|The Beggar. CC2.0 photo by Foto_Michel|
“Come on, move your arse.”
I don’t look up. The tone of voice and shiny boots are enough.
An officious shadow, taller than the man himself, ripples across the cobbles.
“Move or be arrested. It’s invitation only today - unless the President sent you one.” He chuckles.
No ticket, but I’m here for a reason. In this perfect vantage point, where his car will stop, a spot I’ve occupied ever since we discovered his plans.
This meeting’s about justification. Intolerable demands, bellicose provocations will humiliate the guests until they storm out. The President will be triumphant - unless someone can stop him.
I hear the approaching roar of the motorcycle outriders.
I peer around the policeman’s legs, and the sun glistens off an opening window opposite me.
Here we go.
I kick the policeman’s knee.
It snaps back and he crashes to the ground.
I grab at his belt, snatching his radio, rolling to my feet.
“Zulu, Zulu! Upper left, fourth floor!”
The crack of my team’s gunfire echoes around the square.
A body falls from the window.
The cavalcade halts and our smiling, waving leader sweeps into his meeting.
I pour my begging cup’s coins onto the writhing body at my feet.
“Come on, move your arse”. I smile.
This story was written for Rebekah Postupak's Flash!Friday challenge 3.18