Tomas Mendez believes in God, the Father Almighty, Creator of heaven and earth. He believes in Jefferson Silas and Nabil Saba. He is the sword of Muhammad the Conqueror. Tomas Louis Mendez eliminates the enemies of Al-Qahar. And then, he weeps.

Adrenalin sent shivers rushing through his body as he eased to his elbows peeking over the edge of the building. This was the day he waited for so long. He estimated the target to be no more than 200 yards away. He scanned the area making sure his nest was secure from human eyes. Convinced he was invisible from the streets below, he lifted his rifle and rested it in an opening of the concrete latticework running along the edge of the office building. He eased the barrel over the ledge and pointed it toward the door of the concert hall. Leaning his head to the side, he brought the weapon to the firing position. He winced as the scope's metal scorched his desert-toughened cheek.

"Damn," Mendez grunted rubbing the sting away.

He scolded himself. After the hundreds of times he'd done this he ought to remember to take the damned weapon out of the case and let it cool before putting it up against his face. He rubbed the scope and barrel with his hand until it felt cool enough not to piss him off anymore. Easing the rifle back over the edge of the building, he gingerly touched the scope with his cheek.

"Better, dammit."

He twisted his neck finding just the right position and peered through the scope with his left eye. His right eye closed, he focused on the features of the building down the road. Trails of yellow whisked through the fluorescent green of his sight as he moved the weapon from side to side and up and down. Large black letters on the marquee over the main entrance to the National Theater proclaimed Michael Duvald was performing tonight. As he moved his sight to the right of the door, the scope found two men in suits pacing the street running in front of the concert hall.

One of the men glanced up in his direction and for a moment stared directly at the rifle.

Years in this profession told Mendez he was safely out of range of human night vision. Tomas Louis Mendez slid back down behind the building ledge. He glanced at his watch. There was a good half hour before the performance let out.

"Hope you're enjoying your last concert," he mumbled.

Wiping his forehead, he pressed his body up against the three-foot wall running all around the top of the building. He took shallow breaths trying to limit the air he inhaled. His lungs burned from the poison rising up from the streets below. Fewer cars were passing his building now as the town rid itself of commuters eager to get home to easy chairs and television screens after spewing their pollution into the environment.

He spent the afternoon watching limos on their way to drop off the big shot politicians down the road at the Old Ebbitts Grill. They loved hanging out there, glad-handing and patting people on the back. Mendez could picture them working the crowd in their five hundred dollar suits they charged to the taxpayers. Step right up and toss your friendly Congressman a buck or two for the old campaign. Don't shove now, there's plenty of time for everyone to get in on the show. Just need a little more money to make sure we get back here next session. Jeez, it's getting where you have to spend half your time trying to raise enough money just to keep the wolves from tearing you apart back home. It's no wonder we can't get anything done around here. Hell, it's just getting harder every day. Don't know if I can take much more of this. Oh Lord, look at the time. I've got to get back now. We've got a big vote coming up tonight, you know. Hey, thanks a lot for your help. Come on by and say hey some time. You got any friends want to tour the Capitol just give a holler, and one of my aides will leave a couple of passes for you. Take care now, you hear.

"What a shithole," Mendez said. Beads of sweat rolled down his forehead burning his eyes and taking him back to summer practice sessions in the scorching Texas sun.

Old coach Bowles use to yell like hell at the other players. "God damn it, let's bust some ass out there. Tex Mex, show these weenies how to hit. That's it! That's it! You're the one, baby. You're the one."

Mendez chuckled to himself. "Tex Mex," he uttered trying to remember where he'd picked up the nickname.

A smile crept across his face. Old Harvey Carlton gifted it to him. Yeah, the little shrimp, Carlton, way back in 7th grade when Mendez first moved to Kerton, Texas. Basque ancestors willed his dark complexion, but to the kids in Kerton, Basque was just a polite word for wetback or spic. To them, he was another Mexican who slipped across the border to pollute their State, a Tex Mex. If they weren't so stupid, they would have known if it wasn't for Mendez's ancestors coming over on the Santa Maria, there probably wouldn't even be a Texas for all the peckerwoods to live.

Mendez clicked the latches on the black case and flipped the lid open. He ripped off the top of the green cardboard box and pulled out the first bullet. His fingers caressed the shiny cylinder as his thumb stroked the 16 karat gold tip perched atop the silver shaft. Enemies of Al-Qahar met their maker with gold in the heart. In this line of work, you couldn't leave a business card, but you could sure leave a signature. It kept the price up.

He pulled back the lever on the side of his rifle and slid the bullet into the chamber. Mendez ejected the magazine, careful not to let it fall on the ground. One by one, he eyed each bullet twisting it between his fingers before setting it on top of the magazine and pushing it into place with his thumb. Each new shell tightened the tension on the spring. When the final bullet was pushed into place, Mendez held the clip under his nose and inhaled. It was a greasy, powdery odor. To Mendez, it was the sweetest of perfumes. He flipped the weapon over and pushed the magazine into the opening in front of the trigger housing slamming it into place with the heal of his hand. The clip locked in place, and he smiled to himself.

He removed the shiny cylinder from the case and twisted it onto the end of the gun barrel. Convinced the silencer was secure, he reached into his pocket removing a black box about an inch long by two inches wide. His thumb and forefinger found a silver button on top of the box, and as he pulled it, a small antenna popped up. Mendez scrutinized the plunger-like protrusion on the face of the box. He turned the contraption in his hand and removed a plastic strip covering the adhesive. Mendez held the device to the side of the trigger housing. He positioned it perfectly and pressed hard to insure the adhesive stuck to the side of the rifle stock. He jiggled the little box. It was secure. Rotating the gun back on its side, he adjusted the laser sighting knob. Satisfied everything was perfect, a grin replaced the scowl he normally wore.

Mendez grunted as he pushed back up to his elbows and peered down at the street. He moved the scope down 13th past F Street until he found the building between G and H he considered using. It would give him an easier shot but was not as shielded from searching eyes on the ground as the one he chose. Leafy trees lined the sidewalk outside the side exit of the theater blocking the view of his hideout. This would be where they came out, he was sure. In this building he could be down and out before the Secret Service agents realized the mistake they made heading up the street toward the simulated sounds of gunfire and muzzle flashes.

He pointed the weapon down at his target and slid his finger into the trigger housing caressing the plunger on the newly installed radio transmitter. He'd love to see the look on those Secret Service agents' faces when they opened the door to the roof and the whole damned top of the building blew off. They'd be busy sorting through the debris while he eased off into the night after one more successful mission.

He smiled at the marquee and eased down behind the ledge. If old dad could see him now, he wouldn't be so quick to talk about his lack of brains. Mendez pressed his body against the ledge of the building. The heat was still stifling, and he needed to cool down a bit. He scrutinized the concrete latticework constructed all along the building's ledge trying to slow his breathing. Calm down, breathe slow, cool off.

"Not much longer," he said. "Not long at all."

He glanced at his watch as he began humming ever so softly.