So… not as many reviews for the last chapter as I would have liked… You guys' reviews really do make my day and make me want to keep writing, so I'd love if, when you finish this chapter, you'd write a quick review, I'd love you forever.

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Paging through the file Stan has given him, Marshall has to physically stop himself from running out the door, hightailing it to God knows where, and going in blind, guns blazing.

But somewhere, deep down where his logic hasn't been killed by Mary, he knows it will do neither of them any good.

So he reads each and every page in the file on a witness named (Well, renamed) Alec Galley, who was once a shameless gangster, halfway up the twisted corporate ladder of the organization. Apparently, he'd reverted to his criminal ways and was now on the run from numerous police departments, the FBI, and Mary. The police and FBI, of course, being the least of his worries.

What was supposed to be a quick raid by a few officers once they found him, had seemingly gone south as no one out on the case had make contact with the people they each answered to respectively.

Marshall was actually getting his orders earlier than expected because the first body had dropped. Detective Mason Alder of Huntsville, Texas police department went into deep cover approximately a week before Mary was sent to aid in Galley's capture and had been found dead in his safe house at 3AM.

That's his first stop. He'll drive out as soon as he's done here. Run by the department, look into their findings. Then he'll check with the hotel where Alder was staying, see whether or not Mary was there. Although, with Alder dead, she wouldn't be there anymore.

Finishing the last line on the page, he closes the file and lines up the pages before sliding it onto his bag. Leaving the building, he throws the bag into the back seat of his SUV, leaving the passenger empty out of habit.

As he makes his way to I10 for his long trip east, Marshall glances over at the unoccupied seat next to him, the place usually filled by his partner on long trips like these. He wonders if the probe felt empty to her on her drive without him, but quickly reminds himself how angry they were at each other when she left.

That opens a whole new train of thought, in which he questions her, their partnership, and their ultimate ability to get past their fighting, this op, this place where everything is like jamais vu because they've been partners for years and they suddenly can't remember how to just be Mary and Marshall, the US Marshal Service's WITSEC A team.

Is she still mad at him? Mary's capacity for grudge holding never ceases to amaze him- you could be the kid who stole her gummy worms in the first grade and she'd punch you in the face on the street today for no other reason. What scares him the most is the possibility of her dying angry at him. Never seeing her anywhere but an autopsy table again, never getting to make right by her and get out of the rut.

The drive seems endless, the mountains and dessert of west Texas blending seamlessly into the humid fields and forests of the majority of the state. Late in the day, he rolls down his window and the air was so thick with vapor that his throat, accustomed to done-dry sub-Chihuahuan air practically called it quits. Only then had he realized the amount of ground he had covered. He never even really made the decision to drive through the night, he just never stopped driving. He stopped for coffee or coke, whichever form of caffeine suited his fancy at the moment, but kept going.

As College Station disappears in his rearview, he wonders if he's ready for this. If he's ready to face whatever comes, if he's ready to find her, or if he can handle the not knowing any longer. He could turn around now, slip into a bar, empty in favor of the Friday night lights of Kyle Field, and forget until the sun rises without mercy and forces him to do what he knows he has to do.

He puts a little more pressure on the gas pedal because forgetting sounds really good right about now. He's spent the last eighteen hours relentlessly driving across every type of terrain the great state of Texas has to offer, literally alone with his thoughts, thoughts that are not doing any good for his sanity.

Approaching the last exit before Huntsville, he moves the SUV to the farthest lane from the ramp, where a semi fills the space. His vehicle slides easily into town, but he's fighting it every mile. Fighting it for all it's worth. He wants nothing more than to know, but he may end up with more questions. Or some answers he can't handle. But what would be worse, both.

He finds the hotel, which is surprisingly upscale for an undercover operation by multiple task forces. As he swings his feet from the car, he thinks about what a bad idea it was to spend almost a solid day driving. His back hurts like hell, and the usual crack in each direction does little to no good. He stumbles into the lobby anyway, his bag forgotten in the parking lot.

The woman at the front desk wears a crisp, fresh uniform, her nametag reading Stacey in fancy font. When he stops and rests his hands on the counter, she turns her head from the computer monitor in front of her and smiles at him.

"How can I help you tonight, sir?"

"I'd like to speak with your manager," he waits for her to call him or her, but she doesn't.

"Sir, that won't be neccesa-" he flashes his badge discretely over the counter, giving her a look so that she knows he means business.

"She checked out this morning," the young woman tell him, clicking away with her computer mouse.

Marshall pulls a head-on photograph of Mary from his wallet. "This woman?"

"Yeah, about five eight, snarky, acts like she owns the place? She left in a rush real early yesterday morning, like four o'clock," Shit, she's running. She knew Alder's cover was blown and she got out before they put the pieces together and came after her. "Is she your partner?" Stacey asks excitedly.

"Yeah, yes. I'm gonna need her room," he shoves his wallet, picture inside, and badge back into his pockets.

"Oh, I can't do that."

"Look, ma'am, this is a federal case, and I really need to find her," he stands firmly at the counter, unwavering. She looks unaffected, so he wings it, "It's a matter of national security," he almost laughs at his own cliché.

A smile slowly unfolds across her face. "You're in love with her," she says matter-of-factly. Unsure how to respond, he waits while she programs a keycard and hands it to him. "Room 672, sixth floor."

He throws his thanks over his shoulder even though he's already halfway to the elevator. He rides up alone and practically sprints the last thirty feet of this segment of his journey- the hallway from the elevator to the room.

The room has been cleaned, and it sits in front of him in stiff, Pinesol-ed perfection with it's crisply made beds and fluffy white towels. He knew it would have been visited by the cleaning staff, but part of him was holding out for it to still be messy and Mary in order for him to find some clue, some shred of evidence of anything, something to tell him what her next move was.

Unable to let even one shred of that hope go, he moves methodically though the room on autopilot. He combs through every fiber of the room four times over, coming up with nothing.

That piece of hope he'd been holding onto began to waver, he plucks the Bible from one of the drawers in the bedside table and begins to page through, but the book falls right open to a section in Exodus. At first, he thinks it must be commonly opened there, but folded up and tucked into the seam is a slip of paper from the hotel notepad on the desk.

Trying in vain not to let his hops skyrocket, he slowly pulls the sheet from the Bible, exhaling heavily as he unfolds it.

Scrawled in Mary's hand in the center of the page is one word: Tyler.

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So, that review?