Tuesday, March 23rd, 1999
Dawn

Early, at dawn the next morning, Walker faded back into consciousness. Constant, jerking motion shook him into awareness; he was on one of the horses, leaning forward across the back of a smooth-maned neck. Opening his eyes to the dim light of pre-dawn, the ranger tried raising a hand to touch the bruise on the back of his head, only to find his wrists firmly tied behind his back. Not only that, he found that his wrists were bound by a long length of rope to his ankles, which would impede any attempt at running. Walker sat up slowly, trying not to moan from his stiff back and sore head. He felt a hand touch his shoulder.

"Walker, man, are you alright?" he heard Trivette's voice behind him.

Sitting up straight, Walker looked around to take in his surroundings before he replied. He assumed that he and Trivette were riding double on the horse, without the saddle, though he didn't twist around to look at his partner behind him. The gray horse, probably Wisp, was lead on a rope lead held by a stranger mounted on Spots ahead of them. Walker recognized the rifle at his side as the one that the stranger in the clearing had held. They had left the forest behind some time during the night; now the line moved along a well worn path on a bare, grassy slope littered with slate rock.

"Yeah. . .I think so," Cordell replied over his shoulder in a low voice, "What's going on?"

"I don't know," Trivette said somberly, "Carrie and I were sitting in front of the fire talking, and these two guys jump us out of nowhere. We fought, but didn't stand a chance against them. . .they're as good as or maybe even better than you. They left us tied to a tree outside of the camp, gagged with our hands tied. The whole time they spoke back and forth over the best way to get to you. . .then they disappeared. At first I thought they were just going to leave us there, but after a while one of them came back to get us, and he brought Carrie and me back to the clearing. They'd caught you. . .by the way, how *did* they manage to capture you?"

"One of 'em caught me by surprise," Walker admitted, slightly embarrassed. He was supposed to be Cordell Walker, the rough and tough veteran Texas Ranger who never made mistakes.

"Damn," Trivette swore under his breath. If they could catch Walker off-guard, those two men were nearly unstoppable.

"So what happened after that?"

"Well," Jimmy thought for a moment, "After that, they wanted to get moving, even in the dark. They put me and you on Wisp, and Carrie's back behind us, on foot. Probably to keep us in from causing trouble. . . .y'know, divide and conquer. . ."

Walker nodded. He'd heard the stumbling footsteps on the rocky trail behind them. ". . .and we've been on the trail ever since. I hope they stop soon, though. . .I'm dead tired."

"Have they said anything about where they're taking us, or what's going on up here?"

Walker could sense Trivette shaking his head. "No, no information at all. All I managed to catch was their names. . .that guy on the horse up there is Kevin Brooks, and the one behind us is Sean Donner. Do you know the names?"

"No, never heard of them."

They fell into silence as the horse plodded on with a heavy step. Cordell thought over his options for escape, none of which included both his partners surviving. He frowned, deep in thought, as the morning sun began to peek over the eastern horizon, spilling light onto the line of captives.
 
 

At dawn that morning, Tracey and Mike were rudely kicked awake for their first day working in the warehouses with the rest of the slave labor. The large group of roughly seventy workers quickly left their uncushioned bunk beds and assembled into ranks outside for the hike up to the warehouses. The two weary rangers, moving amongst them towards the end of the column, soon found that a great deal of the workers, mostly Mexican immigrants, didn't even speak English. Those that did were too afraid of the approaching valley soldiers to talk. No breakfast, not even a scrap of bread, was served to the weakened rangers before they set out.

The group was escorted by ten armed soldiers, four on either side and one to the front and back. Sore as they were, Palmer and Hudson often felt the butt of a rifle prodding their backs, the rear guard soldier telling them to hurry up. Both were grateful when a halt was called halfway along the hike, near a ranch house that Tracey recognized from her captivity. They sank to the ground, resting while they could, though the other workers stood stock still and wore expressions of fear and worry. A tall, graying, unarmed man strode down the length of the lines, stopping to stand over the kneeling rangers.

"You two! Get up!" he ordered, pointing to the older ranger and his friend.

With a slowness born of caution and fatigue, the two rose and stood facing the gray-haired man. Mike watched both him and the rear guard for sudden moves.

"Move to the front of the lines," the man growled.

Stiff-legged, Palmer complied, with Tracey close behind him. The man followed the two, watching them with cold, hard eyes.

"Now start running."

The rangers exchanged glances at the inane order, and didn't make any move to follow it. Just who was this guy?

"I said RUN, you law-trash!!" the man howled, grabbing the front guard's rifle and aiming it into the air. "Go!"

The booming warning shot was enough to move the two rangers. Slowly at first, but then faster and faster, they began running up the slope towards the distant warehouses. The remaining workers watched the scene indifferently, and continued on their regular, daily hike, following in the runners' wake.

Tracey slowed to a stop as she neared the hard-packed earth in front of the larger warehouse. She leaned forward, hands on her knees, panting to catch her breath after the strength-taxing run. Mike, slightly less fit than the lithe young woman, soon jogged up and stopped beside her, gasping air into his tortured lungs. They knelt on the ground, hoping for ten minutes of rest before the rest of the workers and guards got there. The arrival of the gray-haired man, apparently a commander here, spoiled their hopes.

"Get up, dogs. You're lucky Matthews decided to do something with you, before I left you out there to rot."

He unlocked and dragged open the huge warehouse doors. Past the gaping doorway, inside the building, the two rangers stared at the neat rows of tables and crates, all used to process, package, and ship raw marijuana.

Both had seen busted drug factories before, but nothing like this. Six rows of large tables stretched from the front to the back of the building. Across each row, an array of equipment sat ready for use, from razors to cut the weed into powder to scales, balances, and plastic bags to measure and package the processed product.

Roughly pushing the two rangers ahead of him with surprisingly strong arms, their overseer directed Mike and Tracey towards the back of the building.

"Since I don't trust you two to do the processing work right, you'll be packaging the finished product. The last worker in the line will measure it into the bags. You seal them, toss 'em in the crates, nail 'em shut, and take 'em outside to the loading pads. You're in charge of three rows each. If you can't keep up, or if you mess up, you're dead, ranger or not. Slackers don't last long here. Now if I were you, I'd get to work on what was left over from last night's work," he growled.

Haltingly, the two rangers obeyed. It broke every oath they'd ever taken to abide by and enforce the law, but they'd have to bide their time until they could escape and report this place in.

'Maybe when we stack the crates outside, we can manage to steal one of the helicopters,' Mike thought. A glance at his friend and colleague examining the exits, trying to look outside, told him she was thinking the same.

Before she had finished packing the old bags of marijuana, the immigrant workers filed into the warehouse and swiftly began processing new product. Bag after bag piled up at the ends of the tables, and Tracey was too busy rushing to package it all to even consider escape.
 
 

Carlos awoke the next morning to the sound of voices drifting up from the Malloys' kitchen. Hoping to catch a few more minutes of much-needed sleep, he turned over and buried his head under the warm blankets. No such luck. The voices only got louder.

"Oww! Tre-ent! Tyler kicked me!"

"Did not!"

"Did too!"

"Did not did not did not!!"

"Did too did too did too!!"

"Did not times infinity!"

"Did too times infinity plus one!"

"Alright! That's enough, you two!" Trent's voice intervened, "Tandy, finish your cereal. Tyler, go brush your teeth. Come on! The bus will be here any minute!"

The noise quieted, and Carlos smiled to himself even as he groaned and pushed the covers aside. Trent sounded just like his father used to. Blinking sleepily, the detective rubbed the grit from his eyes and had to squint to make the red digits on his clock focus. He swore mentally. It was a quarter of eight, and Carlos could have sworn he'd set his alarm last night for five-thirty. A soft knock drew his attention to the door. Trent stepped in, already dressed, wearing his jacket and holding his car keys.

"Hey, good, you're up. I've got to drive Tandy and Tyler to school. . .they missed the bus again. . .but I won't be gone long. Do you want a ride to work again?" he asked.

"Um, no, I should be all set, thanks," Carlos replied, sitting up in his bed. His voice was scratchy and rough, like it usually was before he stumbled into the bathroom in the morning and found the bottle of mouthwash.

"Alright, well, I'll be back."

The blond disappeared from view. After a few minutes, Carlos heard Trent herding his youngest siblings out the front door, and then all was silent. He yawned and stretched, opening the shade on the window to let in the bright morning sunlight. Carlos paused for a moment, taking the time to gaze across and enjoy the serene scene.

Looking down on the Malloys' backyard was a blue sky, clear of clouds, with only thin white wisps that drifted lazily in the light breezes. Trees green with spring life gave way to a fenced-in, neatly cut lawn. With a twinge of remorse, the detective's eyes fell on the old doghouse of Moses, the Malloy family's faithful dog. The golden retriever had snuck out a carelessly left open gate and run away shortly after Thunder Malloy's death, back when Sandoval had only been a patrol officer. Trent and Carlos had searched the neighborhood, but had never found a trace of the dog beyond a broken collar in their neighbor's front yard.

Lost in his thoughts of the past - that had been nearly two years ago, hadn't it? - Carlos almost didn't hear the telephone ringing. The shrill of the antique phone sitting on his desk snapped him from his reverie, and Carlos dashed for it, still in his night clothes.

"Malloy household," he said, wondering who would be calling at 8am on a Tuesday. Brief silence met his greeting, then a click, and the irritating dial tone met his ears. Carlos hung up the phone, a curious look on his face and shrugged. Indifferent, he headed for the bathroom to get ready for work.

As he showered, the detective was careful to keep water off the stitches that lay in a slightly uneven line above his eye. After drying off, he swiftly ran a comb through his tousled black hair and pulled on his neat, somewhat casual work clothes, realizing the heat he would get from his partners for being late.

Carlos grabbed his gun holster and gun and fastened them on as he trotted down the Malloy household's stairway and headed out the door. After winning a brief struggle to get his finicky car started, he headed for work.
 
 

Carlos opened the door to his small office expecting angry glares from Higgins and Guidry because he was several hours late, and had worked up a decent excuse on his way here. "Hey guys, I'm sor-" he fell short, looking around the room. Alex and Scott were nowhere to be seen, and his desk was bare of any folders, much less the files he needed for the case.

Carlos had left them here last night so the guys could work on it without him. The detective stood in the doorway, a confused look on his face, and glanced up and down the hallway. Mark Hall, Carlos's third-shift friend and fellow detective, was just leaving his office, looking rather haggard and worn-down. "Hey Mark!" Carlos called, catching his attention.

He walked down the corridor to meet the older man. "Working a bit late, aren't you?" he asked.

"Yeah," Mark stretched tiredly, "They sent out most of the night shift detectives to the prison break manhunt, so Captain Beckett's got me working double shifts to make up for it."

"Tough break, man. I heard on the radio this morning that they're down to twenty-three loose convicts, so maybe they'll start sending our guys back," Sandoval commented.

"I hope so."

"Hey, have you seen Guidry or Higgins around?" Carlos asked, "They're not in my office, and they've got all the files for my case."

"Oh, yeah," Mark said, running a hand through his hair, "Alex asked me to tell you to meet him down by the interrogation rooms. Sorry, I guess I forgot. He said something about a witness for your case."

Carlos brightened noticeably. "Really?! Then I better go. Uh, see ya later Mark, and thanks!!!" he called over his shoulder. With that, the young Cuban detective dashed off in the direction of the elevator, leaving a rather bewildered Detective Hall standing alone in the hallway.
 
 

At six-thirty that night, Trent was starting to get worried. Neither Carlos nor Tommy had come home yet, and dinner was long over. Tommy, he knew, was probably hanging out with his friends again, earning a stern lecture from Trent when he got home. Carlos, however, was another story. The black belt's best friend wasn't answering the phone in his office, and his cellular phone was turned off. Not even Maria, a clerk that Carlos was friendly with, knew where he was.

"Trenton, honey, what's wrong?" Mrs. Malloy walked into the kitchen where her son brooded, close to the telephone.

"Oh, I'm just worried about Carlos. I can't get ahold of him at the police department, and his phone is turned off."

"Now Trent," Katie began firmly, "Carlos is a grown man. Do you always check in with him when you go somewhere?"

"No," he answered sullenly. He was a little hurt, though, that his mother had to point that out to him.

"That's what I thought. Hey, Tyler and Tandy rented Star Wars, and I'm sure they'd love for their big brother to watch it with them. Now scoot, and don't worry so much about Carlos. He can take care of himself."

Nodding, Trent slowly stood up from the kitchen chair and sighed. Then, trying to put on a carefree expression, he strode into the family room.

"Hey guys, whatcha watching?" Katie Malloy heard Trent ask heartily in the next room.

"Star Wars," his younger siblings answered in unison as the last of the previews finished. Mrs. Malloy smiled to herself as she put a bag of popcorn in the microwave.