Wednesday, March 17th, 1999
6:30pm

Ranger Mike Palmer wriggled forward on his elbows, a small black case in hand. He stopped a moment to rub his hands together for warmth; despite the warm south Texan spring, it was still rather cold high in the mountains. Adjusting the fabric of his warm flannel overshirt, he peeked over the edge of the bluff. As he eyed the complex of buildings in the valley below, he opened the case to reveal a small pair of black, sniper-grade binoculars. He brought them to his eyes, focusing until he could clearly see the stacks of crates next to the building. The men guarding the crates were well armed with military-style AK's. 'They're gun-running up here,' he realized. He turned his attention further up the valley; two large warehouse-type buildings - definitely cocaine and marijuana processing. There had been an increase in the amount of drugs coming across the border and in the distribution networks, but the Rangers had yet to find where it was being processed. He'd hit the jackpot here. 'And I'll bet Tracey Hudson found all this too,' he thought sadly. They'd suspected something was going on, but were never sure, and the Senior Captain refused to spend the money to let Company E go trouncing around in the mountains on rumors. The ranger froze. His horse, left at the bottom of the bluff, hadn't made a sound in more than ten minutes. As Palmer moved to rise, he heard the click of a cocked pistol by his right ear.

"Going somewhere, Ranger?"
 
 

Saturday, March 20th, 1999
1:25pm

Cordell Walker sat at his desk, filling out paperwork. He sighed. The sergeant of the Company B Texas Rangers could think of dozens of things that he'd rather be doing than filling out the piles of paperwork left from last week's sixty-man drug bust. Horseback riding, talking with CD, having dinner with Alex... He smiled at the last thought. He'd made dinner reservations for tonight at the Italian Rose, an extremely fancy (and extremely expensive) restaurant. Tonight it would be six months that he, Cordell Walker, and Alexandra Cahill, Assistant District Attorney, had been engaged. He shook his head to clear it of the distracting thought, and turned back to his work.

Two hours later, he signed the last paper. Walker stood, stretched, and glanced at his watch; it was 3:38.

"Hey Trivette, that's all we've got to do today, right?" He asked his partner.

James Trivette sat at his computer, typing up a report. He was a dark African-American man with a medium-strong build, standing at about 5'10". His black hair was clipped short, and he wore a neat dress shirt and tie. His look was wary and watchful, one that was always aware, as Texas Ranger's appearance should be. He looked up.

"I think so. Other than the paperwork from the raid, we've had a slow week. Why, something up?" he replied, finishing the last paragraph of his report.

"Yeah, I was thinking of taking off early. I promised Trent I'd join him in a workout today before dinner with Alex."

Trivette looked at him strangely for a moment. He'd never known Walker to take off early from work. The senior ranger never even wanted time-off unless he was forced to. 'Must be turning over a new leaf', he thought, 'Alex really changed him since we first met.'

"Go ahead," he said aloud, "There isn't any reason for you to hang around. I'll see you tomorrow morning."

Walker put the papers in a file to hand in on his way out the door, "I'll be at Thunder Karate then, until six or so. Call me there if you need me." He belted his on gun and picked his leather Stetson hat off the rack.

"Alright, have a good time tonight," Trivette replied. "Oh, and Walker!" he called as Walker strode towards the door, "Don't do anything I wouldn't do." Cordell laughed. "I wouldn't be doing much, then, would I?" he snickered and walked out, closing the door behind him.

"Hey, what was that supposed to mean?!" Jimmy demanded, but his older partner had already left.
 
 

Trent Malloy was a tall, evenly built young man in his early thirties. His short blond hair would have been shaggy if it weren't so neatly combed and trimmed. Hawk-nosed, his wide blue eyes were alert and observant.

Trent had just dismissed his afternoon karate class when Walker came through the doors of Thunder Karate. A couple of teenage boys, not even changed out of their uniforms, crashed into him as they bolted for the door. One of the older kids, with sand-colored short curly hair, paused a moment.

"Sorry, Ranger Walker," he said hurriedly, and ran out the door after his friends. Calls of "C'mon, Malloy!" and "Who was that guy?" faded as the door closed behind him.

Walker shook his head, smiling at the rashness of youth, and made his way through the other students. The rest of the class took their time changing and leaving. Finally, he spotted Trent, who was speaking to a pair of new students. While the elder Malloy finished his conversation, Walker tossed his gym bag and jacket in a corner and began stretching. He looked up when he heard Trent say goodbye to the last of his students.

"Tommy seemed to be in an awful hurry to leave today," Trent's former mentor commented to him from across the room.

"Yeah, there's a couple of new kids at school he's been hanging out with. They meet at the park and play football after class," Trent replied, pulling off his karate uniform. Wearing only a pair of loose black leggings, he quickly went through the same series of stretches. "I'm not too sure about these new friends of his, though. He's been bugging me all week to let him stay over their house some night. Something just doesn't seem right, though."

"Well, trust your instincts. They don't usually lead you wrong," Walker advised, and assumed a 'ready' fighting stance on the blue wrestling mats.

Trent nodded, and warily did the same.
 
 

After nearly an hour of sparring, Trent was sure he had Walker trapped. Using one of the ranger's own favorite moves, he'd managed to lock his legs across Walker's chest, pulling back his friend's left arm just enough to make it hurt. Cordell struggled, but there wasn't a way to break this hold without breaking his arm. He'd just raised his free hand to 'tap out', the signal that he'd given up, when the telephone in Trent's office rang.

"Shouldn't you answer that?" he asked innocently, grinning at Trent.

Trent let go and jumped up, grumbling a little about missing his one chance to finally best Walker. He grabbed a towel as he ran up the stairs to his office, noting, as he wiped the sweat off his face, that it was his private line ringing.

"Trent Malloy," he said, answering the phone, "Oh, hey . . . yeah, hold on a sec." He called out of the tiny office, "Hey Walker, it's for you!"

Walker, fairly amused by the convenience of the phone call, jogged up to the office.

"It's Jimmy," Trent told Walker as he handed him the phone, "and tell him he's in trouble for calling!"

Cordell laughed as he took the phone, as Trent walked out, shaking his head ruefully.

"Hi Trivette . . .. What?!" His face grew serious. "Alright, I'll be there in a few minutes."

Walker hung up the phone and jogged back down the stairs into the large open space of the dojo. He hurried to stuff his towel into his gym bag and put his shirt back on.

Worried, Trent followed him. "Trouble?" he asked, concerned.

"Yeah. Trivette said Ranger Pierce from Company E flew down here earlier and came into the office. Said it's urgent, and she refused to say any more until I got there." Walker stood, pulling on his jacket and shouldering his bag, "Sorry. We'll have to finish this another time."

Trent nodded, and watched as Walker strode out the door. Sighing, he finished his interrupted workout alone.
 
 

Harper sat in the chair in his room, lazily looking over the figures from the past month's income. The supply of marijuana leaf from Mexico had been plentiful, and his newest addition to the labor force had doubled production rates. The shipment of AK's would be coming in next week, to be distributed discreetly throughout New Mexico and Texas. The money was rolling in, and life was good. That is, until these Texas Rangers started snooping around.

Lance Harper ran the operations in the valley of the Santiago Mountains. His warehouses processed raw drug leaf into sellable powder. Afterwards it was packed up and sent by helicopter and small-engine plane to a number of drop points throughout the southwest, bringing in hundreds of thousands of dollars. On the side he ran a gun-running operation, robbing from armament shipments and small military bases. He kept a tight operation; five pilots, none of which could finger him or his men in a line-up. They brought supplies into the valley, took shipments out. Their flight times, routes, and destinations were given to them two hours in advance. Other than those five men, only a select few ever left the valley. The most trusted and toughest men in Harper's crew occasionally hiked down the western side of the slope and 'recruited' some new laborers. He sniggered at the thought. Usually it was a bunch of immigrants looking to work their way into the American society. Oh, they worked alright; long and hard, eighteen hour days on minimal rations and sleep. The lazy outsiders often died before a year was gone; by then it was round-up time again.

A knock at the door drew Harper's attention from his callous thoughts. Turner Matthews, stood in the doorway. The tanned, rough skinned young man had fought tooth and nail to claw up the ranks. Just a year ago he had been a lowly dealer who picked up the shipments at their drop-off points. Now he was Lance's top man, most trusted and most watched by Harper. Harper truly trusted none of his men, and Matthews the least of all. Who knew when the young man might decide to become ambitious and challenge leadership. He smiled nastily, remembering the last gang uprising that he'd taken care of. That was small beans, however, compared to this operation. This was the big time.

"Yes, Matthews?" Harper questioned in an annoyed voice.

"Sir, there's been another Ranger caught. In the eastern pass, same as the woman," Matthews reported, ignoring his superior's mood.

"Then chain him up outside with the other! I don't want to be bothered with details, Matthews. If there's a security problem, take care of it!" the drug lord growled.

"Yessir. They won't cause any more trouble, sir." Matthews disappeared from his view, leaving the small ranch house to the valley outside. Turner surveyed the scene, gazing over what he already thought of as his own territory. That old man Harper couldn't stay head of the operation forever; one day he would weaken, and Matthews could bide his time until then.

The ranch lay in the central area of the valley, far from the buildings on either side. On the northern end of the valley lay the two warehouses, processing plants for the marijuana leaf that was imported from Mexico. Surrounding the warehouses were stacks of crates and boxes; finished products and a few rifles left over from the last run. Between the warehouses and the ranch was a series of landing pads and runways, to accommodate both helicopters and single-engine airplanes.

Far to the south, a full hour's run from the warehouses, lay a series of medium-sized buildings, some roughly built of wood and others more carefully made of brick and steel. These were the barracks. The crude, one-story, wood buildings housed the labor workers. The poorly built structures served merely as a shelter from the harshest of mountain weather. There were holes in the roof and walls, causing water to drip down during rain storms and the wind constantly whistled through the cracks. The wretched immigrants who lived in those buildings were malnourished and weak, but they dared not complain. Anyone who did was taken away and never seen again. In absolute contrast, the brick barrack-buildings were like new, kept clean and shining. The soldier-barracks were completely furnished, fully stocked with supplies. The men who lived there were a mixture of modern day mercenaries and general thugs, doing their best to keep on their commander's good side and not screw up. When Turner last counted, there were eighty-seven in all, but just as many soldiers died as laborers, in brawls and fights over anything and everything. It didn't matter; it didn't take many men to escort the weary workers across the valley each day and to return them again that night. A handful of men distributed the food, simply bringing crates of old bread and pitchers of water to the wood barracks before the groups returned.

Satisfied with his inspection of his lands, Matthews returned to the matter at hand. Before him, beaten and bloodied, stood a Texas Ranger, firmly held on either side by two of Matthews's hand-picked security force. This Ranger had a mean, spiteful look in his eye, and Turner was sure he was memorizing the face of every man he saw.

"Chain him in the trees with the other," was Turner's sentence, and the ranger was forcefully dragged off by the security team. Off to the left of the ranch, trees grew randomly, sprouting all along the field. A sagging figure stood there already, chained between two close trees. The tall brown-haired woman had bruises covering her face, and a look of hunger and dehydration sat around her. She looked up as she saw the ranger being dragged past her, taken to another pair of close trees.

"Tracey! Ranger Tracey Hudson!!" the other ranger called out to her, struggling against his captors. A punch to the stomach silenced him as he doubled over in pain. He was chained in a similar manner to Hudson, between two trees with one chain manacled around each limb. Snickering and laughing between themselves, the security team took pleasure in taking turns striking the man as hard as they could. He only prayed that O'Reily sent up reinforcements, and soon.
 
 

Detective Sergeant Carlos Sandoval sat at his desk in his new office, leaning over a pile of notes that lay scattered in disarray across his desk. The young officer was in his late twenties. He wore plain clothes, a white t-shirt and jeans, with a black police-issue automatic strapped to his side in a leather shoulder holster. He kept his curly black hair clipped short behind his ears, giving his observant eyes full use of his peripheral vision. All of Carlos's police friends envied his new office. It was plain, simple office with only a desk, some chairs, and a small filing case. Still, even this tiny office was better than the noisy, open area, where lesser officers' personal desks were crowded together like New York skyscrapers. Sandoval had been given the private room as a part of his close special assignment work with the Texas Rangers. He'd gladly accepted the offer, although he requested that the office he was given had no windows. Most people might think this an odd request; everyone knew that the best offices had large windows that loomed high above the streets. Carlos's close friends knew better, though. Carlos was acrophobic; mortally afraid of heights. And so, the small plain third floor office, with nothing but daily elevator trips to remind him of the height, suited the young detective just fine.

At this particular moment, Carlos was deeply engrossed in studying the notes on his case. So engrossed, in fact, that he nearly jumped out of his skin when the telephone at the corner of his desk rang. 'I have *got* to speak with someone about getting a quieter telephone', he thought.

"Sandoval's office," he answered the phone smugly, almost hoping it was one of his downstairs buddies. "Oh, hi, Mr. Sandoval. I apologize for calling you at work, I know you're rather busy and all . . ." Carlos recognized the voice of the pushy landlord of his apartment complex, though he sounded a little different, almost nervous, today.

"Yeah, it's all right Mr. Thomas. Do you need something?" Carlos made a mental note to himself to mail that rent check this afternoon. He hoped Mr. Thomas wasn't calling about another late payment.

"Well, there is a slight problem here." It was definitely about the rent.

"Sir, my rent check's in the mail, I promise," Carlos said apologetically.

"Oh, no, it's not that, but, well, uh . . . there was a, uh, a fire in the basement of the building."

"What?!" Now Carlos was alarmed. His apartment was on the first floor, almost directly above the new air conditioning system. It had been installed last summer, and he liked it because it was even cooler in his rooms during the hot Texas summers than the other apartments.

"Well, uh, there was some faulty wiring in the AC unit, which, er, sparked a fire when I tested it, and uh. ." Thomas trailed off, mumbling something unintelligible.

"And what?" Carlos demanded.

"Well, most of the floor of your apartment was, uh . . burned."

Carlos was speechless. He didn't spend much time at his apartment, between undercover work and late hours, but it was still a place to go home to after a long day like today.

"I'm sorry, Mr. Sandoval. It's my fault for installing faulty wiring . . . I tried to cut corners when I put the AC in. Please don't sue me." The landlord sounded miserable.

"I . . Can my apartment be repaired?" Carlos ran his left hand through his dark hair, a habit of tension that he'd been trying to break.

"Yes sir, I already spoke to a contractor. He can do it within a month. I'll pay for the repairs," Thomas added resignedly.

"Alright," Carlos said quietly, "I'll find a place to stay until it's fixed. And I'm not about to sue you. Are any of my clothes salvageable?"

Someone rapped on the open door of Carlos's office. He looked up. Homicide detective Ralph Thatcher, a good friend and occasional partner from down the hall, stood in the doorway. Ralph wore a harried expression on his face, and indicated that Carlos was needed elsewhere. Carlos nodded, not looking very pleased. Thatcher wondered what was wrong.

"I'm sorry, what was that, Mr. Thomas?"

The relief in the indebted landlord's voice was clear, even over the phone, "I said, I'll see what I can do about your clothes. I'll hold on to anything we find."

"That's fine. Look, I need to get back to work. I'll come by your place later to pick up anything that you find."

"Okay. I'm really sorry about this, Mr. Sandoval. Good day."

Carlos hung up the phone and stood up, closing some of the files that lay open on his desk.

"What was that all about?" Ralph asked.

"My apartment was half-burned in a fire," Carlos replied matter-of-factly. He put a hand to his temple, thinking 'I do *not* need this right now'.

"Oh man! I'm sorry! Do you need to go home?" the other detective asked, concerned.

"No, I'm okay. I just need a place to stay for a little while. What's the problem?" Carlos asked, changing the subject.

Thatcher's expression turned more serious. "Another shooting. Looks like your guy. I'll fill you in with what we know on the way."

Sandoval nodded and grabbed his jacket off the back of his chair, "Alright, let's get going then." They walked out of the room and down the hall, where several other officers waited for the elevator.

"Hey, you know I'd let you stay at my place, but with Michael, we just don't have the room," Thatcher told him as they waited impatiently. Carlos nodded at this and shrugged; Ralph's youngest son had been born four months ago, the third child in the rowdy Thatcher family.

"It's alright, don't worry about it. I'll call Trent, I'm pretty sure he has an extra room or two."
 
 

Despite the time it took to arrive at the scene, Carlos and Ralph were nearly among the first to arrive on the scene. Of all places, the attack had taken place in a public grocery store parking lot. Two cruisers, which had been patrolling nearby when the shot went off, were parked to one side of the parking lot, as well as an ambulance. Paramedics were working on the victim, unseen in the middle of the gathered crowd. Sandoval and Thatcher set about dispersing the curious crowd, trying to catch a glimpse of the problem themselves. Soon yellow police tape was produced from one of the first-arrived police cruisers, and most of the front entrance to the store was taped off. A few patrons were still leaving the store from a side exit. More officers came in their cruisers, sirens blaring and lights flashing. Black jackets with the word 'POLICE' in bold yellow letters marked the many officers who had arrived.

Since it was a part of Carlos's case, he directed the patrolmen and officers to various jobs; holding back the press, finding and interviewing witnesses, as well as aiding the newly arrived forensics team. The forensics team began examining the scene thoroughly, taking pictures, scouring the area for anything that could possibly be a clue. It was a scene Carlos had been around all too often; the sad thing was, he was used to it. Precious minutes later, the paramedics gave up; there was nothing they could do for the victim. Carlos knew a few of them by sight, and sympathized with their pain; people died all the time, but you still felt responsible, thinking that 'if only you could have gotten there earlier'. Carlos did his best not to think about the 'if only's. The paramedics covered the victim in a white sheet and packed up their equipment.

Snapping a pair of white latex gloves that were offered by another homicide detective onto his hands, Carlos knelt down next to the victim. She was a young woman; he guessed her to be in her early twenties, a guess confirmed by her driver's license. Blood was all over the pavement around her; it appeared that the bullet had hit her heart. Carlos shook his head in disgust. Who could do such a thing, and in a public place too? Not that killing in private was right either, but even the worst of killers wouldn't do so in broad daylight at a family grocery store.

"Hey," Ralph walked up behind Sandoval and eyed the bloody scene in front of him, "Same guy?"

"Right. Young woman, mid-twenties, hollow-tipped round to the heart. I don't know where he got his rifle, but it's one of the best I've ever seen. So, exactly what happened this time?" the head detective asked. Thatcher had just come from speaking with some of the witnesses.

The other man groaned. "No one seems to be exactly sure. Best as we can gather, she was walking out of the store with this cart full of groceries," he gestured towards the shopping cart full of paper bags that had rolled a little ways down the parking lot, "Crossing the road, she was shot once in the heart. We believe, from what the paramedics said, that it was a hollow-tipped round. God only knows what kind of rifle the killer was using. It was agreed that the shot went off at about 4:37pm, give or take thirty seconds. No witnesses could pinpoint one vehicle; cars were coming and going all afternoon. You got stuck with a real rough case, man."

"Yeah," Carlos muttered, looking grim. The single homicide case he'd been assigned to investigate yesterday evening had now turned into a double murder. He looked up in an afterthought, and walked over to the abandoned cart. Thatcher watched him strangely, and then realized what he was looking at.

"There's a diaper bag here. Where's the child?" Sandoval voiced his suspicions.

"Lemme check with the witnesses. I'll have to get back to you with that, after we interview them thoroughly." Ralph walked back across the other side of the taped-off area, and began talking with one of a small group of people.

Waiting for him, Carlos looked at the groceries. Average single-mother type food; diapers, macaroni and cheese, milk, baby food, fruits & vegetables. Nothing out of the ordinary. He frowned, his brow furrowing in thought. An idea itched in the back of the detective's mind. The notion escaped him as he caught slight movement in the shadows out of the corner of his eye. Turning, he peered into the alley to the side of the building; there was definitely something there.

"Hey! I know you're in there, come on out!" he called, ducking under the police tape. He walked towards the alley and stopped, ready to draw his gun. Someone stepped out of the shadows. Carlos relaxed his tense nerves as a teenage girl stepped forward, holding up a sturdy mountain bike by the handlebars with one hand.

"I didn't do it, I swear!" she cried, wide-eyed and afraid.

Carlos sighed. "I'm not going to take you in, don't worry. Do you know what happened here?"

The teenager nodded.

"Did you see what happened?"

Again she nodded, still frightened.

'She probably hasn't ever seen anyone killed before', Sandoval thought morbidly. "Alright. I'm a detective. I'm working on this case. Would you mind us asking you some questions?"

"No, you can ask, I guess . . but I need to call my mom first, I told her I'd be back in a few minutes with spaghetti for dinner." The girl set down her bike.

"Alright, let's go," Carlos waved her in under the yellow line. She followed him back to Thatcher and the other witnesses, carefully skirting the murdered woman's body. Once there, Carlos left her in his friend's care and went to oversee the rest of the scene.

Ralph carefully questioned the girl, whose name was Robin Day, about what she had seen. He wrote her responses on a small notepad with the other witness' statements. More than half an hour later, he rejoined Sandoval, who was watching the forensics photographers.

"Was she any help?" Carlos asked, not taking his eyes off the photographer, who was taking a few last snapshots of the surrounding area. Ralph tucked the notepad into a coat pocket.

"Yeah, she had a clear view of the whole thing from that alley. She'd just gotten here, coming from the condos back behind the store. Looks like she's our best witness, so far," Ralph replied, "Where'd you get her? I thought we'd already found everyone who'd seen anything significant."

"Caught her sneaking around in the shadows over there," Carlos told him casually, "She probably didn't want to leave the scene, but didn't want to walk right up to us either." He held back a yawn and looked up, squinting a little at the brightness of the sun, low in the sky.

"You okay?" Thatcher asked, watching his friend doubtfully.

"Hmm? Oh, yeah, just a little tired," Carlos replied, "I was up late last night. Paperwork," he shrugged, as though that would explain it all.

By now the forensics team had finished, and the lot was being cleaned up for the next day's business. The coroners had already taken the victim's body away. The crowd was beginning to clear out, and fewer police cruisers were parked in the lot as the best witnesses, including Robin, were taken back to the station for further questioning. Rush hour traffic noisily passed by out on the main highway; things seemed to be going back to normal. Some reporters were crowded at one side of the yellow police-tape boundary, waiting for Carlos, as Detective Sergeant, to give them a statement.

"What are you gonna tell them?" Ralph gestured towards the group, who were talking and arguing amongst themselves.

"Them?" Carlos considered for a moment, "I think I'll tell them that someone was shot, but we can't release any more information at this time. As far as they need to know, this is a one-time occurrence."

"In other words, 'no comment', right? Ha! That should bug 'em a little. They've been waiting for more than an hour for some information. I told the other guys *not* to tell them anything until they got the say-so from you," Ralph informed him more seriously. The 'other guys' that he referred to were Scott Higgins and Alex Guidry, two homicide detectives. They'd held a grudge against Carlos ever since he'd been promoted to Detective Sergeant and was put on special assignment working occasionally with the Texas Rangers, calling him childish names like 'Ranger's errand boy' and 'Walker's pet', amongst others. Carlos did his best to ignore them, or at least be civil with them when he had to be near the two. Their jealously was only furthered by their rival's new office. The pair did their best to irritate and bother Sandoval, often at the department's expense. Releasing facts that would compromise his case and make him look bad to his superiors was just the kind of stunt they'd pull to settle their grudge.

"Alright, I'll go talk to the press. I'll see you back at the office," Carlos said. Thatcher took his leave, and they parted. Carlos sighed, dreading the no doubt tiring confrontation with the reporters, and set off in their direction.
 
 

Walker sat at the head of the conference table, grim-faced, leaning back in his chair. Trivette sat at his left, looking rather sullen. Carrie Pierce, the tall, lean lady ranger from Company E, sat across from him. Her news was not good.

Two weeks ago, a ranger was sent up to a valley in the Santiago Mountain range in southwest Texas to investigate suspicious activity. Several unidentified aircraft had been reported by hikers in the area, and hunters reported a complete absence of large game. Tracey Hudson, the ranger sent to check it all out, disappeared without a trace. Days later, after waiting for Hudson to give some sort of contact, another Ranger was sent in to find her. Within four days, he too disappeared after reporting that Hudson's trail had ended suddenly with no explanation. The Company E Captain, more than concerned, had sent for a ranger well known for his outdoor skills and fighting abilities; Cordell Walker. He knew that it would take a lot to make two rangers disappear; maybe even an internal security leak, a source telling whoever was in the mountains that Rangers were after them. He voiced his suspicions only to his Lieutenant, Carrie Pierce, and asked her to go to Dallas and Walker with his request.

"And now you want the three of us to follow two missing rangers into the heart of the mountains in the middle of winter??" Trivette asked sarcastically. Pierce glared at him with something far less than respect.

"Yes, Ranger Trivette. Those 'two missing rangers' were not just my co-workers. They were my friends," she replied icily.

"What he means to say," Walker cut in, "Is of course we'll go. We'd never let anyone, especially fellow Rangers, go missing if there's anything we can do about it. When do we leave?"

"As soon as you can. Don't tell anyone you don't have to. We've got an untraceable bank account set up under my best friend's name to cover plane tickets and supplies." In contrast to Trivette, she spoke to Walker with nothing but respect and admiration. Jimmy scowled slightly, noting the difference and sat back in his chair. He let his partner do the talking.

Mentally, he listed everything he'd have to pack, and composed a sincere apology to Teresa. She'd be rather upset over him breaking yet another date for work. 'Oh, yeah, *that* would sound great,' he thought. 'I'm sorry Teresa, I have to cancel our date again, but I can't tell you why. I'm going to be gone for a while, but I can't tell you where I'm going, and if anyone asks, you don't even know that I'm gone.'

"I'll tell Alex," Walker was saying, "That is, Alexandra Cahill, the assistant DA, about this. She can tie up all the loose ends, and send an army in after us if need be. I'd trust her with more than my life. We can leave as soon as we're packed, if you have plane tickets for us."

Trivette opened his mouth to protest, but quickly shut it. He was going, Walker's expression told him, like it or not.

"Alright, let's get going then. I'd like as much time as possible to get ready," he told them.

Cordell nodded, and Ranger Pierce stood up. Trivette, interpreting their actions as agreement, picked up his jacket and gathered his files. He caught the beginning of his senior partner's request for supplies as he walked out: " . . . get ahold of three horses?". The door closed, and Jimmy shook his head. *Horses*, he thought, 'I'm leaving Teresa to ride *horses*'.

Still in the conference room, Walker wrote out a list of supplies and gave it to Pierce. She looked at it incredulously.

"That's not very much," she commented.

"That's all we need. We're going in as quietly as possible. No fires, no tents."

"If you say so. I'll call my captain and have him arrange it. I'll get back to you in an hour."

"Okay," Walker said as he made ready to leave, gathering his own papers, "Oh, and Pierce,"

"Yeah?"

"Don't worry about Trivette. He's perfectly trustworthy, and, for all his complaining, he's dependable in a fight and worth his weight in gold on a case."

Pierce was quiet for a moment. "I'll trust your judgement," she spoke finally, and Walker left her in thoughtful silence.

As he strolled out to his truck, the ranger looked at his watch. It was a quarter after six. Alex was not going to be happy.