Thomas attentively crouched under a dry and mangled desert tree, looking out for patrols as he tossed his bags over a barricade of barbed wire. Wire fences like this one extended for dozens of miles along this part of the border. He had recieved a tip that this part of the border had no land mines. Thomas hoped the information was accurate. He planned to return to this spot with his bags filled to the brim with drugs.

The territory he was entering had seceded from his own nation two years ago. Now the two sides were engaged in a civil war. Dangerous conditions for a drug runner. The border was militarized.

Thomas had come prepared to navigate the low-strung barbed wire. He removed a long metal ladder he had hidden under some foliage the previous day, and placed it atop the wire. He had a segment of carpet which had been removed from a house, and he tossed it over the ladder. It would help protect his skin from the sharp barbs. Climbing over the obstacle with this improvised tool, he arrived on the other side of the border. He pulled the ladder and carpet with him, and then quickly hid them under the nearby bushes. They would need to be hidden carefully so the border patrol wouldn't find them.

Fortunately his first destintion was not far. He sprinted toward it through the cool desert night. He wanted to get away from the border as quickly as possible; many parts of it had been fortified during the civil war, and occupied by soldiers armed with artillery and armored vehicles. This section was comparitively lightly guarded, but was often patrolled by paramilitary forces... little more than gang members operating under the provisional government's license. They were likely to murder a drug runner such as Thomas if they caught him. He had to get to the nearest highway. He had a meeting with a driver to take him to the city.

The new government of the region was rife with corruption, and it's ties to criminal elements had become obvious from the beginning of the revolution. The revolution had employed criminal cartels to fight in the conflict, and they still had a prominent position as a powerful and influential force among the government and military. Initially the cartels made their profits and power through lucrative drug traficking, but when they had gained a foothold within the government, their influence refused to be removed. Much of their power was based on popular support. Poverty had plagued the region for decades, which drove many of the common people to resort to criminal enterprises to survive. The same poverty and social exclusion also attracted them to the revolution.

After a few minutes of fast running, Thomas spotted the tarmac of the highway. He would wait by this two lane road until his transport arrived.

Traffic at this time of night on such an isolated road was non-existent. Immediately at the scheduled time, a battered and dented blue truck passed by slowly. It was the vehicle Thomas had been instructed to wait for. He jumped up and signaled to the vehicle. Behind the glow of the instrumental panel, Thomas saw the driver nod in recognition. He ran to the vehicle and climbed into the passenger seat.

"I was waiting for you," the driver said. "I made lots of passes on the highway just to find you... I was afraid the Air Force might be patrolling this area with their drones. I thought they might take a shot at me with a missile or something!"

"Which country's Air Force, yours or mine?" Thomas asked.

"Both, man, both."

Even in times of war, criminal enterprise wouldn't stop. His driver's nationality didn't bother Thomas, as long as he got his job done. Before the civil war, they would have been considered the same nationality. But Thomas understood that there were now enough differences to make a destinction.

They sped down the highway toward the city. When they arrived there, Thomas would be taken to a safehouse to recieve a shipment of drugs. It was then up to him to find a way back over the border to his home country, where the drugs would be resold on the black market. As long as there was profit to be made, he knew his partners on this side of the border would keep him in their best interests. Those with political ambitions were what frightened Thomas most. Their were trained killers gunning for each other on both sides of the border, and Thomas didn't want to get caught in the crossfire.

The driver's concern was legitimate- if there were any unmanned attack drones flying in the area, they could annihiliate their small truck and vaporize the occupants within seconds. Thomas tried to push the thought out of his mind.

As dawn approached, their truck approached the outskirts of the city. Tanks lumbered by on the side of the road. The tank crews avoided driving directly on the road, as their vehicles' immense weight and hardened treads could damage the pavement on the highway. In the early days of the revolution, the insurgents had been relatively under-equipped. But their was so much popular support for secession in the region, they quickly seized advanced military hardware from the military installations located in their territory.

Thomas and the driver had now entered the periphery of the city. Traffic became thicker, and grey cinderblock homes and delapidated storefronts straddled both sides of the road. Most of the houses were-self constructed by the owners- they were made as efficiently as possible but with little consideration for aesthetic appeal. Homeless people shuffled through the streets and public spaces. The more economically mobile citizens occupied the older and more extravagant homes closer to the center of the city, and massive population growth had created huge areas of development and growth on the outskirts mostly occupied by the urban poor. Nonetheless, the entire territory was now worse off than ever. Most of the wealthy professionals and middle class had fled across the border at the start of the civil war, and their removal drained the newly independent territory of expertise and wealth. The people's revolution which was supposed to free the poor from the wealthy had resulted in political control, but economic disaster.

The economic results could have been predicted. Every revolution ends in turmoil. But the massive growth of the lower class in recent years insured that they would gain huge political power by population alone. Caught up in the ferver of independence and revolution, they sought total control, and nothing could stop them.

The sun was now blaring through the eastern sky like a white disk, its rays muttled by the dusty air. The traffic slowed to a standstill at an intersection ahead. Few cars were on the roads during these times, so it was unusual for the streets to become this congested. Thomas couldn't see past the leading vehicles.

The driver shifted uneasily in his seat.

"Military checkpoint," he said. "Take it easy."

"Take it easy?" Thomas wondered aloud. "What good will that do, I don't look anything like the people around here!"

"Don't worry, there are enough of you still around to fit in. They'll probably just wave us through like they always do."

The traffic inched forward. Finally Thomas and his driver lurched to a halt as green-clad troops held their hands up to order a stop. Just ahead of them lay the intersection. On both sides of the road there were camoflage-painted transport trucks mounted with heavy machine guns. The machine guns were mounted on top of moveable tripods in the beds of the trucks, and each was manned by a soldier. Beyond the intersection lay a 100-meter long "kill zone" which cars were instructed to pass through one at a time. On both sides of the kill zone stood more troops and weapons.

A young commanding officer with a red beret and dark spectacles peered into the truck as Thomas and his driver waited for instructions. Thomas wondered what he would do if they became suspicious. If the troops decided to inspect the vehicle, he could possibly jump out and make a run for the traffic waiting behind the them. Would they take a shot at him if it meant risking the lives of the other drivers?

He was relieved when the officer waved his hand, signaling to the driver to continue through the checkpoint.

The driver accelerated slowly forward. In the view of the trucks mirrors the driver saw the officer frantically signal for the other cars in the line to turn around. Some of the soldiers ran for a nearby building.

Thomas saw a soldier mounted on one of the military trucks ahead operate the cocking handle on his machine gun.

Then, in a blur of motion and light, a line of phosphorous tracer bullets snapped over the cab of the truck. One of the machine gunners ahead was shooting at them. The bullets, illuminated by red burning phosphorous snaked forward and over the truck in a line that looked like a glowing red rope being whipped forward.

The driver slammed the brakes and put the truck on reverse, and began speeding backwards. Now more gunfire erupted on the sides. Cracking sounds could be heard inside the truck as bullets flew by, followed by the sound of metal being torn and shredded as the bullets struck the vehicle.

The truck's engine gurgled and went silent, and the truck quickly decelerated and rolled to a stop. The soldiers had stopped firing. There was a defeaning silence which almost lulled Thomas into a state of passivity. But he knew that there was still danger. The driver flung his door open and scrambled out of the cab. Reactively, Thomas did the same.

He sprinted down the street. Everything around him was a blur. He focused on nothing but getting away. Suddenly he felt someone tackle him from behind and pin him on the ground. A blindfold was put over his eyes from behind, and his hands were bound by handcuffs. Two people dragged him and pulled him into what he assumed to be the back of a military truck. He heard the diesel engine start, and felt the vehicle begin moving. He knew he wasn't alone, but guessed that his driver companion was not with him. He decided not to speak, thinking his guards wouldn't like it.

After several minutes of driving, the vehicle finally came to a stop. The soldiers guarding Thomas had been silent the whole time, and now dragged him out of the back of the vehicle. Two of them escorted him into a building. Although blindfolded, Thomas could hear his footsteps on the linoleum floor, and feel the building's air conditioning.

His guards sat him in a chair, and the blindfold was removed. As his eyes adjusted to the bright flourescent light, he saw that he was sitting in a government office, devoid of any decorations or furnishings except a chair and desk in front of him. A computer sat on the desk, and in the chair sat a somewhat stocky man wearing slacks with a short sleeved business shirt and a tie. A police badge was pinned on the breast of his shirt.

Thomas sensed his two soldier escorts standing on both sides of his chair, but he didn't dare look at them. They communicated to the police detective at the desk that they had caught a drug smuggler, but had found no drugs in his truck. They then discussed the events of his capture. After they finished speaking, the detective eyed Thomas annoyedly.

"You sure caused some trouble today, didn't you? Trying to speed away like that."

"Yes, sir," Thomas muttered.

"You're lucky nobody got hurt. These troops are pretty jumpy," he waved toward the guards standing by Thomas. "We're on a wartime footing here. If your people would end your war of aggression against us, we wouldn't have these problems."

Thomas looked at the floor. He didn't want to be drawn into a political debate. It was just business for him.

"Well," the detective said, "we know exactly what you came here for. We took out your dealers before you even reached the city. Lucky for you, we're sending you home instead of locking you up."

Thomas felt a surge of relief. It made sense to deport him. They didn't have the resources to deal with small time smugglers or civilian prisoners of war. The police were more concerned with the big cartels, and the military were more concerned with fighting.

The detective shifted in his chair. "I don't understand why you come in here looking to buy drugs," he said. "Don't you guys have enough luxury in your own country?"

Thomas now became more bold. "Your people are the ones selling drugs, not me."

"Who do you think is selling it?" the detective asked "You think all of us over here are gang bangers and drug lords? You think all of us are like that?

Thomas didn't respond.

"You need to see this is our land. It has always been our land and you and your people corrupted it with your greed and arrogance. We just took what was ours."

Thomas was willing to test the waters a bit. "And now look at it. Now you have your own country. But what else do you have? Nothing. You have nothing now without us. Just poverty and drugs."

"The only reason we have a problem with drugs is because your country buys all the product! It's your vice, not ours."

The detective's face had turned red, but he seemed more frustrated than angry. Thomas could not muster a response.

"... and we were always poor. We worked hard and struggled to rise, but you kept us down. Now at least we have what's rightfully ours... our land, our country."

"But the land doesn't make the people," Thomas replied. "Now you're worse off than ever. What did you thnk would happen if you removed us? Did you think things would be better? We had more than you, but only because we earned it with hard work."

At this, the detective looked at the door and dismissively waved his hands. The two guards escorted Thomas out of the room. He was placed in the open bed of a civilian truck. Two guards wearing civilian clothes sat in the back. They holstered revolvers in their wastelines, and eyed Thomas suspiciously. His handcuffs were tied to a metal frame in the back of the truck so he could not attempt to jump out. They didn't bother with the blindfold this time.

A driver started the engine and the truck departed the police compound, which was surrounded by barbed wire and sandbags. They drove for hours until before reaching an isolated road crossing at the border which was used for prisoner exchanges. Thomas noticed a sign by the side of the road. At the top of the sign, it read something in Spanish. Below that, in English it read-

NOW LEAVING MEXICAN STATE OF CALIFORNIA. ENTERING U.S. STATE OF NEVADA.