The "Magic Bullet" theory had stuck out like a sore thumb during any investigation into the Kennedy assassination. Apparently, bullets that could defy the laws of physics were all over Dallas, Texas that November day. Or there had been other shooters trying to kill Kennedy. Jason had always suspected that what happened in that day was nothing less than a military-style ambush, something that his own training backed up, but he'd never had any real proof of that until now. The only thing "magic" about those bullets is how many of them were fired.

Something else was bothering Jason. "But what about Kennedy's protection from the Secret Service guys and even the local police? How did you know they wouldn't interfere?"

"If you carefully examine the events leading up to the assassination, there were all the signs that the shit was going to hit the fan. Kennedy's Secret Service escort went AWOL just before the execution. Why? They were removed because they’d wind up getting in the way of most of the bullets being aimed at Kennedy. There was too much risk of them helping him escape "The Main Event" and then for Kennedy to start asking some very awkward questions. Even if he just told Bobby Kennedy what had happened, we were looking at martial law and every one of the conspirators eating a bullet, including me.”

“Getting the Secret Service guys out of the picture was easy - they were simply told to hang back, and that's what they did. Those guys are trained to obey orders, so we used that against them," Heller explained intently.

"Other hints were things like the bulletproof canopy his Cadillac used all the time being removed that morning. The spin we put on that afterward was that Kennedy wanted people to see him up close and personal. Well, I can call bullshit on that one, Jason - we just made sure he didn't have an inch of bulletproof glass protecting his damned fool hide. Heck, we even managed to get his route changed to bring Kennedy into a triangulated ambush. The Secret Service was the very least of our problems; we knew we had the most important of them in our pocket, and the ones who weren't were kept well away from the action.”

"Don't you care there are other people in here who could overhear you? Report you to the police?" Jason asked.

Heller started his belly laugh again. "No, I don't care, and why would I? There are so many conspiracy nuts these days that it's hard to find a truly sane person to have a conversation with. The lunatic asylums are full of perfectly sane men mixed in with all the lunatics. For all we know, Jesus Christ did return to the Earth, but is currently medicated in some local nuthouse. Claims of insider knowledge, or being able to perform miracles, won't get you very far these days. The flip side of this is that the government is full of lunatics. I should know because I was one of them. Maybe I still am."

“Let them listen to me all they want," Heller said. "The reality is, most people are too busy just trying to get by to care much about anything else. Starving, worried, financially destroyed people are easy to control. That's all part of it, Jason. That’s all part of the bigger game plan.”

"Part of what? You keep hinting at knowing more than you're saying, so maybe spit it out, Heller, instead of playing games with me.”

Jason had never enjoyed people playing mind games, and this old man was obviously a master of the art. That didn't make him any less infuriating though, and that anger had finally bubbled to the surface. He could feel it throbbing in his veins, and felt his fists clench involuntarily.

For a split second, the grandfatherly smile on Heller's face vanished and was replaced by a look filled with the kind of cold-blooded anger that instantly convinced Jason he was having coffee with a killer. The mask had dropped just long enough for him to see exactly what was hiding underneath the disguise the old man was wearing.

A split second later, the cold stare was gone, and Heller went back to looking like just another old man sitting in a diner, chatting with a friend of his. Shit, as far as most people were concerned, they probably thought Jason was so kind, bringing his grandfather out for some pie á la mode.

Staring directly into his eyes, Heller asked, "Have you ever heard about the Illuminati, Jason? Do you know anything about them?"

Chapter 12

He'd walked North away from Dealey as quickly as he could manage, doing his best to make it look like a casual walk despite the fact his mind wanted him to sprint away from what he’d just done. The president was dead. Shot in the head. Bingo. Game over. The sweat dripping from his face was going to give him away if he wasn't real careful, so he consciously forced himself to walk a little bit more slowly. He wanted to give his body a chance to cool down and his mind a chance to catch up.

Revchon Park wasn't a million miles away now, so neither was Routh Street. The big deal was done, but there was still other business to take care of. He patted his jacket pocket to make sure everything was where he left it. It was, and that was enough to reassure him. Enough to keep him focused. He was still on the clock here, and every minute mattered more than his own life right now. Sixty stupid seconds could mean the difference between walking away from this clean, or going straight to hell before the day was out.

Bill Heller didn't plan on going to hell today. Not today, no, sir. He was pretty sure someone else was going to have to though.

Carlo Fiorello sat in the small apartment, feeling quite pleased with himself. No one would've thought that they could pull this off. Those government dipshits he'd been dealing with did everything except pull the trigger for him. Hell, he didn't even have to pull the trigger, he had that half-Italian mutt, Moser, to take care of that for him. Still, you had to hand it to the guy, he could shoot a fly off your nose at 100-yards, but he was definitely borderline retarded.

"Hey, Frank, c'mere a minute - you gotta get paid."

Frank Moser ambled slowly over to where Morello was sitting. At 6' 3", Moser was an impressively big man, but nothing more than a hired thug. The only reason he got hired for the Kennedy hit was because he was the best shot the Rivello family had on their books. Plus, he was too dumb to ask questions or cause them any headaches. They got themselves the equivalent of an idiot savant with a rifle, and it had paid off handsomely, and the some!

Moser sat down at the table across from Morello, smiling. He'd done his job and he'd done it well. This money was enough to pay off his book, too, before they took it out of his legs, or worse. Then again, it usually took a few guys to take him down, but no one was bulletproof and his book was getting bigger every day. He almost envied alcoholics because they eventually passed out, where he could just gamble day and night, and night and day. It had taken its toll on him in the end though.

Fiorello smiled across the table at Moser. "$20k for the hit and another $10K to keep your mouth shut. That was the deal, right?"

Moser nodded slowly. If shooting presidents was this profitable, he might have to do it more often. He was going to get himself clear with the bank at long last.

Fiorello reached casually into his jacket pocket and threw a large brown packet casually onto the old wooden table that lay between them. "Check it, buddy, but it's all there."

Moser grabbed the package and started tearing the paper open, as excited as a big, dumb kid at a candy store. It was all there. Good. He didn't like being cheated. He glanced up.

The last thing Frank Moser saw was a .45 aimed straight at his face.