In a bustling city in Columbia, a tatty sky blue car, that must have been well into it’s thirties, pulled up outside a down-standard hotel, just outside the city center. A very average looking man jumped out of the passenger side and the car drove off, leaving a huge cloud of black smoke behind it. Although the man was obviously from somewhere in the more developed world, any impartial bystander would not have been at all concerned by his presence and would just assume that he was there for that afternoon’s speech, as so many other foreigners were. Anyone who knew him would have already phoned the police.Order now
Half an hour later he was sitting on the bed in the hotel room he had booked himself into under the assumed name of James Johnson, a South African journalist covering the speech.
The man’s real name was Roger Baron. Born in Texas, he had always been a loner, and even at the age of 35 he had no family or friends to speak of. Only allies, and there were but two of them; the director and vice-director of the CIA.
He walked over to the balcony in his room and looked over to the square that he had requested that his room have a view of. The square was in the centre of the market place, and although it was over 1kilometre from Baron’s balcony he had a clear view of nearly the whole square. Since there was no wind Baron couldn’t have hoped for better conditions. He knew that there would be more security around when the time came but this didn’t worry him. A platform had been erected in the middle of the square for Kasamacka to give his speech from.
Kasamacka was leader of the Colombian opposition Nationalist Party, and, despite Colombia’s military weakness, he was still seen by most of the world’s leaders as a threat to international safety. As he overtook his rival in the opinion poles it began to become more and more apparent that his extreme views and hate for the developed world were a danger to society.
Baron lifted his suitcase onto the bed, unlocked the catches and flicked them open. The sight that met him warmed his eyes. Wrapped in luxurious red velvet padding lay the love his life. A beautiful, fully customized, silver sniper rifle lay there, nestled like a birds egg in the nest. It had cost the CIA in excess of $30,000 and was probably worth twice that. Lying around it were a medley of accessories; a scope, a silencer and six metallic blue boat-tailed bullets. In a separate, smaller box were Baron’s well worn leather gloves and shooting glasses.
He slipped the gloves on and lovingly picked the gun out and placed it on the bed. He screwed on the silencer, and slotted the sight into place. He took the magazine out and placed a single bullet inside. He put on his shooting glasses and walked over to the balcony. He had done this so many times that it was just as routine to him as tying his shoelaces.
A large crowd had gathered around the marked area, but although there were many people around Baron had no fear of being spotted, as he reasoned that today’s event was one of the most important in the political calendar, so all eyes would be on the candidate. He decided that there was no point in tempting fate and put his gun inside. He returned to the balcony and watched with amusement as three men, who were obviously undercover policemen twitched and fidgeted uncomfortably, while trying to keep up their very poor act.
After entertaining himself with this for nearly quarter of an hour, a convoy of cars, that looked extremely out of place came down the crowded road. At the front and tail of it were two black police vans, and in the middle was a sparkling silver limousine, with tinted windows and black alloys. Baron doubted that anything else in the whole city was worth as much as that car. Much cheering followed the procession up the road, until it came to a stop at the side of the square. Kasamacka and two bodyguards got out of the limousine and mounted the platform in the centre. Kasamacka was handed a microphone.
He was a small man, probably just over five feet tall, with an angry looking face. He was a true Columbian, as far as wealth went, and was probably not even half as rich as the average schoolteacher. This was reflected by the state of his old white shirt and battered brown corduroys. He was quite fat and, although had a shirt on, you could see his beer-belly bulging over his belt.
As he gave the exact same speech with the exact same actions every time people stood still long enough to listen, so Baron was ready for the wave of the hand and the line;
“You are too kind my friends. I do not deserve your applause. I should rather be treated as a brother than a leaderâ€¦”
Baron had heard this too many times already and stepped back into his room and lay on his bed, preparing for the task in hand. He tried to relax, but with that grating voice, broadcast to the ears of everyone in the whole city he knew it would impossible. Instead he lay and listened, with amusement, to the words of a dying man.
He waited for half an hour for the final lines, and when he recalled that they would be coming soon he picked up his rifle and stepped onto the balcony.
“â€¦Figo is not the Liberal candidate,” shouted Kasamacka, “he is the American candidate. He is no more than the ventriloquist’s dummy for the man who sits in the White House!”
The crowd screamed.
“America think that they can rule over Columbia, but no more. I can tell you one thing, my friendsâ€¦”
He paused and the crowd fell silent.
“â€¦GOD IS NOT AN AMERICAN!!!”
He flung his arms into the air in a dramatic salute.
The crowd roared. They roared so loud nothing else could be heard. Not the sound of cars or honking horns. Not even the sound of a sniper rifle as it unleashed a bullet at the candidate’s chest.
Ligaments, flesh, blood and shattered boned ripped out of his back. Blood soaked into his white shirt. His face relaxed and he fell to the ground.
Slowly the crowd’s roars turned to sobs and wails, as many of the crowd fell to their knees, and head in hands, cried for a nation.
No one looked up to see Baron leave the hotel. Neither did anyone see him climb into the back of the car he arrived in and pull off into the distance.