Alrighty, next in the Inspired series I give you "Lonesome Dove" by Garth Brooks. It's a great story, I recommend at least looking up the lyrics. As always, please read and review, let me know how I'm doing with these.

WARNING: Character Death...but it's a one-shot so I'm allowed...oh, and I don't own them.

"Agent Booth!" a voice called, and he turned around. A shorter man was jogging up to him, waving a piece of paper in the air. He waited impatiently by the elevator as the man caught up, his brown eyes showing his frustration.

"Yes?" he inquired when the other agent was closer. The paper was thrust into his hand.

"This just came in," he said. "AD suggested we not tell you, with the history and all, but I knew you'd want to know…" he trailed off, obviously uncomfortable with the direction the conversation had gone. Agent Booth read the paper, his face slowly morphing into a giant frown as he reached the bottom.

"Who knows?" he asked darkly.

"Just a few of us, and the AD. We can't move on it; there's no evidence linking them to the cartel."

"So they're just going to get away? Flee the country forever?" Booth shot back sharply, causing the other man to flinch.

"Look, Booth, I'm doing you a favor here. I know who these men are, what it means to you. You're father was a good man, respected, and I thought you should know. Whatever you do, I do not want to know, got that?" Booth nodded sharply and conveyed his thanks with a small smile before he entered the elevator. His hand had clenched around the paper tightly as he took a deep breath. I have to go see Mom.

He knocked three times on the large oak door of the two-story Tudor home. He smiled at the fond memories he had of growing up in the house until…

Don't go there, he chided himself, waiting for the door to open. When it did, his face split into a grin. "Hey Mom," he greeted, giving the woman a kiss on the cheek as he entered. He'd at least feign happiness for a few more minutes, reveling at being back in this house.

The woman before him hadn't aged much over the last twenty or so years since that day. Her eyes were still as sharp as they were then, taking in everything and processing it in an instant. Her hair was cut shorter than when he'd last seen her, but she still had it pulled back in her customary ponytail. He could still see why his dad had fallen for this woman; she was gorgeous even at fifty-three. Her fiery attitude and assertiveness just made her the complete package in his book and he always loved coming here and talking with her (or bickering, as the case may be). Just like your father, she would say, giving him one of her rare smiles she seemed to save just for the Booth men.

"So what's up Parker?" she greeted, leading him into the sitting room. He followed, stopping only briefly to take in the photos lining the foyer walls. Several of his honorary aunts and uncles from the Jeffersonian smiled at him, and he made a note to call Aunt Angie when he got home. She would need to come over soon.

He saw a few of him in his younger years, laughing and care-free. One of his father and her, back before they had married, when Aunt Angie said there was enough sexual tension in the air to fill a dump truck. Parker could sense it, even in the photo after all this time, and he dreaded what he was about to have to do. He still remembered everything, from the moment his father had sat him down and told him his biological mother had been killed in the car crash, to the night his father proposed to her in front of him and everybody at the Christmas party, to the day Temperance announced she wanted to adopt him as her own son. The last had come as a surprise, as he had already graduated high school and was about to attend Stanford's Pre-Law program. He had agreed immediately, knowing he owed so much to the woman who had raised him after…he shut his eyes against the onslaught of tears. He would not cry in front of her.

"Parker?" she questioned again, moving to stand beside him. He had inherited his father's height, and he stood almost six inches taller than she now. Her small hand on his forearm felt cold through his suit jacket. "What's wrong, kiddo?" He smiled at that. She always made him feel like a child again, even though at twenty-nine he was nearly engaged and on his way to being one of the best agents the FBI had ever seen – next to his own father, of course.

"Maybe we should go sit down," he said, taking her arm. Immediately her brain began positing scenarios.

"What's wrong? Is it Hannah? Is she okay? Is she pregnant?" He actually laughed as they sat down.

"No," he answered softly, and extracted the folded paper from inside his jacket. "I received this today," he said, diving right in. She pulled it gently from his grasp and read it, and he watched her face. He had also inherited his father's keen ability to read facial indicators, and he knew the instant she realized what it meant.

"You're sure?" she asked, and he worried at how her voice had changed from kind mother to clinical anthropologist in seconds.

"Yes," he nodded. "It's the same man that shot Dad," he said, returning her tone. He watched as she relived that day in her mind. Before he could stop he too began replaying the scene, both from his memory and the reports filed by the surviving agents.

March 2011…

Special Agent Seeley Booth cursed under his breath. This was not how this day was supposed to go. It was a simple sting, one he was on the fringe of to begin with, so he hadn't argued when the lead had requested his help. He had phoned Temperance at the lab to let her know he would be home late, and that yes he would be careful, and no he hadn't forgotten to pick up milk on his way home. He was nearing forty and had a beautiful wife (she'd had to agree when he pointed out common law) and a wonderful son he couldn't wait to get home to.

Only an hour later he was in a dark warehouse, completely cut off from the rest of his team. He had heard gunshots earlier and seen a few agents go down. Sevastian Guerrera was not going to be taken out easily, it seemed. He sent a silent prayer heavenward as he maneuvered his way through pallets of crates as he tried to spot a way out. Unfortunately, Guerrera's people knew this place better than he.

"Que es este?" a voice sounded behind him and he whirled, gun drawn. But they were quicker this time and put two into his shoulder before kicking his gun away and dragging him down to their boss.

Sevastian Guerrera was not a large man, but he commanded the fear and respect he had by being completely ruthless. If he so much as entertained the thought one of his people was betraying him, he murdered them. But if his ruthlessness was well-known, his sadistic streak was infamous. He wanted Booth to beg for his life, for the life of his family. The first he refused, but the latter he did with everything he had. Laughing, Guerrera pulled Booth's cell from his pocket and dialed the last number called. When a woman picked up, Guerrera and his men only laughed harder. Then he threw the cell at Booth and pointed a gun at his head.

"Tell you're loved ones goodbye," he said calmly, and Booth picked up the phone with his uninjured arm.

"Temperance," he said quietly.

"Seeley, what's happening?" she said, and he heard the fear in her voice.

"Please, just get Parker," he said, staring straight into the eyes of the devil. When the boy answered, he couldn't help the tears that fell down his face.

"Parker, I want you to take care of Tempe," he choked out. "I'm sorry, buddy, but I…"

"Daddy?" he could hear the tears his boy was now crying, and soon Temperance reclaimed the phone.

"Seeley what the hell – "

"I love you both so much," he said, "Tell Parker that everyday, and I'm sorry I can't keep my promise to you, Bones. Temperance, I love you." A gunshot rang out and the phone clattered to the ground, filled with the anguished cries of a widow.

Twenty years later…

Parker knew she wouldn't cry now; she had done enough of that twenty years ago. But he had some calls to make and wanted to be sure she was okay. He left her there in the sitting room and pulled out his cell, dialing a familiar number.

"Hello?" a boy's voice answered.

"Hey Jack, it's Parker. Is your mom there?"

"Sure, just a sec…MOM!" Parker winced as his teenage cousin shouted into the receiver. Another line picked up and Jack shut his off, leaving Parker with Angela.

"Hello?"

"Hey, Auntie Ange," he smiled, and winced again as she squealed. Really, had these people not heard of pulling the thing away from your mouth?

"Parker, how are you? How's your mom?"

"That's why I'm calling, actually…" he started, but didn't get any farther before she barraged him with questions.

"What happened? Where is she? Is she okay?"

"She's fine, Auntie Ange," Parker chuckled. "I just got some news and someone should probably be here with her, you know…I have things to take care of."

"Say no more, Mr. FBI. You're dad was the same way. I can be there in twenty. What news?" Parker once again grinned at his aunt's ever-present need for gossip, but he quickly sobered as he recalled the nature of this particular piece.

"It's about Dad…well, the man that shot him. He's back in town, ready to flee the country. We've been after him for years and the minute he came back in town we knew about it."

"And you're on the force to go get him?" Ange asked incredulously. Parker swore under his breath; of course she would know FBI procedures. She'd worked with his father for five years.

"Yes," he answered, though they both knew it was a lie. "Look, just come stay with Mom, please. I have to go."

"Sure thing, Sweetie, but be careful."

"Hey, I've got the gun, right?" he returned haughtily. She laughed and said goodbye, promising to hurry over. Parker shut his phone and walked back over to Temperance, who was still looking at the paper.

"I identified the bullet, the gun, and the killer," she said quietly. "Cam, Cullen, they all said I didn't have to work the case – demanded that I not, actually – but I had to. He deserved that much." Parker put his hand on her shoulder.

"Auntie Ange is on her way over, Mom. I have to go." She nodded and stood, pulling him into a bone-crushing hug.

"Take care of yourself, Parker. I love you," she whispered.

"Love you, too, Mom. I'll call you later." And he walked out the door.

It didn't take long to find him, just a little perseverance. Parker pulled his toboggan back down over his ears as he walked down the quiet street. He had called Charlie and told him what he was planning; he owed the man that much. Charlie had insisted on coming with him, and bringing backup. If Parker was going to try and take down Guerrera, the FBI was behind him all the way.

"Screw the rules," Charlie said as Parker quoted nearly verbatim the FBI's policy on getting involved in personal cases. "I want the best on my team. And you're the best."

Now, Parker handled his weapon carefully, still a little unsure with the semi-automatic weapon. Give me a handgun any day, he thought smugly, recalling his near perfect score on the firing range. Charlie had laid out the plan of attack. Full frontal assaults never worked with this guy; they were going to have to draw Guerrera out into the open. Capturing him alive was the priority, but deadly force was authorized if necessary.

When the shooting began, Parker ducked down behind a car. It seemed deadly force was necessary after all, and he began returning fire. His in-ear receiver informed him that Alpha Team had penetrated the front door, pushing the gang back and forcing them through the rear exit, where Parker and Bravo Team were waiting.

It didn't take long. When the door burst open, Parker and his team began shooting, low at first to minimize risk of deadly injuries. As their numbers dwindled, Parker began scanning the area for signs of the eldest member. Guerrera stood out among the now-small amount of men around him. He was a good fifteen years older than the oldest of them, with salt and pepper hair slicked back and a snarl on his face.

"Booth! There!" one man called, and Guerrera's sneer increased ten fold as he whirled on Parker's position.

"Booth! That name sounds so familiar," he said, his Hispanic heritage evident in his accent even after all these years in the States. "Could it be the young son of that brass agent I killed so many years ago? You see, I never forget a name, Booth, he drawled it out, pointing his weapon at Parker's position. He had several guns trained on him, but he knew the FBI wouldn't shoot; they wanted him alive.

"Sevastian Guerrera," one of them called, "You're under arrest! Put your weapon down and get your hands in the air!"

"So brave!" he returned, waving the gun up. His men seemed fearful and inspired at the same time; terrified of being killed or arrested but awed at the bravado of their leader.

"Booth," Guerrera tried again, "How is your poor mother? Did she ever remarry? Do you have any bastard siblings? I should hope so…should I tell you how your father begged for his life like a coward?" he smiled then, and Parker could hear it in his voice. Something snapped as he stood and took aim.

Gunshots sounded again in the street as bullets flew across from gang-banger to FBI agent and back again. When the smoke cleared, Parker stood up fully from behind his cover, looking down at the body of the man who had killed his father. Several holes pierced the man's chest and Parker wondered briefly why he didn't have a vest on. But the strange thing was the one mark in the man's head, the single hole in the center of the frontal plate. He leaned down over the man, checking his lack of pulse and the hole at the same time.

Odd… he thought, getting a closer look. This one hole seemed smaller than the others, as if made by a different weapon, like a revolver.

"Looks like one of his own men got him," another agent said smugly from behind him.

"Yeah," Parker agreed, but only half-heartedly. Years of growing up in the lab and being around forensics had developed what his dad had deemed his "squint side." The trajectory's wrong, he thought to himself. He closed his eyes and tried to picture Guerrera's position before he had been killed, mentally retracing the path of the bullet. It would have come from…he looked over…that alley.

As he stood and focused, he thought he saw movement. He took only one step before Charlie came out from his position and pulled Parker into a triumphant hug. As he was swept away into the celebration, thoughts of another shooter left his mind. Guerrera was dead and his father had been avenged. Looking up, he couldn't help the tears that filled his eyes, and he barely felt Charlie's pats of support on his back.

"You did it, Parker," he said quietly to his friend. "You finally got him." Looking back down at the lifeless body, Parker felt a little remorse. He never liked taking a life, but he would do whatever it took to ensure the safety of this country and its people. It was a sense of dedication he felt, not only to his country, but to his father who had given his life in its service.

"You're father's proud of you," he heard Charlie whisper as they climbed into the FBI issued SUV. Parker nodded, trying to find the words he would tell his mother when he went to see her. Would she cry now, he wondered briefly as they rolled away from the scene, leaving paramedics and coroners in their wake.

Hours later, when the scene had been processed and the bodies taken away, a lone figure emerged from the alleyway. The revolver, now one shot emptier, felt cold and heavy in its holster. Pulling the hood back, she looked up at the blue sky.

"For you, Seeley…" she whispered, and followed her son home.

Okay, so this didn't come out as awesome as I had it in my head (I've seen the video too many times, I think). But still it's okay, right? I love Parker...can't wait till Ty grows up...