Carlos was sitting as far from the windows of the 727 jet liner as he could, which was hard considering a single aisle separated six seats in each row. Trent looked up at him from his in-depth study of the clouds two seats over, but his friend's gaze was elsewhere, thinking. It was almost mind-numbing to think of how everything had changed in the last thirty-six hours. One hour, he was working with his rivals to solve a case, and the next, those adversaries were saving his life. One day, he was struggling to get any leads at all on the case, and the next day, it was solved, wrapped up, and completely done, just in time. That had to be the most sudden change of all; the case of the murders of Christine Mendoza, Laura Thompson, Erica Carter, and the attempted murder of Corie Connors was finally closed and ready for prosecution.

By three o'clock that afternoon, Trent had driven him back to the police department, and Carlos was gathering his notes and folders so that he could hand over the case to another detective after notifying his Captain of his upcoming absence. After a little while, a secretary from downstairs informed him that the pictures and story of the missing children in his case had been on the afternoon news. Shortly after that, as the detective was getting ready to go talk to Captain Beckett, his phone rang. It was the public relations office of the police department. Apparently someone had called in with a definite location on those children; all three were currently taking naps at the Children's World daycare center on Oak street.

Deciding that since he still had several hours before he had to meet Trent at the airport, Carlos decided to go ahead and investigate the call. In a car borrowed from the department's motor pool, he drove to the daycare. Sure enough, the three children reported were the same children taken from the two murder scenes.

It took less than half an hour to locate and apprehend the man who, claiming to be their uncle, had brought them in every morning for the last few days. His name was Daniel Crowe. He was married with a two year-old boy of his own. It didn't take much use of the search warrant Carlos received to find telephone records and e-mail files that had passed between Crowe and Brazos, where Brazos detailed how each murder was to go, and what the man's role in them was. Not only that, but a green Camry sat in his garage, the same that witnesses had seen at two of the murder scenes.

Surprisingly, when the detective had read Crowe his rights, the man looked more remorseful than anything, and with minimal prompting, he completely confessed when he was interrogated. Years before, Naomi Brazos and Daniel Crowe had been good friends. There had never been any romantic interest between them, just a solid camaraderie. When the gang had been busted, she had held off the police long enough for him to escape, knowing that she herself was perfectly safe from prosecution. Her husband, Thomas Downs, had also stayed for similar reasons. Crowe had fled running from the law, living on the street, until he realized that the cops weren't looking for him. Naomi had never sold him out.

So, seeing what his poor decisions had gotten him, he changed his life, getting a good job in engineering, marrying, and having a son. His wife, Kyle-Ann Crowe, hadn't once pried into his past, knowing that he didn't like to talk about it, and was content to love him in the present. Daniel had put it all behind him, almost forgetting, until one day, and old acquaintance called. Naomi had, at first, simply asked him to help her out. When he refused, she turned to cajoling, threatening, and finally blackmailing him into doing what she told him. She said she'd tell not just the police, but his wife and child all about what he had done, and how he'd escaped, and so he was forced to aid her.

There was no question of why she had picked him over any new 'friends' from the slums; aside from the dirt she had on him, he was also a dead shot with a gun, decently learned in martial arts and wrestling, and most of all, he had been well versed in pyrotechnics and explosives when he was with the gang, a skill that Brazos had made use of that very morning.

"Do you know what her motive was in the murders?" Carlos had asked the prisoner, who sat handcuffed in a chair across the table.

Crowe looked up at him with a level gaze. "Revenge. If it wasn't that, she was just plain insane. Or maybe delusional. She constantly talked about how those kids were her and Tom's, and how those women had betrayed their love. When she was keeping the children at her house, she'd try to rock them in a chair, trying to comfort them when they cried. One night, the oldest, a little girl from the first murder, cried out that she wanted her Mommy. Naomi slapped her, screaming that she was her mother. Then she ordered me to take them to my house and keep them there until she called." His voice lowered, and he bowed his head. "For the first time in five years, I had to lie to Kyle. I told her they were my brother's kids, from California, that their house had been destroyed in an earthquake and we had to take care of them until Dave found a new house."

And so, by four-thirty, Carlos's entire case had been wrapped up and done, rather than passed on to another officer, which he hadn't wanted to do anyway. He wondered whether the man had been truly sorry, or whether it was an act by a skillful liar. He'd been fed similar stories before, bilge intended to play on his sympathy and get the arrested a lighter sentence. From there, after handing in his report, the sergeant-detective had gone to see Captain Beckett about a leave of absence.

"Detective, I understand that you've been under a lot of stress lately, I really do, but there is no way I can give you any time for it! That manhunt for those prison escapees in the southwest has almost all of our detectives tied up, including your own partner, Thatcher. Between that and Guidry's death and Higgins being in the hospital, I just can't spare you!" Beckett reasoned.

"Sir, with all due respect, I have no choice. I'm going to be gone for a few days, and I can't do anything about it. Lives could depend on it, whether you're shorthanded or not," was Sandoval's adamant response.

Nick sighed. The detective's message was clear: 'I'm going, and you can't stop me.' "Carlos, you know that if you leave, disobeying a direct order, then you're looking at suspension, expulsion, or at the very least, demotion. If you could at least tell me why, I might be able to do something."

"I can't do that sir, and I'm willing to take the consequences."

"Very well, sergeant-detective. You are dismissed."

Something about those words rang in Carlos's ears, even as he sat in seat 3C on the airplane, miles from the Metro Division Police Department. He hoped he wouldn't lose his job over this, but he couldn't let Trent go alone, able though the other man was.
 
 

The rest of the Cuban's day involved taking care of loose ends. He visited Scott Higgins at the hospital. The other detective was resting after surgery that morning, but was still eager to hear how the case - and Brazos's arrest - had turned out. Though deeply saddened to hear of Alex Guidry's death, he was glad to know that the man had died with courage and honor, a true hero. He was also glad to hear that the missing children had been found and returned to their closest kin; Scott had a son of his own, and he pitied the children who had no father and had lost their father.

Higgins, in turn, answered a question that had itched in the back of Carlos's mind all day: why had Alex been wearing his regular clothes when he was killed, rather than the tan coveralls that he'd worn as part of the stakeout? The answer was fairly simple. When Scott and Carlos were moving in towards the house, Scott had noted how easy it was to see the tan jumpsuits, even in the dim moonlight. Going around back, he'd met up with Guidry. They'd spoken, and agreed that Brazos had to be hiding somewhere in the house, and that she had probably seen all three in their jumpsuits. Guidry, instead of removing his clothes to put on the coveralls like Scott and Carlos, had simply pulled them on over his dark suit. When he removed them, he was harder to see than a shadow in a forest on a moonless night. The two had also agreed that surprise could be a great advantage in this, so Alex positioned himself by the front door, nearly invisible, and Scott covered the back hallways, once he'd found that Brazos wasn't on the first floor. Then he only had to wait for Carlos to flush her out, like a rabbit in bushes.

"I wish I'd known," Carlos said remorsefully, "Then things might have gone differently."

"Yeah," Scott agreed.

Then a nurse had come in, declaring that the injured detective needed his rest, and Carlos could come back in the morning. It was then that Carlos told Higgins that he was leaving for a few days, and didn't know when he'd be back. "I won't be able to make it to Alex's funeral, Scott. I have some friends in trouble, and they need my help. Will you make sure his family knows why I can't be there?" he pleaded.

Higgins studied him curiously, seeing the pain and regret on the sergeant-detective's worn face. "Sure thing, Carlos."

Then Carlos had left, heading for his final errand of the day. He'd been putting this one off, hoping to not have to face it. It was a thing no cop wanted to go through, and a situation every cop dreaded. But since Scott Higgins was in the hospital, the duty to inform Alex Guidry's family of his death fell on Carlos. This particular situation was especially tricky; according to Guidry's personnel file, he was divorced, as Carlos had once guessed, and his wife was now remarried to one John Anderson. He did, however, have two sons, ages eighteen and twelve, and they were the only kin listed in the file.

Carlos arrived at the Anderson residence just after five, hoping that he wasn't disturbing their dinner. Hesitantly, not knowing what he would say, he walked up the driveway and rang the doorbell. A man answered it.

"Can I help you?" he asked, hiding surprise, eyeing the badge that hung openly on a chain around Carlos's neck, which the detective had left out on purpose to help identify himself.

"Uh, yes, Mr. Anderson? I'm Sergeant-Detective Sandoval, with the Metro division of the Dallas Police Department. Your wife is Amy Anderson, formerly Amy Guidry, correct?"

The man nodded silently, not knowing what to make of the question.

"Well, I hope I'm not interrupting anything, but I need to speak with her."

The man stepped back a moment, opening the screen door. "Certainly, come right in," he said shortly.

As Carlos stepped in, Mr. Anderson motioned towards the family room. "Go ahead and make yourself comfortable. I'll go get Amy."

Carlos nodded and sat down as the other man disappeared into the hallway. He heard low murmurs, followed by footsteps. Respectfully, he stood when Mrs. Anderson walked into the room. She was a stout woman, not exceedingly beautiful, but far from ugly. She wore flowered shorts and a blue t-shirt, and her permed brown hair was going grey at the roots. She was followed by her husband, who watched Carlos uneasily, as though he had come to take his wife away.

"You needed to speak with me, Detective?" she asked politely.

"Yes, ma'am," he said as all three sat down, he on a chair and they on the couch. "You were married to Alexander Thomas Guidry?"

"Why, yes, but we've been divorced for nearly two years, and as you can see, I'm remarried now."

"Well, ma'am, I'm afraid I have some bad news. . ." The couple looked at him intently as he stumbled over the words. ". . .about, um, at about three-thirty this morning, Alex. . .uh, Detective Alex Guidry. . . was gunned . . . was killed during the capture. . .er, apprehension of a murderer." There, he'd said it. He watched the woman's reaction with sympathy.

'Oh my, oh my,' was all she said, shaking her head. She turned very pale, but did not cry. Her husband hugged her tightly from behind, his arms about her waist. Suddenly she looked up at him, exclaiming, "The boys! Oh, John, they'll take it so hard. Alex and I never got along very well, but the boys, he'd come over every weekend he could to spend time with them," she explained, turning towards Carlos.

"If it's any consolation, ma'am," the detective spoke up, "He died saving my life. He took the bullet aimed at me while he took her down. If it weren't for him, she would still be on the loose, and I, as well as another detective, would be dead."

He heard a shuddering sob behind him, and all three jumped up from their seats. Carlos whirled around. In the doorway, a teenage boy stood, fists clenched, tears streaming down his face. He ran at Carlos, pummeling him in the chest with fists unused to fighting.

"You! It's all your fault! Dad would still be alive if it wasn't for you, and you don't even *care*!!" he cried between sobs.

"Oh, Robert!" Mrs. Anderson rushed over to him, pulling him away in a hug. Then she led him out of the room, speaking softly to him, leaving her husband and Carlos staring after her.

Carlos looked back at John Anderson, swallowing uncomfortably. The glare that Anderson shot him gave a message that was clear: Leave. Nodding understanding, Carlos silently headed for the door and left, the boy's words still running through his mind. God, he hadn't expected that. Robert Guidry-Anderson's words stung, but only so deep. He knew there was nothing he could have done, and didn't question himself too much. But that didn't stop it from hurting inside, as well as the slight bruises the boy had left on his chest.

After leaving the Anderson home, Trent had called. He said he'd brought all the gear they'd need, as well as new clothes and hiking boots. He'd also arranged for some alternate ID's with the captain of the Ranger company E, which they'd get from a locker at the airport in Odessa when they landed, and he'd figured out a cover story for their camping trip. All Carlos needed to bring was whatever personal items he wanted. So now they both sat on the airplane, each with a small backpack at their feet, anticipating the task before them.
 
 

Walker squinted against the harsh rays of the setting sun that streamed over his left shoulder and into his eyes as he watched the fields to his left. The lines of slave-workers should be on their way back from the drug-processing warehouses by now, and Cordell knew that somewhere among their ranks marched Tracey Hudson and Michael Palmer, the two Texas Rangers that Walker, Trivette, and Pierce had failed to rescue. Failed. The word burned in his mind, never ceasing to remind him that he'd messed up, been caught off-guard and vulnerable, and now the lives of four Texas Rangers would be forfeit for his mistake.

Seeing a flicker of movement off to his left, Cordell shifted the thought to the back of his mind and turned his head to watch for the approach of the workers. It had been nearly two days since his capture in the forest deep on the northeastern side of the valley. Yesterday morning, well before noon, by the time the group of captors and captives had crossed the wide open spaces between the trees and this small grove of oaks, Trivette and Pierce had been utterly exhausted, and Walker, with a throbbing headache and spells of dizziness that had passed since then, had been in no condition to fight when they had chained him between two trees. He couldn't see his comrades, but he could hear them, and knew that they were similarly restrained, if not with fewer chains.

Cordell had double sets of cold steel binding his arms and legs so tightly that he could scarcely move. When he did, the harsh metal bit into his wrists and ankles until blood ran down his arms, drying in the noon sun and tugging at his skin. Between that and the fact that no food and little water had been given to him, his body ached for nourishment and restful sleep. He wondered, at times, how his friends were doing. He couldn't ask them; any type of interaction between the three caused the guards patrolling nearby to harass, whip, and beat his friends. Surprisingly, none of them got close enough to even touch Walker. What Cordell did not know that specific orders had been given; it was death to any man who touched him. However, despite his physical restrictions, nothing kept him (from using the Force!) from using his mind and eyes.

Walker was constantly watching, searching, mentally recording and contemplating every motion and sound that entered his perceptions. So far, he had learned he was in the middle of a valley high in the mountains, where no airplanes or helicopters would fly save those employed by the man who ran things here. The valley was at least ten miles long, if not more, and it ran north to south, with towering mountain peaks on either end. Walker faced the east, but from his initial trip to the grove of trees, and though he knew that there was little behind him, in the western side of the valley, but grassland that faded up a steep slope, meeting the forest at its apex, he could not guess the valley's width. The flatlands in front of him spanned at least three miles to the trees, which came a third of the way down the steep slope. He didn't know whether the valley had been this way already, or if trees had been cut down and hills made steep to prevent escape; unless under the darkest cover of night, any movement in the valley could be easily spotted.

Somewhere far down to his right, in the very southern end of the valley, were the barracks and housing of the soldier and slave-workers he saw marching past each morning and night. Those forlorn Mexicans were just that: slaves. From the talk of the patrolling mercenaries, the ranger gathered that every spring, a raid was made on Mexican towns just south of the border, which could be easily reached from here by plane without American government officials knowing. The men and women 'enlisted' were put to work cutting, measuring, packaging, and shipping illegal drugs flown in from South America. Many died, and towns would pay tribute to Harper, the leader of these men, hoping that their villages and towns would not be picked that year.

It boiled Cordell's blood to think of slavery going on in his country, his state no less, and he didn't dare to think of what Alex might say if she heard about it.

To the north, on Walker's left, were those awful warehouses where the slave-work took place. Just beyond that were helicopter pads and small air strips for the small airplanes that landed there . . .or at least, so Walker guessed. That was where aircraft landed, unless they hovered above the ground out of his sight.

Just a few hundred yards south of the tree grove, much closer than the barracks with a wide field between the two, stood the strangest sight of all: a ranch house. Yes, a ranch house, built in the exact center of the valley, as though the master of the valley might look out on everything that he had made and feel some pride in his work, as well as spotting trouble before it began. It sat at the bottom of the mild slope that began as one continued north.

From what Walker could gather, the master of the valley *did* reside there, the man whose word was law here: Lance Harper. Lance Harper; Walker didn't know the name, but he would have immediately recognized the face from a gang bust six years before, had the man come before him. But Harper hadn't, nor any other man of rank. He had simply been chained there, with no word or indication that anyone cared. All Walker knew of Harper and his men was what the soldiers spoke of when they were patrolling the area, or tormenting the chained prisoners.

One trend the Texas Ranger had noted among the soldiers, though, was a definite and growing agitation between what seemed to be two factions of rivals. One group, which Walker had dubbed Matthew's Men, constantly spat and swore against Harper, out of his sight of course. Though they hated the Texas Rangers, they loudly voiced their opinions that it was pure stupidity to keep five of them chained up or working in the warehouses. What if they should get free, knowing all the valley's secrets? What if a huge force of lawmen should come after them? They should be killed, or not caught at all. These men refused to touch any of the three Rangers, and more often just spoke or swore at them. They also growled and spat about using those damned spics for labor, saying the Mexicans ruined the quality of the product and they wouldn't be able to find buyers. Their leader, though covertly so, was Turner Matthews, the lieutenant of Lance Harper.

Their opposition was Harper's Men, comprised of the tougher, rougher, and more skilled fighters in the valley, as well as the border patrollers. Harper's Men gleefully beat and pounded Walker's friends, and any other man that crossed their path. They ridiculed Matthews' Men for being weak, of wanting to run home to their mothers like unweaned kittens. They were loyal to the death to Harper, and from the sound of it, received better food and treatment than anyone else.

Cordell hated both sides, but hoped that the two tides would soon clash, and that he and the other rangers might escape during the in-fighting. A revolt seemed inevitable, and indeed, he had already witnessed one small fight late last night. Often small groups of the Matthews gang would meet in the trees of the grove, hidden from sight. Late in the evening last night, two of Harper's border patrol had chanced upon such a meeting, and a brawl had broken out.

Even in the unfair odds, eight to two, Harper's men won the fight, leaving two dead and the rest, bloodied and broken, running for dear life. Then the border patrol had walked on nonchalantly, leaving the dead bodies to nature's care.