Fazal Chaudry piloted the battered Ford F-150 across the dark and dusty backroads between the Mexican border and San Antonio Texas, keeping the old pick-up at the posted speed limit. The small canvas bag on the seat beside him contained $2000 in cash and a Sig Sauer P220 fitted with a suppressor. The money had been used to pay a coyote to get him across the border at Piedras Negras; the coyote no longer needed the money.

    The pick-up truck had belonged to a rancher who was unlucky enough to own the property where Fazal landed on the US side of the Rio Grande. He'd swapped the license plates with a car in Uvalde, but he estimated no one would find the rancher until he secured another vehicle. Behind the seat rode his prize possession, a Druganov sniper rifle broken down and stored in a hard case disguised as a beat up piece of luggage. He was a long way from his native Pakistan where the rifle had been lovingly constructed, tuned and and finally blessed by his Imam.

    His mission was simple. Shoot the man who responsible for so much death and destruction in his homeland. American dissidents who were sympathetic to his people arranged for his weapons and money to be waiting for him in Mexico City when he got off the plane. After that, he'd made his way to Monterrey where he hired the coyote. Now he was in the United States; easy as pie, as the Americans said.

    He glanced in his rearview mirror and saw there was a set of headlights coming up fast. Suddenly, red and blue overhead lights came on and a siren chirped at him. He cursed under his breath and checked his speed; there was no problem there. He turned on his blinker and began to pull over while retrieving the Sig Sauer from his bag. He placed it between his legs as he came to a stop. With any luck it would be a DPS State Trooper from Texas' Highway Patrol, his research indicated they usually patrolled alone.

    The officer exited his car almost immediately which Fazal took as a good sign. It meant he had probably not had time to run the truck's license plate. He could hear the gravel crunching under the officer's boots as he approached. A glance in the side mirror told him his luck had held; it was a trooper after all. The officer stood outside his window and shined a flashlight into the truck, effectively blinding him. No matter, he thought while calculating where the man's head should be based on the position of the light. He waited for the trooper to speak.

    "Sir," began the trooper "I need to see your driver's license and proof of insurance please."

    "Certainly officer," said Fazal.

    With practiced swiftness he brought the Sig Sauer up fired a single, silenced shot. The trooper went down immediately; his flashlight cast wild shadows as it hit the ground and bounced, then rolled to a stop against its owner's body. Opening the door he stepped out onto the lonely Texas backroad and put another bullet in the trooper's head for good measure. He quicky turned off the overhead lights of the black and white patrol car then reached into the glovebox to pop the trunk.

    Sweating, he cursed the humidity while he dragged the trooper's body to the rear of the car and placed it in the trunk. Then he drove the police vehicle off the road and into a small stand of mesquite, concealing it from the roadway. He picked up the microphone and held it while glancing through the paperwork on the officer's clipboard. In a moment he had what he wanted.

    "Six Mary Thirteen I'm 10-8, citation issued." He held the microphone as far away from his mouth as possible to distort his voice.

    "Six Mary Thirteen clear." replied the dispatcher.

    She sounded bored, thought Fazal. So much the better; they would not miss the trooper for some time now. It was a long drive to Washington DC.