At this point all they wanted were results. It didn’t matter who you were or what services you offered. As long as you could get the job done. The Federation of Historical Events sent out applications to all those who wanted to make a few bucks.
And I figured, what the hell. I might as well give it a shot.
There was nothing to gain and nothing to lose. If I didn’t make the cut I simply wouldn’t go back in time. If I moved past preliminaries, well, then I’d get to go 300 years in the past.
Maybe then Analise would give me a second chance.
Surprisingly enough, I got the gig. Two FHE agents appeared at my door one Saturday morning and told me to come with them. I had nothing better to do that day and easily obliged.
They gave me the skinny on time-traveling procedures: don’t get caught, don’t get seen, and most importantly, arrive back five minutes after I’ve left.
Next thing I knew I was in Sarajevo. The date? June 28, 1914.
I had everything I needed to succeed. I had pictures of the target, I’d studied newspaper clippings from the archives detailing every instant of the event. I knew everything I needed to. The only thing I didn’t have was a way of stopping the entire process.
I’d lied on the FHE application. I wasn’t a killer, I couldn’t kidnap anyone. I was a children’s birthday party magician. I could barely make a scarf disappear.
And somehow I had to stop one of the most prolific assassinations in human history from happening. And I had forty minutes to do so.
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