The darkness reeked of eldritch gravitas and incense. Thirteen figures, in black hooded robes, stood in a circle, barely visible in the candlelight’s flicker. No faces were visible in the deep shadow of the hoods, each pulled far forward. Anonymity was important when plotting to kill a King.
“He brought the world to the brink of nuclear annihilation. He doesn’t follow orders like the others,” whispered one of the hoods.
“And you propose?” Another shadow queried.
“Remove him from the game board.” The whisper, smooth and hard as a katana. “Arrangements have been made.”
“November 22nd, Dallas.”
It was 1963.