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Nelson and his driver quickly came upon the same abandoned gas station he had been at only a day ago. How quickly the world can change.

”Freddie we really can’t thank you enough,” said a tired Nelson, “here’s the gun where’s the casket?”

“Right there,” came Freddie’s tremulous voice. The two of them placed the gun inside and nailed it shut. The two placed the coffin in the car Nelson had arrived in; at this, it sped off.

The two sat together quietly. “I really can’t thank you enough Freddie, no one can,” Nelson said quietly.

“I gotta go,” Freddie said, almost sobbing. He walked in the back room and pulled from the same box William had inquired about not a day ago an identical gun. He walked out the door. Awhile later, if all went as planned, the police would receive a note detailing which room in a local motel the assassin stayed in.

Jet!

“Oi! Francis! Where’s Nelson!” yelled William over the roar of CVS’s international shipping plane. Francis pointed to an oncoming car. It sped into the hangar and skidded to a stop.

“Ran into trouble; they saw through the fake assassin ploy,” the driver half screamed and half sobbed.

“Where’s Nelson?” William yelled.

“In the car, they ambushed him in the gas station as we left, I managed to lose them, I ditched the car under an overpass and we waited. I managed to hijack one, then a few overpasses down I did it again with this one,” the man said desperately.


William rushed to the car to find his friend. Blood ran all across the back seat’s leather. “Nelson!” William bellowed. He shook him trying to get a response. Slowly his eyes opened. His breathing was heavy and labored. There was a piece of glass lodged next to his heart.

“William?” the ragged voice mustered.


”Yes?”

“It’s worked?” Nelson questioned, his voice softening.

“Yes it has, you’ve done it,” William consoled, trying desperately to keep his friend conscience.

“Thank god I have done my duty,” Nelson breathed. His voice became ragged. He coughed and blooded oozed through his mouth. William pulled the piece of glass from by his heart. He moaned. Slowly he began to fade out. His eyes rolled and his head went limp.

“We gotta go!” yelled Francis, who had just finished speaking to the driver. William boarded the plane and watched as the man drove off. William was too overcome by grief to even begin to wonder where the car was headed.

William sat in the cargo area, in shock. He found a bottle of brandy and placed the fragment of glass in it to clean it off. He treated the glass as his child.

The plane taxied to a landing in Switzerland. William waited for the pilot to fetch him. After an hour or so, it could have been more or less, for William was delirious from the death of his friend, little sleep and absence of adrenaline that had sustained him over the last few hours.

“It’s done,” Francis stated plainly, as Nelson always had, “they’ve credited Nelson with the kill, Freddie as the spotter, and the driver of that car as an accomplice.”

William remained silent as the three credited with the presidents death.

Epilogue

William spent his days in isolation, only going to Rulti Meadow to celebrate with the Swiss.

Francis continued working in CVS and was killed in a plane crash in the Atlantic many years later.

Freddie was killed in a firefight outside the motel.

When the vice president assumed power he tried to declare war on Iran. Drake forced it into the Senate where it died. He eventually died of dysentery in his late 70s.

Nelson’s body and the driver’s were never recovered from the car wreck: the driver drove into a gas station at well over a hundred miles per hour.

Copyright 2007 Chris
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