There is nothing here, just dust. Dust and the wind which moves it.
Just the dunes, empty, slowly moving, slowly shifting.
No living thing under the sky white with heat. No plants, no stones. Nothing. Just dust.
There is no one here. There is no waiting.
There is no road, no shimmering hot air over its black, cracked surface.
Nothing moves, besides the dust and the wind. No convoy slowly makes its way on the uneven road. Nobody there, no watchful guards scanning the ever-shifting dunes, no psykers, looking for the spark of a mind that should not be here. No alarms, no surprises, because no one is here.
There is no launcher, and nobody to raise it. Nobody is looking through the scope, nobody corrects for movement, for wind. No one gently squeezes the trigger. There is no flash, no plume of fire, nothing hurls through the air.
There is no explosion, no twisted wreckage of the luxury car. Nothing happened at all.
There are no shouts, no panicked shots from the guards. No confused psykers looking for a flash of satisfaction, anger, murderous intent, fear, for there are no such things here.
There is no shelter buried in sand. No one is closing the door. Nobody goes into deep trance, there is no mind to clear of anything.
There was no mission to assasinate the Planetary Governor, and there will never have been.