Title: Texas Hold 'Em

Universe: ATF AU (thanks Mog)

Author: Mitzi

Rating: R for language and violence

Characters: All seven

Disclaimer: I do not own in part or full any aspect of the Magnificent Seven
franchise. The characters are the property of MGM, Trilogy Entertainment, The
Mirisch Group, its relevant partners and subsidiaries. I do own all original
aspects of this fanfiction including but not limited to original characters and
plot. This fanfiction has been published at no profit, purely for the
enjoyment of the fans and the collective good of the franchise.

Archive: No.

Note: I don't want to put any spoilers for the story here, but the ending
should be considered a tiny step outside the original ATF AU and isn't meant to
change or influence fanon in any way. It's just for fun.

Special note:

Mitzi wrote this story for me, and so I am posting it for her. I bid for her
Hurricane Katrina relief story and won the chance to have her write a story for
me. I'm a big fan of her other stories, and especially love the way she uses
all seven guys. Her writing makes me feel like I'm standing in the middle of
the action as it happens, and that's due to her extraordinary attention to
detail. I'm not just entertained by her stories, I learn things from reading
them.

When I first started corresponding with Mitzi about the auction story, I told
her about this idea I had rolling around in my head. She gently reminded me
that she had actually offered an OW tale for the auction, and that she had
never written a full-length ATF story. I challenged her to try out the ATF
universe, and she bravely forged ahead. I think the result is awesome. She
took a fragmented idea which never would have seen the light of day if left to
my own devices, and turned it into a truly wonderful story.

I could not be more pleased with her efforts, and I know that you will enjoy
reading it as much as I did.

I would also like to issue a challenge regarding the story. There are lots of
angsty moments and H/C situations which we decided not to expand on too much.
However, we both thought that the H/C and angst specialists in this fandom
would have a field day writing missing scenes for the 'off camera' moments in
this story. So, if the spirit so moves you, feel free to apply your own
creativity and see where it takes you! Everyone goes through the wringer in
this one -- some physically, some emotionally. Whoever your favorite character
is, you'll find something to grab on to, and if you want more, go ahead and add
it.

Happy reading (and hopefully, writing!),

Carolyn

Chris Larabee glared viciously at the angry red "check engine" light on the dash of his black Dodge Ram. It glared back. He had to admit it; the truck was on its last legs.

The government usually had to surplus their vehicles after 75,000 miles. Chris had finagled enough to keep the Ram by cataloguing it as a special use vehicle. Almost all of Team 7's fleet came from a co-op case with the DEA. How long ago? Had it been four years? All of the vehicles were aging. But they were all good surveillance vehicles that blended in well with traffic. The low bid cars the government purchased en masse were obviously G-cars. The only way to get a classy ride was to seize it from a targeted violator and put it into government service. It was getting harder and harder to seize good vehicles. The truth was that the bad guys had caught on quickly to the seizure laws that allowed agents to put vehicles into service once they'd been used to facilitate a federal crime. If they had good rides, they still picked up lemons to do their deals in. Then, the only way to seize the others was to prove they were purchased with drug or other illegal proceeds, a much tougher element to prove.

If Chris didn't come up with something soon, he and his men would all be driving Chevrolet Caprices or Malibus. And yet, here they were, wasting the last few miles the cars had in them outside of Waco, Texas in the heat. He wasn't about to turn off the a/c.

But would the suits let them fly into Austin instead of drive and rent cars for the 90 minute drive north? Of course not. And why? For the same damn reason. Because the vehicles blended in traffic. Rental cars would stand out in this area and the local ATF didn't have any spare cars. So now Chris's check engine light was on in the 87 degree Texas heat – 87 degrees in October for God's sake. And Tanner had stretched out on a picnic table sunnin' like a reptile. "Hell, Cowboy, this is a cold front," he'd drawled as he took up the eye for their surveillance.

"Looks like they're gettin' ready to move again." That same drawl came across the radio and drew Larabee away from the mundane supervisory thoughts and back into the action. "Yep," the Texan continued. "I got tail lights." The new Jeep Commander was backing out of the park. Tanner was already sauntering back to his car to be ready to follow.

Josiah Sanchez watched as Nathan Jackson eased into traffic with perfect timing that put him two vehicles behind the target Commander. Josiah was doing their air surveillance. The still, hot air and constant circling of the small Piper Cub aircraft left most of the guys ready to puke. It never affected the Viet Nam vet that way, so he usually got tagged with the observer assignment. He didn't mind. He didn't use the new fangled gyro binoculars either except to show off and get a license plate from altitude. The binocs limited visibility. And now, even though he was assigned to the secondary target car, both vehicles were converging and he could keep an eye on JD Dunne, undercover in the secondary target, a Beemer, and Ezra Standish, in the Commander.

Josiah thought back to the beginning of this case. It started out with one of those walk-in snitches who come in with a story so paranoid and so bizarre and, well, just so out there, that for all the world your first impression is that she is bi-polar, to be generous, and unmedicated at the best.

Her name was Billie Jo Trainer and she was a small time girl from Harker Heights, Texas. Well, Harker Heights is small, but it's only a stone's throw from Killeen, Texas, home of Fort Hood, one of the biggest military bases in the country. How she got to Denver and the ATF offices there was anyone's guess.

At first, the story sounded like it had come from the lonely little voices in Billie Jo's head. Terrorists were going to attack a Baylor Bears football game.

Right there Josiah heard the theme song to Twilight Zone going off in his head like the warning claxons of the starship Enterprise. Was mixing old TV references as bad as mixing metaphors? Well, Josiah Sanchez was only talking to the other voices in his head, at the moment and he decided he liked the analogy.

But no, it got better. This wasn't an Al Qaeda attack. It was neo-Nazis and skinheads trying to instigate a race war by killing small town Texans and blaming it on Islam. No particular group, just Islam. Billie Jo's story was lacking in detail.

Vin Tanner, about eight cars back in traffic, had let his mind wander to how the case started as well. Vin hated to admit that the lack of educated reasoning as to who to blame for the attack was where he had heard a sliver of reality slip into the story for him. "Who" wasn't as important as "where."

Set off a bomb in Waco, Texas, the buckle of the Bible belt? Leave credible evidence Osama was behind it?

"One Riot, One Ranger" and "Remember the Alamo" rang in his inner ears. Texas would take care of business itself. If the government or FEMA wanted to reimburse them for the bullets later? Good deal.

No, it wasn't really like that, but even the Texans who knew better pretty much enjoyed the image. And that minority on the lunatic fringe who truly believed the myth or wanted to believe? They could come up with a plan like this.

"Damn," Nathan said over the radio. It drew Vin's attention back to the otherwise routine moving surveillance. They were on the car-to-car, non-repeater channel 3. The good thing was that it was virtually impossible for the bad guys to use a scanner and pick up their transmissions.

The down side of car-to-car was the limited range where they could hear each other.

Another upside was that the dispatcher couldn't hear what was being said and neither could the FAA. That left ATF Team 7 free to express themselves during the exasperating surveillance.

"Damn," the usually unflappable Jackson repeated. "He just cut three lanes of traffic to get to the left turn lane."

"Heat run," Buck observed needlessly. "I'm two cars behind you. I can slide over and make the turn with him."

"I'll come around," Nathan agreed. "He's got a red ball." Red light. "We got some time to set up."

"Vin and I are one intersection back in case he makes a U-ie instead of the left," Chris stated.

"Got it," Buck replied. "Okay, he's got a green. He's making the left."

"You're on your own 'til we catch up," Chris supplied as traffic suddenly seemed to back up.

"I got the eyeball," Buck confirmed with experienced calm as he made the left turn one car between him and the target. "Okay, looks like he's slowing for another left turn on the next side street. I'll get a name in a minute …"

"It's a dead end. Don't follow." Josiah's voice surprised them. "Let your eye in the sky take over."

"You've got it," Chris directed.

"What are you doing here?" Buck barked. "Where's JD?"

They expected the question from Buck and Chris was glad he came through. It kept him from snapping the question.

"I was just coming on this channel to tell you. JD's car is two blocks over on the Baylor campus near the football stadium. My guess is they are waiting to meet up with Ezra's car. The local team has the perimeter. But if - when – they meet up, we take the eye."

"Good job, Preacher." Chris was thankful once again that all of his men were so good at the job. "I've got the eastbound exit covered," he added as he pulled into a convenience store parking lot.

"I got the west," Vin drawled.

"I'll take north." South was unnecessary since Josiah had already reported that was a dead end. It went without saying that Buck would stay back as his was the last vehicle that might have been observed by the target car.

Buck pulled smoothly into a Pep Boys parking lot – easy to get into and out of when they started moving again. He couldn't help a smile. He could hear it in Chris's voice even if no one else could. Ol' Ezra was in a world of shit. You never, never tripped with the bad guys. Yet early this afternoon the southerner had willingly hopped in the car with them and taken off. That left the rest of the team to follow them all day, and juggle not to get burned or lose them. Hopefully Ezra could get these negotiations over soon. That might help justify his actions to their Group Supervisor. Buck wanted it to be over soon. He had a bad feeling about this group.

Buck had started believing the story when that sweet little filly Billie Jo said she was snitching off her boyfriend, Trey Winters, because he was neglecting her.

Buck recognized the type and she scared him. Small, southern town Daddy's girl. Cheerleader? Well, Duh. Student council? No way. She would have perfected the dumb blonde act to an art form even if she had a genius IQ. And despite the west Texas drawl, she probably wasn't far off. No, the simple fact was that she wasn't getting her way and it pissed her off. Her Trey Winters wasn't giving her enough attention. Someone was going to pay.

Anyway, supposedly, good ol' boy Trey and the leader of his pack, Anson Jones (no relation to the original Anson Jones, she insisted) wanted to buy – get this – 'some of that stuff from over at what used to be Russia. You know? That stuff the Russian mafia sneaks out 'cause everyone's so poor? You know? That dirty bomb stuff?'

Buck remembered sharing a look with Standish at this point in the interview. He could read the southerner's mind, 'and I thought CNN headline news sound bytes were obscure.'

Billie Jo went on to say that Trey's daddy had oil money (of course, why else would Miss Billie Jo waste her time on him?) and Anson's daddy had meth money. They could get about $500,000.00 together. "Is that enough money to buy the ingredients for a dirty bomb?" Billie Jo had asked coyly.

"Well, I don't know little missy. But if you've already got the eggs, flour and baking powder, that's getting close to being able to buy the cocoa," Buck had answered.

Buck didn't know if Billie Jo Trainer knew enough about cooking to get the correlation, but she smiled real big so something must have clicked. Either that or her spoiled brat instincts kicked in and told her it was time to throw out an "ever-so-charmin'" smile.

The bottom line was that there had been too much coincidence in the time line she laid out to completely write her off as someone who lined the inside of her Easter bonnet with aluminum foil to keep the alien's voices out of her brain.

Team 7 had tried to turn the case over to the FBI. Not that they wanted to, but: a) they were in Colorado and the case was in Texas; b) the FBI would eat their young to get all the good press of busting up a domestic terrorist threat; and, c) ever since the Davidian compound, you pretty much didn't say ATF and FBI in the same sentence in the Waco area. So the truth was, as much as they wheedled and connived and argued, Team 7 was ordered to turn the case over to the Bureau's local office.

So the FBI was called in and two agents came down to escort Ms. Trainer up to their floor.