At the Dallas Police Department, Carlos leaned back in his chair and sighed. The clock ticking slowly on the wall read 6:43. He'd called Trent a while earlier, after returning from the murder scene, and told him about what had happened to his apartment. His best friend was very sympathetic and invited Carlos to stay in one of his mother's spare bedrooms. Then the detective had gone back to working on the case, compiling tidbits of information given by the witnesses and gathered from the crime scene.

The six eye witnesses, two mothers, three men, and the teenager, Robin, all seemed to disagree in one area of the incident or another. Ms. Day claimed to have seen the muzzle of a rifle pointing out of a black Ford Explorer, but of the men claimed it was a dark green Toyota Camry. Both mothers, who had walked out of the store at roughly the same time as the victim, claimed a little boy was taken from the victim's shopping cart in the rush of patrons leaving the abruptly closed store. However, another of the men, walking to the store from the parking lot during the shooting, saw a dark green car go over the parking lot speed bump, and the boy was gone when it had passed by.

Sandoval scowled, looking at the results of the questioning, and closed the folder, setting it to the side of his desk. He took out a fresh sheet of paper and rewrote the facts again, thinking he might find something if he looked at it from a different angle. There had to be something, some vital clue that he was missing.

The original case that he'd been called on to investigate had begun yesterday afternoon, a murder in a condominium complex on the other side of the city. Christine Mendoza had been killed as she got out of her car upon arriving home. The only witness was her three-year-old son, whom she had picked up from daycare after work, sitting in the back seat. The victim's file listed her as a single mother of three children, thirty-two years old, brunette. She had worked as a nurse at County General Hospital. A single long-range rifle shot to the heart had killed her. Forensics was working on reconstructing the bullet to see exactly what kind of rifle it had come from and perhaps identify it. Putting the hollow-tipped bullet back together in itself would be a miracle; hollow-pointed bullets explode on impact, making for a painful and messy wound. Even if they did reconstruct it, chances were the rifle used wasn't registered. If it were, it would be a very lucky break for Carlos.

Laura Thompson, today's victim, had been twenty-four, blond-haired, blue-eyed. She was going to college to get a degree in teaching. The same type of bullet had killed her, a clear shot to the heart. Both women had sealed juvenile records. Both were respectable, single, working mothers.

"Hey Carlos."

He jumped, startled. Looking up, he winced; his neck had a terrible crick in it from bending over these papers for so long.

Mark Hall, one of the third shift detectives, had just arrived and was on his way to his own office down the hall. He leaned in through the open door. "It's getting late, shouldn't you get home?" Mark asked, slinging his coat over his shoulder. Carlos rubbed his eyes and looked at the clock on the wall. 8:56! He'd been at this for more than two hours!

"Yeah, I guess," he admitted, and closed the files, carefully placing them in a briefcase by his jacket. He stood up, stretching.

"Tough case?"

Carlos nodded.

"Hey, go home, get some food and some sleep, and don't think about it. It'll come to you at the worst possible time. Remember the Verrazano case I was a part of last year?" Mark asked.

"Yeah, that's the one that got you promoted to homicide II, right?" Carlos tried to stifle a yawn, and accepted a cup of coffee from the other detective.

"Right. I realized the solution to that while I was taking a shower. My wife thought I had shampoo in my eyes, with the holler I gave out," Mark grinned.

Eyeing Mark's homely features and stocky build, Carlos smiled wryly as he pulled on his black leather jacket, "I'll try not to imagine that. Thanks Mark, I'll see you later." Taking the briefcase with him, he headed for the elevator.

Hall snorted touchily at Carlos's remark, and shook his head. "Drive safe!" he called after him as Carlos walked out. More than half of all driving accidents were caused by sleeplessness, and Mark didn't want to be called out to a head-on collision because Carlos was too stubborn to admit that he was tired. 'If the fool comes in at six in the morning, he should be gone by six at night!' Hall thought.
 
 

Trent sat curled up with a book on the big overstuffed chair in his living room, nearly to the end of Tom Clancy's "Patriot Games". The terrorists had just infiltrated the Secret Service's security net around Jack Ryan's house, beginning the most exciting part of the book. He set down the book for the tenth time that evening, watching the mantle clock above the fireplace chime nine-thirty. Frowning, he stood up and walked around the house. Carlos had said he'd be there by seven, and though it was not unlike him to be late, he'd rarely be *this* late. Tommy, Trent's teenage brother, was finishing his homework in his room, door closed. His mother was in her bedroom watching re-runs of "Highlander" on USA, and his youngest siblings, Tandy and Tyler, were fast asleep in thier beds.

'He's probably just working late on a case,' Trent thought.

Carlos also had a habit of losing track of time when he worked on a case. He went into the kitchen and was putting away the plate of food that Mrs. Malloy had saved for Carlos when he heard a knock at the door. Leaving a piece of saran-wrap half covering the plate, Trent went to answer it. Who else but his best friend would be standing there at nine-thirty at night, holding a briefcase, duffel bag, and a stack of papers in his over-burdened hands?

"Hey man, come on in," Trent invited, taking the duffel bag from Carlos as he closed the door, "Your room is right next to mine on the second floor." Carlos only nodded, looking rather tired.

"Do you want something to eat first? My mom made meatloaf, and Tommy wasn't too pleased about having to save you some," Trent offered. Carlos visibly brightened at the idea, and attempted a smile.

"Sure, that'd be great. Your mom's meatloaf is the best. Let's put my stuff down first though," he spoke. Even his voice sounded jaded. The elder Malloy nodded agreement, and led the way to the prepared spare room. Carlos followed, though he knew his way around the house as well as the Malloys themselves. Trent neglected to mention the hour he'd spent in the room after he'd received his friend's call, cleaning it spotless. It had been a dusty storage room hours before. The carpet had been coarse with dirt and grime. Boxes half-filled with now useless items had been stacked on top of and around a small wooden desk and the repaired bottom half of an old set of bunk beds. The window still had the remnants of boards put across it by his father, Thunder Malloy, several years ago when a bad series of tornadoes had hit Dallas.

Now, after Trent's thorough vacuuming and cleaning, the bed was dust-free with a new set of sheets and blankets folded and tucked under the newly cleaned mattress. The desk nearly shined with a new coat of polish, and an old office chair, salvaged and cleaned, was put before it. The crayon marks of Tommy's childhood days were gone from the painted gray walls, and the carpet was a plush springy white under Trent's bare feet. All evidence of dirt, boarded windows, and dusty boxes was completely gone.

Carlos looked around the medium-sized room, apparently impressed. "And how long did it take you to do this?" he asked, setting his baggage at the foot of the bed.

"Oh, uh, not long," Trent lied, looking away.

"Yeah, right," Carlos smiled knowingly, "Don't lie, Trent."

"I'm not lying!" his best friend protested.

"Yes you are! You make that face when you fib!"

Trent looked at him innocently, "What face?!"

Carlos laughed at his friend's discomfiture, "That face!"

"Alright, alright," Trent admitted sheepishly, "It took me a while. But it's worth it, for a friend. Come on, let's get you some food. You're working on a new case, right?" he added, changing the subject.

Carlos's face darkened a little as they walked back downstairs. "Yeah," he said, "It's not going very well."

"Well, maybe I can help you a little."

Between bites of Mrs. Malloy's delicious meatloaf, baked potatoes, and corn, Carlos related the case to Trent, omitting no details from his most trusted friend. As he finished his meal, Trent stood up and cleared the dishes from the table.

"You're right, that is a toughie. Well, sleep on it, see if either of us comes up with anything by morning," was all the advice he could give. Carlos readily agreed. It was almost eleven before they headed for their rooms.

"Oh, and Carlos," Trent stopped him just before he closed the door, a thoughtful expression on his face, "My dad's old lockbox is underneath the desk in your room. The key is in the lock."

Carlos nodded, taking the hint, and closed the door. Trent had been uncomfortable around guns since a pistol had misfired in his hands, killing a friend as a child. He wanted Carlos's police-issue automatic locked up whenever possible. With these last fuzzy thoughts going through his mind, he locked up his automatic and added the key to his key chain. Not even bothering to unpack, he fell asleep as soon as his head hit the pillow; it had been a very long day.
 
 

Sunday, March 21st, 1999
2am

Trivette stirred and blinked as Walker shook him awake. He looked out the window right next to him, seeing by the moonlight that they were heading down through the clouds. It was still several hours until dawn. He stretched, and felt the small plane's engines cut as it began it's descent. His partner had moved on down the aisle to wake Carrie Pierce, the lady ranger that they were stuck with for this expedition. No one else sat in the empty rows of seats on the tiny dual-engine airplane.

'Naturally', Jimmy thought, 'No one but the insane ranger and his comrades would be flying to the middle of nowhere in the middle of the night on a Saturday.'

He wasn't entirely correct, though. Pecos, Texas hardly counted as the middle of nowhere. The semi-small town was just west of the Pecos River, sandwiched between the river and the foot of the Santiago Mountain Range, making it an ideal starting point for any trip into the mountains. The little town had once been a hub of communication for the Wild West, but now stood as a quiet remnant of what once had been.

Jimmy could feel his ears pop as they dropped altitude, approaching the small, one-hanger landing field. Over the intercom, their pilot advised the trio to buckle their seatbelts as they began a circling final descent. Like Walker, who had a healthy respect for small planes after last year's crash in the mountains, Trivette made sure his seat belt was tightly fastened. Ten minutes later, the charter plane was on the ground, taxiing to a stop.

While waiting for Walker to unload their minimal luggage from the aircraft's belly hold, Trivette tried to get a good look at his surroundings in the sparse light. From the small airfield, a two-lane highway led into what looked like a sizeable town. The area was mostly uneven grassland, giving him a clear view to the town and the mountains beyond, even in the pale moonlight. Brightly lit signs indicated a handful of all-night motels and a single McDonald's several miles away. Jimmy turned his attention towards the darker end of the airfield, where he could make out the outline of a jeep. He suddenly noticed the movement of a man coming towards the trio.

Coolly moving to join the others in picking up their suitcases, he knelt next to Ranger Pierce.

"Pierce, is that one of your men?" he whispered, eyes flicking to the steadily approaching stranger.

She followed his line of sight, but couldn't make out the man's face for the darkness. Pursing her lips, she let out a high, three-toned whistle. Trivette winced; the sound was right in his ears. A hollow two-toned whistle answered back, almost like an owl's whistle to Trivette's ears, echoing across the airfield. Standing, Carrie placed her single suitcase upright as the man came into view.

"That's O'Reily . . . my company captain," she informed Jimmy.

As O'Reily covered the last few steps between him and the rangers, Walker also joined the group. He'd been speaking with the pilot of the charter flight, thanking him and asking for information. Pierce introduced her senior officer to the Company B rangers, visibly glad to be back in familiar company.

"Walker." "O'Reily." They greeted each other with a firm handshake. Each sized up the other.

Captain Henry O'Reily was short for a middle-aged man, but made up in muscle what he lacked in height. Walker noted him subtly watching all around the area for trouble, even as he looked over the newly arrived rangers. The tough Irishman reminded Cordell of the small wolverine of the northern states; strong, swift, vicious, and deadly.

Walker's extraordinary reputation preceded him. O'Reily knew him to be one of the best hand-to-hand combat fighters in the Texas Ranger contingent, as well as a worthy sharp-shooter when it came to the need for guns. In person, though, he appeared much more formidable. The tall ranger was neatly dressed, even after the three hour flight to Pecos. His expression was blank, watchful, with hard eyes that told of experience and grit. He carried an air about him like that of a cougar; of restrained power and strength begging to be let out on some unlucky lawbreaker.

The Company E Captain turned his attention towards Trivette, who was struggling with carry-on luggage and two suitcases without complaint. The younger ranger's outward appearance was much less fearful than his partner's. He walked, talked, and acted the same as any man O'Reily had ever met. From the way he dressed and spoke, his image practically screamed 'city boy'. Still, something about him warned "Back off!", a sort of quiet strength hidden beneath his Armani clothes and technical computer jargon. The level look in his eyes and firm grip as he greeted the captain only reinforced the idea. James Trivette was not a man O'Reily would want hunting him, were he a criminal.

"I have all the gear you asked for in my jeep, and the horses are stabled at a friend's house," O'Reily informed the trio as they walked to the waiting jeep. Walker could see several shopping bags full of warm clothes and meager supplies packed into the tiny cargo area of the wannabe-truck.

"Great. How long does it take to get to the drop-off point?" Walker asked as he climbed into the front passenger seat. He pulled his single black duffel bag in after him, wedging it in at his feet. Trivette and Pierce both climbed into the back seat. The black ranger's excess luggage made it rather cramped, and Carrie glared at him contemptuously.

Henry considered for a moment and started the engine, "Oh, it's about an hour's drive to the start point, but after that you're on your own. Only contact I had with the missing rangers was long-range radio."

Walker nodded. "Alright. I'd like to be on the trail by noon." And they drove off, away from the airfield, with the sun still hours from rising.
 
 

Trent turned over in his bed, scowling, and shoved aside the bulky blankets. He squinted at the clock, rubbing his eyes to get them to focus on the red digits. 4:45. He groaned. Whoever was taking a shower at this ungodly hour in the morning was *really* gonna get it. Trent ran a hand through his hair, trying to straighten it before he went out to scold the insane person. Wearing only a white t-shirt and boxers, he opened up his door and stepped into the hall.

The water had stopped running. Trent could hear someone in there, drying off and getting dressed. Well, the object of Trent's wrath certainly wasn't Tommy, Tyler, or Tandy. Even on the second floor, Trent could hear his teenage brother snoring from his first-floor bedroom, and both of the younger children's doors were closed. Mrs. Malloy was also still in her bed, though she'd fallen asleep with the TV on again. Trent crept in and quietly turned it off, knowing the only other person it could be. He waited down the hallway, trying to look as mad as he could. He'd had nothing but sympathy for his friend's problems the day before, but if Carlos thought he was going to do this every morning, he'd better find himself somewhere else to stay!

Carlos was careful to shut off the light before he opened the door, so as not to disturb anyone. He came out, half humming to himself, and didn't seem to notice Trent. The blond man watched his friend walk with a light step to his room before he followed. His face softened a little; he knew he could not turn out a friend in need, especially Carlos, no matter how irritating he could be.

"Carlos!" he whispered harshly, still planning to scold his friend for waking him up. The Cuban jumped, startled, and put a hand where his gun would be had it been holstered. Finally he made out Trent's features in the shadows of the doorway.

"Trent!" he yelled, and winced at the volume of his voice. Lowering it to a whisper, he repeated, "Trent! What are you trying to do, sneaking up on me like that?!"

Ignoring the question, Trent watched as Carlos unlocked the gunbox and put his automatic in its holster. "Carlos, do I even want to know why you're up at four-thirty in the morning, getting ready to go to work, on a *Sunday*?"

Carlos smiled a little, and picked up his jacket and briefcase. "C'mon, I've got some coffee brewing, I'll tell you over breakfast." Trent followed, curious at his friend's sudden change in attitude. His previous anger at being woken up at quarter of five in the morning was gone, replaced by curiosity.

He sat at the table, sipping a cup of steaming hot coffee, and watched as Carlos quietly made himself breakfast.

"You want any?" Carlos offered, indicating the mixture of eggs and milk that he was beating with a fork.

"Ah, no thanks. My stomach doesn't take kindly to food poisoning," Trent declined.

"Suit yourself," Carlos shrugged, not denying the criticism of his cooking skills, "But an omelet is about the only thing I *can* cook, and I cook them well."

He poured the mixture into a buttered pan and set the heat on 'Low', poking at the slowly cooking egg with a spatula every few minutes. He added bit of cut-up cheese and ham, and folded the nearly done omelet in half. Trent was surprised; it actually smelled good, not burned like most of his friend's cooking. He was beginning to wish he taken up on Carlos's offer. Carlos put the finished product on a plate, poured himself a cup of black coffee, and sat down at the table across from Trent.

Trent watched him eat in silence, until he could hold his curiosity no more. "Alright, out with it. Last night you were fit to be buried; today you're up before dawn looking like a kid in a candy store with twenty dollars to spend. What gives?"

Carlos swallowed his last bite and wiped his mouth on a napkin, grinning. He leaned forward. "I've got a lead on the case."

"What?! That's great!" Trent forgot to keep his voice down, sharing Carlos's mirth. He'd really felt bad for the guy when he heard about the bad case Carlos had been dealt, and wished him the best of luck in solving it. "What's the lead? How'd you figure it out?"

Carlos took a sip of his coffee. "Well, it's kinda weird really, like that Cherokee stuff Trivette was telling us Walker does sometimes. I kept having this dream, over and over, of the second shooting. Each time, it focused a little more on the little boy. I kept seeing him being taken, and I realized . ." Carlos paused, opening his briefcase. He searched through a few files for a moment before he found what he was looking for. "There," he said, handing Trent two photographs, "Christine Mendoza, mother of three, with her kids. Laura Thompson, mother of one, with her son."

Trent frowned. He didn't see what Carlos was getting at. "And?"

"It's the kids, Trent. The killer is after the kids! They gotta be connected somehow!"

The older man thought for a moment, and shook his head. He handed the two family portraits back to Carlos. "I hate to disappoint you, buddy, but didn't you say Mendoza's little boy was still in the car when you got there?"

Sandoval's grin grew wider. "I knew you'd say that. I was thinking of that same thing when I woke up this morning. Mendoza had *three* children. We have no reports on the other two kids. Why? They were at daycare that day, and she hadn't gone to pick them up yet."

"But why would the killer take the kids? And why wouldn't he take all of them? Why bother killing the mother if he could take the kids from a daycare center?" Trent asked, finishing his coffee.

"Exactly. I'm thinking he's got a revenge motive, but it might be more than that. That's why I've got to go to work today, and I couldn't get it off my mind until I got up out of bed this morning." He packed up his briefcase, knowing his friend's unvoiced protest. "I know it's Sunday, and I'm sorry, Trent. I hate to miss church. But this guy could strike again, and I have a duty to the people. . ." Carlos trailed off.

Trent nodded understandingly. "I know, and it's not like it hasn't happened before. You will be home for dinner though, right?"

"Absolutely!" Carlos replied, piling his dishes into the sink. Mrs. Malloy could tolerate a lot, being a preacher's wife and the mother of two rowdy boys, but in all the years Carlos had known her, she had never put up with one of her household missing Sunday dinner. "I'll see you at six then, Trent."

"Yeah, see ya, good luck." Trent put his own mug in the sink, wondering if there was any chance of him getting back to sleep. A glance at the oven's digital clock told him it was 5:15. Probably not. Sighing, he sat down on the couch and resumed reading Patriot Games.
 
 

Outfitted in the warmest of outdoors clothing, Cordell Walker, James Trivette, and Carrie Pierce sat mounted on three fine horses. Tight blanket rolls were tied behind each saddle. Each ranger wore a leather belt, to which a gun, hunting knife, compass, hand-radio, and canteen were attached. Other than this, only Walker's belt held a small hatchet with it's sharp head covered in leather. His larger horse also carried twin saddlebags containing meager supplies; a map, climbing rope, mess kits, and various other small items. He clucked to his gray mare, taking the lead along the rough slope. There was no real trail; Cordell scanned the rain-washed ground with an expert-tracker's eye, following the slight trail left by Mike Palmer. Hudson followed on a dapple-gray stallion, and Trivette, on a finicky Appaloosa, came up in the rear.

Captain O'Reily watched them go from inside his jeep, with the dawn sun peeking over the mountains and shining into his eyes. They had gotten packed, ready, and to the starting point much faster than Walker had anticipated; it was just after eight. He switched on his end of the radio. Henry had given specific instructions to the trio; they were to report in every four hours, giving location and status. He would send on the information to Alexandra Cahill in Dallas. If something went wrong, she could swing enough weight to send an army into the mountains. Not that she'd need to pull any strings; no commander in his right mind would deny a need for force if five Texas Rangers went missing.

The three mounted rangers disappeared into the treeline. O'Reily started his jeep and drove off, wondering if he and Cahill would need to take such drastic measures.
 
 

Turner Matthews was leaving one of the warehouses after a satisfactory inspection, when two of his hand-picked security force came towards him. This security force was the best of the best men. They didn't have any barracks or bunks; they patrolled the rim of the valley and the mountains beyond, watching for anything that could be a threat to the operation. The fifteen men were skilled in outdoor survival, hand-to-hand combat, and all were avid hunters, with a special fervor for killing. These two, Brooks and Donner, patrolled the eastern pass. They had caught both of the Texas Rangers who had ventured too far into the mountains in the past week.

"Brooks, Donner," Matthews nodded to both of them, "More Rangers?"

"Sort of, sir," Brooks replied, "Cougar said a team of three rangers was just sent up here. O'Reily just dropped them off and is on his way back to Company E headquarters."

"This O'Reily is getting too suspicious for his own good. Keep an eye on those three, and send word to Cougar that O'Reily needs to meet an . . unfortunate accident," Matthews ordered. He hoped that Harper would decide on what to do with the two rangers soon. It was dangerous keeping Texas Rangers in chains; some force was bound to be sent up eventually.

"Yes sir." Both saluted smartly, and jogged off at a good clip, returning to their scouting territory. Each grinned ruthlessly. It was a challenge to take down Texas Rangers, and they welcomed the chance to improve their hunting skills.
 
 

Carlos's morning investigation had turned up mixed results. He'd visited Christine Mendoza's condominium shortly after arriving at the office. She had no close relatives; the condo still hadn't been cleaned out. After a bit of careful searching, he found what he was looking for; the phone number and address for Mendoza's daycare service.

Carlos hurried back to the station, calling the small kindergarten daycare from his office. The answering machine picked up; they didn't open until nine on Sundays. He left a brief message.

While he was waiting for the daycare to call him back, a thought struck Carlos. Maybe there was a connection between the missing children. On the surface, there was little similarity. The children were of different ages, between one and five. The kids all had the same hair and eye colors as their mothers, with no noted similar features. However, that didn't mean they didn't have connected fathers, or some other obscure background connection. Carlos went down to the records department to check up on these thoughts. He passed through the first-floor desk area on his way down.

Detective Alex Guidry had just arrived with Scott Higgins. They stood at the coffee table, glaring at Carlos as they sipped from their mugs.

"Look at him! Whistling and smiling like a damned parakeet. I tell ya, Scott, I'll give him something to smile about," Guidry muttered to his friend.

"Yah, the second I get him off-duty in a back alley. . ."

"But you forget," Alex said mockingly, "Ranger boy is *never* off-duty! Heh, little snot probably chases criminals in his sleep!"

The sergeant-detective was unaware of their sniggering comments, being two floors down and rooting through filing cabinets for the birth certificates and records of the Mendoza and Thompson children.

A short time later, the detective came back up the stairs, slightly crestfallen. The children's fathers were both unlisted on their birth certificates. As near as he could find, Mendoza and Thompson had never had any sort of contact. Living in separate sides of the city, they'd gone to different schools, known different people, and led very different lives.

"For Christ's sake, one's a Democrat and the other's a Republican!" Carlos exclaimed to Ralph, irked, "The *only* thing they have in common is sealed juvenile records, something shared by a hundred thousand other people living in the Metroplex!"

Ralph only shook his head, sitting in a spare chair in Carlos's office. He watched Carlos pace the room, impatiently waiting for a phone call from Mendoza's daycare service. If his hunch was right, if someone really did pick up those kids from the daycare claiming to be a relative, then that could lead him straight to the killer.

"Carlos, it's only nine fifteen. They probably haven't. . ." He was cut off mid-sentence by the shill of the telephone ringing.

Carlos snatched up the receiver. "Carlos Sandoval here. Oh, yessir, he's here, one moment." Carlos handed the phone to Thatcher. "It's Chief Barnes, for you."

Ralph cautiously took the phone. He'd never received a phone call directly from the Police Chief in all of his career. "Detective Thatcher here. Yessir, I am. Not well, sir. What?! Certainly, sir. Right away, sir. I'll tell him, sir. Goodbye, sir." Thatcher hung up the phone, an expression of disbelief on his face.

"What was that all about?" Carlos asked, leaning his hands against the desk.

"Oh man, you're not gonna believe this. There was a riot at Huntsville last night. Thirty-eight prisoners escaped. They're calling in every available detective and Ranger within a hundred miles to catch 'em again."

"Well, we better get going then, huh?" Carlos pulled on his jacket and started towards the door.

"No Carlos," Ralph stopped him, "The Chief wants you here, to work on this case. I'm going, along with most of the rest of the department. You'll have patrol officers, five homicide detectives, and Sergeant Forlier left behind.

"You've got to be kidding me. He's leaving me to babysit the rest of the department, *and* work on this case alone?!"

"Yeah, I really wish I could stay on and help, but orders are orders. Hey, at least you have Higgins and Guidry to help you out!" Ralph tried to lighten the mood.

"For all the good it'll do me. All right, get outta here, before you miss your flight. Good luck on the man hunt," Carlos told him, looking rather sullen.

Ralph nodded. He opened his mouth to say something, but thought better of it, and left without a word more.
 
 

Tommy Malloy sat next to his older brother in the second row pew, dressed in his Sunday best. He was in his teens, several years younger than Trent, with curly blond hair and to-die-for blue eyes. Tommy's little sister and brother, similarly dressed, sat at his left, and his mother sat on Trent's other side. Both were listening attentively to Reverend Roscoe Jones's sermon. The young Malloy tried his best to pay attention, but he itched to be outta there. Eric Kinesman and the guys were waiting for him at the park. Eric had promised to introduce Tommy to some new friends today, and Tommy couldn't wait.

Miss Cahill, Ranger Walker's fiancÈe, sat on the far side of Mrs. Malloy, closest to the center aisle. She'd started coming to hear Reverend Jones's sermons ever since the trouble with the white supremacist group. She really seemed to enjoy Jones's words.

As the Reverend went on about things Tommy had been drilled on since childhood, Tommy began to get restless. When the young teen looked down at his watch, Trent elbowed him lightly with a frown that clearly said 'Pay attention!'. Tommy meekly turned back to the sermon, but his mind drifted to his friends.

Eric Kinesman had moved to Tommy's side of Dallas a month ago. The tough eighteen-year-old quickly established himself in the social structure of the school; he was now officially the coolest guy to hang with. Tommy had gotten on his good side after a prank he'd pulled, and now Eric let him hang out with his older friends. They often played football at the park or went girl watching at the malls.

The collective shuffling of the churchgoers shook Tommy from his reverie. Roscoe Jones was stepping down from the pulpit, going to greet and speak with the patrons of his church at the doors. Ms. Cahill, Mrs. Malloy, and Trent were all rising to leave, moving out into the aisle with the bustle of people leaving. The curly-haired Malloy shook his head and quickly stood to follow, when he heard it. Like thunder splitting the air, the crack of a rifle shot in the sunny outside air.

Trent dashed for the door, roughly pushing through the crowd to get outside. His first thought was that the Sons of the Reich group had returned, seeking revenge against the black Reverend, but one look at the situation outside told him otherwise.

Jones knelt next to the apparent victim in the open parking lot. Several churchgoers stood in the lot, staring in shock. Trent's attention turned the squeal of tires as two vehicles hurried to leave; a small green car and a large black truck. He barely caught the letters of the vanity license plate on the truck as he futily bolted after them escaping vehicles. They were lost in the dust. Trent ran back to the Reverend, shouting "Call 911!" to the shocked patrons.

The Reverend held the loose ends of his robes over the young woman's heart, trying in vain to stop the bleeding. Trent shook his head as he examined the deadly wound. He knew it was hopeless; this was exactly as Carlos had described. Sighing, Roscoe removed his outer robe, spreading it over the woman, and stood. Alex Cahill came over to his side.

"Is she . . .?" Alex asked, trailing off as she eyed the bloody sight.

Trent nodded. "'Fraid so. Roscoe, you'd better. . ." he gestured towards the staring people, then towards inside the church.

"Right," Jones agreed to the unvoiced request, "I shall go and gather my flocks." With that, he turned and went back inside the church, with the few outdoor churchgoers following in his wake.

"I called Carlos, he's on his way, but the Dallas PD is a long way from here; it could be ten or fifteen minutes before he gets here. He seemed a little edgy," Cahill informed Trent after the reverend had left. "I wonder why."

"It's a tough case he's working on. If something new has come up, then I'm sure he'll explain when he gets here. This is certainly gonna make his case a lot harder, at least."

Silently, Alex agreed.