[center][h3]Of Rebels and Assassins  - Part II[/h3][/center]
[b]Madrid, Spain - August 02, 1960[/b]

He was a nobody, just another Spanish peasant slouching along the great boulevards of the Empire in the rising heat of the morning. There was nothing remarkable about his clothing, hardy machine made cotton shirt and trousers with an American style short jacket over top, a "ball-cap" shaded his face from the strengthening sun, his hands thrust into his pockets. He walked with a purpose, head bent low, striding quickly along the sidewalk, oblivious to the people he was passing, or in some cases bumping in to. 

Ahead of him, rearing above the white streets, its spires reaching toward God, was the Muralla Árabe. The once great Church sat at the South End of the Palacio Real de Madrid, though it had been closed to the public with the ascension of the new Viceroy. The massive spiked wrought iron fence blocked any access, interspaced with shining white marble columns that ran the entire length of the Calle de Bailén. It was a beautiful building.

A small group of children ran laughing in to his path, one smiled at him as they went by, he did not have the heart to return the smile because, today, of all days, he intended to change their world forever. Tucked in to his left pocket, his hand grasping it firmly, was a revolver. The bulk of the weapon made him feel self-concious and he was sure someone would see him, one of the happy faces would suddenly sour and begin pointing at him and shouting "Assassin!".  

They would not be wrong. He was indeed an assassin, or so he thought of himself. The man who had hired him for his job had told him that he would be doing Gods work, that he would save Spain and turn it back to the path of the Church. He had agreed. Under the Old King, much loved as he was, the Catholic Church had been quietly stripped of much of its power and lands, sold to the nobility to pay for the Kings restoration and public works projects. Now, under Delgado, the Church was seeing it influence reduced even further as Delgado struck down laws prohibiting work on Sundays, the right of the Church to lay a charge of heresy against a non-believer. Delgado was famously a moderate when it came to religion, willing to allow Jews to openly worship again as long as they paid their taxes. It was enough for the Church to dislike him.

He stopped at the edge of the street, across from the entrance to the Palace. Two Cazadores stood a rigid attention in their small sentry boxes, eyes scanning the streets relentlessly. He had but to wait, glancing at the clock mounted on the pedestal at the street corner. Two minutes. He passed the time by lighting a Cornell, the smoke helping to calm his nerves as he did his best to appear as though he were waiting for someone. There was enough going on in the street that the Cazadores barely spared him a glance. Or maybe they didn't consider him a threat. Either way, he was not going to complain.

Two minutes ticked by, and as if on cue, a small car suddenly swerved out of traffic, mounted the curb, and smashed into one of the sentry boxes. The Cazadore gave a yell of surprise and managed to dive out of the way, bouncing off the fence as he did so and crumpling unconscious to the ground. The second Cazadore only had time to raise his weapon before a barrage of gunfire from the two men in the car cut him down.

Screams. So many screams. People began to scatter in every direction, cars slammed to a halt, their drivers ducking beneath their dashboards, or honking in frustration because they didn't know what the holdup was. He drew the revolver from his jacket and began to run across the street. The two men in the car, he did not know them, ignored him as they began to exchange gunfire with a Guardia Urbana patrol car and two officers. 

His feet pounded on the pavement as he crossed the street, then splashed through gasoline from the wrecked car that was pooling in the gutter. Bullets whip cracked past his head and he heard a scream from behind him as someone was hit. In front of him the Palace reared up to his right, to the left, the Muralla. Between them, staring at him calmly, and quite alone, was the Viceroy of Spain. 

His breathing was harsh in his own ears and his lungs burned. He had never been much of a runner and the bakery had hardly done anything to make his fitness any better. The Viceroy did not try to run, he did not shout, he did not seek cover. With all the calm and dignity of a man in complete control of the situation, Delgado drew his sidearm and aimed it directly at the man who was running toward him.

The revolver clutched in his attackers hand was an older model, from the Great War perhaps. He could see from the mans gait that he was not runner, he had none of the hard eyed look you might see in a soldier or a true assassin. No, this man was not an assassin, though he was certain to try.

Behind him, the gun battle at the gate had been won as more Policia arrived. One of the gunmen from the car died and as Delgado glanced past his own assailant he could see two Policia officers, having used their car for cover, tackle the other gunman to the ground as he tried frantically to reload.

That left the lone peasant facing Delgado. He looked very small and frail in the midst of the great Palace forecourt, his white trousers and shirt so commonplace that he could have been any man on the outside of the fence. Delgado's own heart had begun to race slightly, a normal reaction to be sure, as he raised his pistol and aimed it at the man who had come to kill him.

His attacker slowed at the movement and then stopped altogether as he stared in to Delgado's face. Delgado could feel himself smiling and knew in that moment that no one else would die that day.

"Throw down your weapon." Delgado did not yell, he barely even raised his voice. The mans face twitched and he looked down at the weapon that hung at his side.

"No, my friend. Do not. If you do, you will die, and then I will find your family and kill them too. You can save them right now by dropping that pistol." 

Tears sprang into the mans eyes and he dropped to his knees, terror suddenly apparent. The pistol clattered to the ground and Delgado lowered his own weapon to his side. Policia officers were now running across the forecourt from the roadway and Cazadores burst from the Palace doors.

"God forgive me..." The man whispered as Delgado paced slowly toward him, stopping several yards away.

"God might forgive you, but I will not." The Viceroy's voice was as cold as winter and the man shuddered as two burly Policia officers reached them, grabbing him by the arms and slamming him to thee flagstone. 

"Viceroy." The Captain of the Guard came hurrying up, his was out of breath and sweat soaked the front of his uniform.

"Captain. Find out who they are, arrest their families, who sent them, and then I will speak to them." Delgado pushed his pistol back in to its holster even as his attacker howled in protest until a policeman slammed his face into the flagstone, silencing him. 

Delgado turned his back on the group and continued his walk toward the Muralla, alone.