “Sorry for my clumsiness, I’m just heading out to the sleigh,” I joke while digging into my Santa sack and find what I’m after.
They laugh, of course. I resist the temptation to roll my eyes.
I pull out a small gift-wrapped box, and no, it’s not ticking.
"You can open this on Christmas Day"—I hand it to the traitor—"and not before!" I give him a stern look. Well, as much of a stern look as you can conjure with your face covered in white hair and wearing contact lenses. Mathias always followed orders, wouldn’t matter if he cheated, I’m just playing with him.
It would be so easy to snuff out both their lives, right here. But where is the sport in that?
He grins at me like I’m stupid and is only playing along because I’m fucking Santa Claus!
“You have my word, I won’t open it until Christmas Day,” he says still with that patronizing smile on his face.
Everybody trusts Santa.
“Aren’t you going the wrong way?” No shit arsehole.
“Forgot the carrots for the reindeers,” I mutter in a jolly, gruff, Santa voice. Makes you wonder why I went to all this trouble getting dressed up.
It amuses me.
“Okay then Santa, you have a good night,” Mathias replies good-naturedly and a little as though I’m possibly not all there in the head.
Fucking knob!
But what he doesn’t know is I also flawlessly slipped a tiny bomb hidden inside a hotel pen, into his mother’s handbag.
Give the pickpocket from the streets of London a gold star!
I walk slowly until I hear the ‘ding' of the elevator and stop to fiddle about with my sack, looking sideways to get a clear view of the open door and see them step into it and the door close.
I walk back to my suite listening to them mock me in the elevator as the crazy Santa through the micro earpiece.
Never crazy.
Always deadly serious.