The highway running through the desert was dark.  The sun had fallen behind the mesa and the twin beams of the headlights were the only light visible for miles.  It was enough.

The cross hairs on the scope were centered on the roof of the vehicle and the distance was less than a hundred yards.  The report of the 7mm rifle rang across the arid landscape as the vehicle swerved into the guardrail at nearly eighty and the small sports car flipped end-over-end into the brush.

The shooter stood up, brushed the dirt from his jeans and lit a cigarette.  The shakes never seemed to go away entirely and it still amazed him that, after nearly thirty years of this, he still reacted this way.  Pulling the disposable phone from his pocket he dialed the number and waited for the answer.

“Yes, this is the AT&T operator, I am afraid no one is answering at the long-distance number you were attempting to call.”  Without waiting for a reply, he hung the phone up, dropped it to the ground and shattered it with the heel of his boot. 

Picking up the scattered pieces, he placed them in the large duffel bag laying near his feet.  He then began to break down the Remington and scope and placed it in the bag as well.  Checking his watch, he started the two mile hike back to his car. 

The Ford Maverick was a faded puke green and the rust was more character trait than the thing deserved.  He started the car and drove toward Phoenix along the back road.  The drive would pass through Black Canyon City and he would deposit the bag and its contents there at the arranged location.  From there the rifle would be dismantled completely and would be destroyed by a man he trusted.

All-in-all the op had taken less than four hours from start to finish and he figured he might just stop at Dot’s for a beer.  Fifty-thousand for four hours worth of work, not bad.  The contractor would be pleased with the outcome.

He didn’t know why the assignment had been given, only that it had been and the money was good.  That was enough.  In this business, the less he knew the better. 

Dot’s was a working class bar just off Van Buren.  The owner was reportedly an ex-cop who had bought the place back in the late seventies.  Pool tables filled one side of the bar and he walked to a vacant stool and ordered a Budweiser.  The bartender knew him vaguely and nodded, bringing him the beer in the bottle.