Free The Election by Jerome Teel Page A

stopping him. He had been in the area too long already and had been seen by too many people. He might have to give his employer two hits for the price of one. First things first, though.
    He looked back at his mark. Slowly he raised the Tango 51 to his shoulder and peered through the scope on the top of the barrel. He panned the rifle back and forth from bumper to bumper along the outside of the white truck, waiting on his target to exit the driver’s-side door. The rifle was equipped with a suppressor to muffle the sound. No one but the shooter would hear the deadly shot. Through the scope he could see Jesse Thompson sitting in the cab of the truck and knew it would be only a few seconds before his victim got out.
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    As Jesse sat in his white pickup, he couldn’t help but laugh. The host of the talk-radio show was berating Mac Foster over his position on abortion.
    The Republicans will never get it, Jesse thought as he turned off the engine. There aren’t enough religious people in the country to elect a pro-life candidate, so why campaign on that issue? It was so simple. The Democrats had figured that out long ago, and that was why Vice President Burke would be elected president this year.
    Jesse chuckled again at Mac Foster’s political naiveté and got out of the truck. “Stupid Republicans,” he muttered to himself.
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    The mark was now in the open. The assassin aligned the crosshairs in the scope on the target’s head, two hundred yards away. He slid the safety mechanism to Off and patiently waited.
    Turn your head a little more to the left, he urged, following his mark through the scope. When the mark unknowingly complied, the assassin squeezed the trigger without hesitation. The muffled sound was barely audible and certainly could not be heard by the person sitting in the truck at the entrance to the farm, whoever he was. The bullet found its intended target, and the mark fell to the ground.
    Another easy five million, the shooter thought as he lowered the gun from his shoulder.
    He had killed so often that it came without emotion.
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    Jed, still at least half drunk, saw Jesse as he stepped out of his truck and took a step toward the old barn. Just the sight of the banker enraged Jed even more. He couldn’t imagine anyone more ruthless than Jesse Thompson. If Jesse would not listen to him and agree to stop the foreclosure, then Jed would have to use the small .22 caliber handgun in the glove box to convince him otherwise.
    Jed firmly believed that Jesse had repeatedly stolen money from African Americans. He had heard the stories of Jesse’s bank foreclosing on homes owned by African Americans when they were just a few days late with their mortgage payment. And how African Americans paid a higher interest rate than white people for the same type of loan. It was going to stop, even if Jed had to kill Mr. Thompson.
    Jed sat in his truck, his anger swelling by the second.
    Then something unexpected happened. Jesse slumped against the side of his truck and crumpled to the ground in a heap. The startled cattle stampeded away, some trampling over Jesse.
    Jed rubbed his blurry eyes and looked again. He had to be imagining this. But no, Jesse was still lying on the ground. Jed opened the door to his truck and stumbled out.
    â€œMr. Thompson!” Jed yelled across the pasture.
    No response.
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    FBI headquarters, Washington DC
    George McCullough reported back to Charlie Armacost that the Memphis office had found video of Raoul Flores exiting a plane just after noon on Monday.
    â€œIssue an all-points bulletin to every law-enforcement office within a one-hundred-mile radius of Memphis,” Charlie instructed. “Alert the airport, the bus stations, and the train depots. He could be anywhere, but if he’s still out there, I want him.”
    Charlie had a standing meeting with the director at ten o’clock. He decided not to mention Raoul. Not yet anyway. He wanted