Deadly Election

33

First a man’s bare arm flopped out. The rest of him jerkily followed, eerily affected by rigor. He lurched out, landing face down.

The vigiles shoved everyone back. He had to be dead. We could see that. One of the vigiles touched his neck to make sure, a routine gesture. ‘He’s cold.’

They rolled him face up. People craned to look. I pushed in myself, in case I recognised this one. I did. He was thin and lanky, wearing a beige tunic, with heavy acne scars. It was the missing agent, Niger.

His wife gasped, then fainted clean away.