Target

I stare wistfully from the window as the world rushes by. My traveling companion, Fred, sits across from me on the Nightingale Express, is snoring softly and leaning against the person next too him who tries to nudge him awake from time to time. I hold the picture. I don't know the target, never heard of him, but the person who hired us must want him dead, to the tune of ten thousand dollars. I am to make it look like an accident or at least a natural death. I have a syringe full of potassium, one of the most deadliest and untraceable poisons known to man resting in my breast pocket. We will meet the contact who will point out the target to us at the train station in LA about 5 minutes ahead. Fred only needs to distract the target by seeming to run into him while I come up from behind with the lethal syringe. The target will slump to the ground and froth will issue from his lips, I will yell out, "heart attack". Simple. Elegant. Suddenly the train comes to a halt. I look through the window and witness the engineer and the brakeman jump down. There is a body on the tracks. It must have taken a half mile to stop the train or they would have run over him. They seem to recognize the man. I recognize the man as well when they turn the body over. It is my target. What? How?