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The Short Story "Agent
Kaufax?" croaked the crackling radio from underneath the pile of
cigarette packets and chocolate bar wrappers that had slowly accumulated
on my dashboard since this crap had started. My superiors would have
called it unprofessional. "Watch the crowds," they’d said.
"Radio if you see anything suspicious" they’d said. A damned
baby-sitting job! I had expected better from a high-ranking secret
service job. "KAUFAX!" barked the radio again, raising me from my lethargy long enough to be bothered to answer. "What is it?" I sighed. It was Forester. He’d taken a dislike to me the moment I gave him a high-five instead of a handshake. It probably didn’t help that I had half a bar of Hershey's Whatchamacallit King Size melted on my hands either. "Too casual. Not professional." That was the report that corkscrewed me down the ladder" sure, I’m still the rank I always was, but I was doing work well below my station. His predecessor was way different. Jack had been a chilled out kind of guy, everyone said that. The guys that picked up his corpse joked that he’d died farting in his Jacuzzi, though 3 Gunshots to the head and no suspect said differently. "We’ve got reports of a disturbance on Temple Street," answered Forester. "A white-male, mid-twenties has been sighted, possibly with a firearm. Temple Street is on the Candidate’s route. I’m sure you understand that guns and Presidential-" "Candidates don’t mix. Sure. So you need me ‘because Mick, Sam and the rest of our top agents are following more important leads’" merely repeating the excuse that had got me my current post. "You’re the closest agent to the building." He said, forgetting to add "regrettably". Apart from feeling that I was their last resort, I did at least find myself relieved that I’d been handed the chance to try my hand at something mildly more exciting than playing nanny. My car sped along deserted side streets as I followed the trail on the GPS. As I drove, I glanced up and out of the windscreen; the sun was absent, and the grey sky spoke of something foreboding. It wasn’t long before I was parked behind building 8, Temple Street. First impressions weren’t exactly good. It was a stereotypical sniper’s post so clichéd it didn’t even seem feasible. I was one "Texas Schoolbook Depository" box away from not even checking it out, when I noticed the crimson trail snaking into a misshapen pile of bin-liners under the compactor. The sight of blood was nothing new to me. And I’d seen a good amount of bullet-perforated corpses in my time. No. What started me thinking was the haphazard way in which this guy had been dispatched. This was no contract killer for sure. The stench of death wasn’t enough to stop me from considering the irony of leaving a bleeding, dead body practically in full view next to a waste compactor. "This is just an everyday shooting," I thought. "Just an act of desperation, and not the work of someone with a real agenda". I got back to the car and radioed Forester. "I got a corpse here. White-Male, looks like he’s in his mid-forties. Judging from the mess, it wasn’t planned. The suspect has probably fled, but I’ll recon the area just in case".
Receiving a thumbs up and a keypad code, I leant against the door and lit up. The sky was darker, slowly creeping towards darker shades of grey and literally threatening to rain on the parade. It was 20 minutes before the candidate would coast past here in his swanky Chrysler Sebring. I’d be watching to see what all the fuss was about. Having to lug my sorry ass around at his convenience all day wasn’t getting him my vote for sure. Number 8 was vacant. It simply yawned with emptiness. My footsteps echoed down the corridors like the gunshots that I wasn’t expecting to hear. I looked at my watch: 11:51. Still 15 minutes to find something. God this is stupid, I thought. There’s nothing here, just another wild goose-chase. Before Forester, I’d have done this the professional way: I’d have finished the search by now. This was important after all. 11:57. He’d be setting off about now. Before Forester? No, before then. I’d seen too much. I’d got sick of my job. I’d met all the wrong people. I’d seen all the wrong things. One floor to go. This was stupid: "a man’s life is in danger," I said aloud, to no one in particular. I heard a terrible metallic click. I was staring down the barrel of a handgun, and the irony of my last words hit me smack in the face. The gloved hand on the trigger was attached to a tall man in the middle of his twenties. This was my professional: he had an unfaltering stare that drilled into my skull, the kind of man who fired bullets into people as a precaution; just in case his medusa’s gaze hadn’t already done the job. I began to wonder why I was still staring at a lump of cold steel rather than the zip of a bodybag. "In there." commanded the man, "Don’t try anything stupid". Taking small steps, keeping my hands behind my head, I moved in. The window directly ahead let light flood in to fall upon the instrument on the sill: a sniper rifle. "So you’re really going to try and shoot this guy. What makes you think you’ll get away with it?" I asked. He stayed quiet and walked to the sill to pick up the rifle. "I won’t need to. My exit has been provided." He answered, holding the rifle at arm’s length in one hand, holding his pistol in the other. He was wearing gloves. I wasn’t. I reached out for the rifle, and clasping the barrel I felt a surge of power flow into my arms. CLUNK-CLICK. He knew my thoughts. He knew I was too selfish to play the hero. He knew I feared death in a way that a true professional shouldn’t. I let go of the barrel. "I’m through with you. I have other business to attend to". He was right: his wristwatch read 12:09, and the noise in the street meant that the candidate was on his way. I’d been slow enough in getting here that he hadn’t had time to restrain me or even dispose of me. My laziness had saved me. He sprinted to the window and took aim. There was the chance that he’d turn round and shoot me before he was finished, but I decided to just try anyway. Someone, probably on the inside, had betrayed me. Perhaps Forester had planned it while washing melted Hershey’s off his hands. My name was going to be on the front of the papers as the man who shot the future president of the United States whether I tried to prevent it or not. Before I knew it I was at the window, my foot in his face. A gunshot rang out. We fell to the floor. The rifle cluttered across the floor. He reached for it. I reached for his Pistol and plunged a round into his outstretched arm, causing him to scream a scream silenced only by a second shot to the head.
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