Today's the day...
François lay staring at the roof of the car in the dark, having woken up at Six AM, before the sun.
At 10:30, Senator Cartwright will leave his home and head to a debate at Rossi Tower, only, he won't make it. David Robinson will push through the crowd of reporters and shoot the senator in the head. Oh, how about that? Daniel and David. Maybe I should write a book about our story when all of this is all over. "Un Conte de Deux D's: L'Histoire Extraordinaire du François Antoinette". Or perhaps "L'assassinat qui ne fut Jamais: L'Histoire du François Antoinette". Maybe even-
"You're up already?" Remy asked from the driver's seat.
"Yeah. No dream, but I woke up early and couldn't go back to sleep. Nerves." François explained.
"Yeah, knowing you're going to get into a firefight does that to ya." Remy agreed. François turned over to face his friend, making him contact the un-warmed portion of his seat.
Cold...
"Do you think we'll die today?" François asked.
"I hope not. But it could happen, maybe he sees us before we see him and we both get popped along with Monsieur le Sénateur. Maybe we stop him from shooting Cartwright, but he still wants to kill us. Maybe fucking aliens come down, abduct the assassin, and we don't have to worry about human politics anymore. My point is, a lot of shit can happen, so much that it'll distract you when you're actually in the shit, so it's best not to think about what could happen, but to think about your plan." Remy said, voice still groggy from sleep.
"Right. So what is our plan?"
"You said he gets shot at 10:30? We show up at 9:50, no point in trying to get his security to listen to us, so we wait for Robinson to show up, Senator comes out, and we hit him from behind. Boom, you're a hero." Remy punctuated his last sentence with a clap.
"Alright, let's do this." François agreed.
The sun eventually woke up, but by then, François and Remy had already gotten breakfast and morning coffee. François even shaved away the patchy hair on his cheeks and neck, leaving only his curled mustache and neatly trimmed soul patch; Remy opted not to remove the stubble that covered his entire face below the nose.
They were now sitting outside the home of one Senator Cartwright, an extravagant Mediterranean-style mansion in Whitestone on Powell Cove. François was worried that they'd arrive too early and stick out like a sore thumb to security, but when they arrived, the street was backed up for two blocks with news vans. The artist adjusted the heavy gun that sat locked and loaded in his waistband.
"Ok, got your gun?" Remy asked, François nodded. "If anyone asks, we're independent reporters," and here Remy took out two handheld digital voice recorders, handing one to François, "shove the damn thing in their face and start asking questions in fast French, ça va?" Remy proposed.
"Oui, let's get this bastard." And François racked the pistol in his waistband like people did in American action movies.
I'm fucking John McClaine, baby.
The men exited their vehicle and were hit by the drone of all the camera crews and reporters. François went to grab his pack of Gitanes but thought better of it.
Smoke might get in my eyes, best not.
"Camera two ready!"
"We're live in five, four, three, two-"
"Move the truck out of the shot, for Christ's sake!"
It's just like in my dream, this is what I heard before he came out. We have to find Robinson fast!
YOU ARE READING
SUPERWORLD
FantasyA Texas high school football star trying to clear his name. A Japanese detective hunts a serial killer while still grieving his missing daughter. An Indian diplomat's son is lost in a foreign land after his father's murder. A French painter seeks to...
