Free The Election by Jerome Teel Page B

more information first. Since the director was a political appointee with no experience in the Bureau, Charlie figured that if he mentioned Raoul, the director would tell the attorney general. Then the two of them would decide that the CIA was better equipped to handle the search for an international assassin than the Bureau. Charlie couldn’t run the risk that the AG would pull jurisdiction. He’d wait until after they caught Raoul to tell the director about him.
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    Thompson cattle farm, Jackson, Tennessee
    Still lying on his stomach, the assassin peered through the rifle scope at the large unknown man as he exited the red Dodge. Slowly the assassin ejected the empty shell casing from his rifle. It was automatically replaced with the remaining bullet. Mentally he identified the African American as the second mark…and he was in the open. The shooter did a quick calculation. The second mark was too far for a clean shot. If he fired now, he probably wouldn’t hit the intended target. Worse, it might alert the second mark to his location. He couldn’t risk that exposure.
    Removing his finger from the trigger, he studied the man. Only an assassin who makes a mistake gets caught, he told himself. And the hunter didn’t plan on becoming the prey.
    His instincts kicked back in. He’d been in much more precarious positions before.
    He continued to lie quietly, waiting for an opportunity to escape.
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    Jed stumbled toward the entrance to Jesse’s farm. Once he reached the gate, he stepped on the bottom slat, tried to climb it, and fell over the top, landing on his back with a thud on the other side. Struggling to his feet, he began running along the dusty field road toward the place where Jesse lay.
    When Jed was within twenty feet or so, he knew instinctively that something was terribly wrong. He stopped dead in his tracks. “Mr. Thompson, are you all right?”
    Again, no response.
    Jed’s breathing was heavy and labored. He walked slowly the remaining twenty feet, whispering “Mr. Thompson” over and over again as he approached. As he drew closer, he could see that the back half of Jesse’s head was completely missing, and a pool of blood had collected around what remained. Splattered blood and brain matter covered the front left fender and hood of the pickup truck, streaking its white exterior. Not knowing what else to do, Jed knelt down, grabbed Mr. Thompson’s left shoulder, and rolled him onto his back. Mr. Thompson’s eyes were open wide but were not seeing. There was a single hole the size of a penny in the middle of his forehead.
    Jed’s stomach began to churn.
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    When the assassin realized he hadn’t been detected, he saw his chance for escape without having to give away a free hit. Shoving the empty shell casing into his pocket, he ran through the woods toward his parked vehicle on the road near the entrance to the farm. He slowed only to slip between the two strands of barbed wire that formed one section of the fence.
    His flight took him past the red truck of the second mark. In order to divert the police authorities’ attention, he stopped at the second mark’s truck just long enough to place his rifle in the bed. He covered it with the army green tarpaulin already in the truck.
    Dashing the remaining one hundred feet to his vehicle, the assassin sped away from the scene. He would not remove his surgical latex gloves until he’d properly disposed of the Chevy S10 and its contents.
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    Jed McClellan was sweating profusely. The heat and humidity were squeezing him of every drop of hydration, and his heart was racing. The sight of Mr. Thompson lying there with his blood and brains soaking into the ground made Jed want to run, but he couldn’t stand up. So he began to crawl away from the corpse. He had crawled only a few feet, however, when he began to vomit violently…until he had nothing left to give.
    Falling over on