Chris Larabee rolled into Toscosa, Texas, a miserable little town near the Mexican border, a little past one in the morning and stopped at the only motel in town...the Aces and Eights. He walked into the office and found that the only connection to James Butler Hickok and Deadwood was the Deadhead dressed in a vintage Grateful Dead tie-dye tee shirt playing solitaire with a ratty old pack of playing cards. Checking in he also found that, even as late and as dry as the county was, he could still get a drink...at the local shooting range no less. Ah, Texas! Where the Wild West remained and guns and alcohol always mixed.

The bar section of The Shooting Line was hopping but Chris headed directly for the door to the shooting range, his gun case containing his Belgian made FN five-seven semi automatic pistol in hand. He paid for the privilege and stepped up to the shooting line and, forty rounds later, he took a break to watch the man in the first of the rifle bays.

The shooter was a good-looking kid with long hair, a fashion statement that never really sat well with the former SEAL. But his gun of choice, a Score High Police Sniper Rifle, was a thing of beauty and the kid knew how to use it. The young man, dressed in jeans and a blue tee shirt, sighted in the Score High and punch dead center each time he shot before stopping to take a break himself. When he did Chris stepped back up to the firing line and let his five-seven do all the talking and, just as he'd hoped, the longhair stepped back and leaned against the wall and waited for him to go cold.

When the head of DOW laid his gun on the bench and stepped back the sharpshooter asked, "That a military issue five-seven?"

"Sure is. You ever shoot one, Mr..." Chris asked nonchalantly and watched the other man for any tells.

"Ah, Hatcher...and I'm not much good with handguns," the shooter said.

His face appeared to be an open book, his demeanor affable but Chris instinctively knew that Hatcher was lying. The young man didn't pose any immediate threat so, holding his weapon by the barrel, Chris offered it to him butt first.

Taking the proffered weapon Hatcher adjusted his hearing protection and stepped back up to the firing line. He placed a clip into the magazine, hefted the heavy handgun and, holding it in the standard cup and saucer handhold, extended his arm and fired off the gun's twenty rounds. Although he never blinked, he missed dead center every shot.

"She's a beauty but I guess I need a scatter-gun for close up work," the young shooter said and grinned sheepishly as he returned the pistol.

Avoiding the grips Chris took back the gun and the stranger nodded his thanks and returned to his bench. Chris then packed up his gear and, lifting a hand to his short lived shooting partner, left the building knowing that in minutes he would have the shooter's real name and know a little more about his game.

Sitting in the Ram Chris lifted the prints off the gun butt, made a reasonable facsimile, inserted them into his remote fax and hit the send button. Hatcher remained inside the Shooting Line apparently content to continue honing his considerable skill with the Custom and seven minutes later Chris had his answer.

Tanner, Vin. Twenty eight years of age. Former Texas Ranger turned bounty hunter. Currently wanted for questioning in the sovereign state of Texas in connection with the death of one, Eli Joe, a convicted murderer who, up until six months ago, had been incarcerated in the Correctional facility in Huntsville but was now toes up in a cemetery outside of Tascosa. Tanner, an expert marksman with long-range weapons as well as small arms, should be considered armed and dangerous and approached with extreme caution.

Chris hit the auto dial feature on his console mounted cell phone and started skimming to the bottom of the page looking for the reason Tanner was no longer a Texas Ranger but a bounty hunter with a possible price of his own on his head when the unmistakable snict of an automatic handgun slide being engaged caused him to stop reading and hold his breath.

"You might wanna put down that cell phone, cowboy," Vin Tanner said through the open window. He opened the Ram's passenger door and took a seat next to the black clad stranger. Then, as if reading Chris' mind, he answered, "They said I was negligent in the performance of my duty."

Chris replaced the phone and turned to the long haired man sitting next to him. He remained silent, a trick he'd learned interrogating suspects, and Tanner offered up an explanation. "My oath was to protect and serve and, when I saw the opportunity to take out a bad guy, I took the shot. But the bullet took a quirky turn in the perp's brain pan, exited and struck an innocent bystander."

"Acceptable loss," Larabee said quietly.

"Unofficially yeah...officially no. The department and my C.O. left my ass hangin' so far out in the breeze that I thought I'd never get it reeled back in. It was resign or be terminated...so I booked."

"Eli Joe?"

"Was a loss to no one," Vin stated simply, no excuses and no more of an explanation than that. "You can turn me in if ya want but I won't go easy."

"No, I don't suppose you will, Chris surmised and added, "And don't call me cowboy."

Vin released the slide of his SIG SAUER P226, Larabee's own choice for a field weapon, smiled and reached for the door handle.

"I could use someone like you in my organization," Chris said and placed a hand on the departing man's shoulder.

Vin chuckled and looked out the truck's windshield. "And what kind of organization might that be?"

"Dogs of War. LLC. I need someone who's an expert marksman at distance, someone who can take orders unconditionally, someone who will kill without compunction, without remorse and someone who wants to be as rich as Cresus."

Vin turned and looked at Larabee. His eyes were blue, clear and sharp as a hawk's and he stared directly into Chris' as he answered, "Don't need much money...and I'll always feel remorse. Keeps me human." Stepping down from the Ram's cab Vin closed the door gently, slipped the Sig into his jacket pocket and trotted over to a battered red jeep without a backward glance. He secured the Custom's case on the floorboards behind the front seat, hopped in, fired up the engine and pulled out onto the highway headed north.

Chris lit up a cheroot, leaned back in his seat and smiled. He was pretty sure he had just found his team's skirmisher.