The young man's trembling fingertips caressed the cold steel of the derringer buried deep in his coat pocket as he descended the theater stairs, his tread light, agile, his footfalls silent on the thick carpet.
No emotion showed on his face, a handsome face, in a pretty sort of way. Pale, melancholy. Only his sparkling black eyes betrayed his excitement. He knew how to wipe his countenance clean. He was an actor. A brilliant actor, some of his critics said. And this was the most important role of his life. He had been born to act the part of executioner. Destiny had cast him for the role, and he would play it through to the devastating conclusion.
He paused at the bottom of the stairs. In front of the narrow, white door was a chair, the guard's chair; it was empty. Fate was on his side tonight.
In the distance he could hear the actors shouting their lines, the audience's laughter, though their response was subdued tonight. The play simply wasn't that good.
A sly grin tugged at the young man's delicate mouth. Little did the crowd know that within moments they would witness one of the greatest dramas in history. And he would be the star, a comet blazing a glimmering arc across the night sky. A performance never to be forgotten.
As he opened the small door a rush of adrenaline surged through his bloodstream and rivulets of icy sweat trickled down his brow. He stepped into the musty darkness of the inner passageway and closed the door quietly behind him. Groping in the blackness, he found the small rod he had secreted there and slid it into place across the door, making sure that he would not be interrupted.
In less than a minute he had passed through the second door and was standing in the stage box within arm's reach of his victim.
As he pulled the derringer from his pocket, the enormity of what he was about to do washed over him and his knees nearly buckled. But he was a disciplined professional. Drawing a deep breath of resolve, he pointed the tiny barrel at the dark head that rose from behind the high back of the chair.
For a moment the actor was struck by the humanity of the man seated in the rocking chair. He had no horns, this Satan. Even in the dim theater light the man looked weary, haggard, with the deep lines of care permanently chiseled in his homely face.
But the young man couldn't allow himself to feel pity. Not now. This was an act of war. Many times he had played the role of Brutus and had slain Caesar. And like the Roman, this tyrant must also die.
His hand tightened around the derringer; his coat sleeve slid upward, revealing the tattooed initials, J.W.B. He pointed the barrel and with infinite care squeezed the trigger. The gun exploded. And shattered a nation.
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