Cell 1886, Huntsville, Texas

Otto stood, hands clasped casually behind his back, shoulders straight, head slightly tilting as he looked out over the cellblock. He had often seen pictures of the Fuhrer standing just so. Otto enjoyed the feeling of continuity with the glories of the past, and the discipline of the posture.

Behind the sleepy eyes, his agile mind was turning over information, trying combinations. Otto looked for the long haul, at the big picture. He was not about to throw himself into any plan just because a voice at the end of a phone suggested it.

Still, no matter how useful Nick Stokes might appear to be, he was just too good to be true. The Italians had promised to end him, and now Bobby the Wolf was trying to save face, because Stokes still lived. Pablo Hinojosa and his little snake of a sidekick, Oliphante, had actually made it into Stokes' cell, and Stokes still lived.

Now Oliphante was in solitary, Stokes was in the infirmary, and Hinojosa wasn't talking. Tucker was dead, who was no great loss though it bothered Otto anytime a white man, even a piece of degenerate dog shit like Tucker, was killed and a greaser like Oliphante or Hinojosa went free.

And then there was the guard, George, Stokes' contact. He'd talked, with Petersen working on him while his fellow guards walked their beats in he other direction for a while, or took an off-schedule smoke break, or just watched, enjoying the show. Petersen had made George talk in minutes, drained him of everything he knew. The last twenty minutes was just recreational.

George had two jobs, for Stokes. Bring code words to Stokes, of which George didn't know the meaning, Otto was sure. Get Stokes out and to the Warden's office on a signal from Stokes, so they could extract him from the prison when his undercover was over.

Otto had the word from the Detective: take Stokes down. If he could frame the Italians or the Latinos as originally planned, so much the better, but above all, take Stokes down.

"Petersen!" he called, still staring thoughtfully out over the cellblock.

"Yes, Otto?" The pale giant's voice was the model of subservience. He didn't have the spark of Hammacker or the flair of Stokes, but Petersen was one agreeable son of a bitch. A born soldier, an order-taker. Every good Fuhrer needed troops, Otto supposed.

"Stokes is in the infirmary. Take care of him. And Oliphante's in the Hole. That one we need to make look like the Spics taking care of their own business."

"Yes, Otto." Petersen stood, cracking his knuckles.

"Today?" Otto's scorn took Petersen down a peg as the albino left on his business. What a pussy, Otto thought. Where were all the real white men, honestly?

- - -

Franklin Building, 204th Court, Dallas, Texas

"Your Honor? I understand that your son is in the infirmary." The voice was solicitous.

"Is he?" Judge Stokes continued to read over the warrant request he had been handed earlier. "I'm sorry, Detective, but I don't pay attention one way or another what happens to that man."

The Detective nodded sympathetically.

"I understand. It must be… difficult, for you and Mrs. Stokes."

"Yeah," Stokes allowed, reaching for a pen.

The Detective had one wild thought, quickly subdued. A shot now, a quick escape before the Judge's body had hit the floor. Another round for the old fellow outside, the Judge's assistant, or he'd have the hounds out too quickly.

Just as quickly, the moment passed. The Detective had too much invested in removing Stokes to risk it all now. Nick's freedom had not worked. His life as leverage had not worked. But still, there was time, time to keep the drug money flowing in and keep the Judge and his minions off the scent. Another few weeks, maybe a month, and the Detective could disappear for good, to a nice beach where the sun was hot, the nights were cool, and the extradition treaties either nonexistent or unenforceable. There would be plenty of time to kill old Judge Stokes then, just before leaving

The Judge scrawled his illegible signature across the warrant.

"Here you go, Detective Sanchez."

The Detective smiled at him, the same smile she had used whenever she'd wanted to wheedle his son Nick, her old partner.

"Why thank you, Your Honor. Always a pleasure."

- - -

Prison infirmary, Huntsville, Texas

"Mr. Stokes?" The voice was soft, hushed. Almost friendly. Nick opened his eyes and blinked away tears. He wanted to wipe his eyes with the back of his hand but for some reason he could not lift his arms.

"Mr. Stokes? I'm Doctor Doyle. Do you remember where you are?" A face, soft-focused but vaguely familiar, swam into view, large eyes looking into his.

"Huntsville." His voice was rough and there was a weight like four men sitting on his chest.

"That's right," she said, sadly. "Can you tell me why you're here?"

"Prison?" he asked. He must have been intubated at some point, as he recognized the feeling in his throat more than he could place anything more immediate in his surroundings or recent history.

She frowned, and her brows drew together making a stark vertical line above her nose.

"Mr. Stokes, can you tell me why you were sent here?"

He ran his dry tongue over his lips, so cracked and dry themselves they seemed foreign to his tongue, like he was piloting by remote with no real sense of feedback. He tried to remember what was going on.

"How did I get… hospital?"

"You're in the infirmary in Huntsville, Mr. Stokes. You've taken a rubber bullet to the sternum, which stopped your breathing and gave your heart an irregular rhythm. You're breathing fine now but we need to keep you here to monitor your heart."

He looked around. He wanted to look down at the wires and IV lines and so forth attached to him, but he lacked the strength. Something was wrong though, he remembered that much. Something important.

"Why were you sent here, Mr. Stokes?" The doctor leaned in, her wide-set eyes blinking owlishly as she searched his face for answers. "Do you remember?"

"Fifth," he said, laying his head down. "Take… the fifth."

"Oh, Mr. Stokes. That's not really an option now, is it?" The doctor's face went away, and he blinked a few times, unable to focus on the off-white ceiling. His mind couldn't find any depth to his field of view, and with each beat of his heart the room teetered a bit with vertigo.

"There, that should help," Doyle said comfortingly, as if from far away. Nick felt a burning sensation in his hand that rapidly spread up his left arm. His eyes stopped watering and became suddenly itchy, and pins and needles went to work on his hand and wrist.

"Now, Mr. Stokes, tell me again why you are here." The face was there again, suddenly, and Nick opened his eyes wide with surprise.

"Convicted… of something." He shook his head slightly, eyes not leaving hers. "To get… inside."

"And why did you need to get inside, Mr. Stokes? Talk to me, tell me, it will be easier that way." She touched his shoulder, almost gently. "Why did you want to get inside?"

"To make… her. Come get me." He tried to look away, but his eyes were lost in hers, his head felt hot and he was starting to get tunnel vision.

"Who is coming to get you, Mr. Stokes?" She wasn't soft-voiced now. She was losing him, and had very little time to confirm her suspicions. "Tell me who is coming!"

"Marta." His eyes closed and he slumped back to his pillow. "Marta Sanchez."

His eyes rolled back, and his mouth went slack. His body, which had been straining against the leather restraints, relaxed into the thin mattress of the infirmary bed. More from reflex than from compassion, Doctor Doyle reached out and closed his eyes with her hand as she got up to call the Detective.

In Stokes' IV, just above where it entered the back of his hand, she left 2/3 of a syringe of scopolamine. It was an adequate truth serum, on par with sodium thiopental but much easier to acquire without arousing suspicion from her oversight board.

"Hello, Marta? It's Maggie."

- - -

Six years earlier. Oaklawn neighborhood, Dallas, Texas

"Oh, crap, Marta." Stokes looked at the young man handcuffed to the squad car, and back to his cousin, lying dead next to the car they had been trying to unlock. The keys were still dangling from the ignition in the locked car.

"Okay, Nick, look, here's what we have to do. You back me up on the gun, okay? You back me up, it's not a bad shoot. It's just a kid in the wrong damn place, wrong time to be carrying, okay?"

"I didn't see a gun, Sanchez." He was shaking his head, almost in tears. She took him by the shoulders and gave him a quick shake.

"Damn it, partner, pull yourself together. This was a good stop, it's not our fault."

He looked at her, a pained expression on his face. She reached under her jacket to the small of her back, and eyes still on him, she bent down and reached under the edge of the car. When she pulled her hand back after a moment, she held a small handgun.

"Look, Nick. A gun." Her voice was steady, her eyes never left his. "He must have dropped it."

"Sanchez, don't." He was whispering, pleading. This wasn't how he thought it was going to be, how it was supposed to be. But hadn't Captain Lewis told him to follow Sanchez? To take his lead from her, the rising star of the Dallas PD?

Still looking right at him and speaking softly, she took the gun and pressed it briefly to the hand of the dead youth at their feet. She then placed it on the ground between the body and the car.

"Terrible thing, Nicky. But if we let this take us down, the bad guys win."

"Please, don't." He was crying. His voice was gentle and even but the tears ran unnoticed down his cheeks.

"Now we wait for Infernal Affairs. This will be over soon, partner."

Nick's jaw muscles worked for a moment, like he was chewing something hard and bitter. He reached out and offered Sanchez his weapon. He took hers in exchange.

"They won't put a Stokes on the front page, Sanchez." He was stone faced and moved like a marionette missing some strings. He looked down at the dead young man. "Maybe I'm not cut out to be a cop, after all."

She smiled at him, and holstered his weapon. "That's my boy. Don't worry, Nicky. We'll get this all worked out, you'll see."

- - -

Unmarked Dallas Police Car, outside the Franklin Building, Dallas, Texas.

She still remembered that day, the day she got Nick Stokes on the hook She'd hoped maybe someday to call in the marker from his father. That would have been a nice favor to have in her back pocket if she had been able to spin it.

"Don't worry, Nicky. We'll get this all worked out, you'll see."

Only it hadn't worked out. He'd been cleared of wrongdoing after a pro forma investigation. She had avoided even a black spot on her record, and continued on the fast track. When Stokes had quit the force and gone back to school, she'd continued to send him the occasional letter. His answers had been polite, brief, dry.

With each advance, she had moved onto a bigger and bigger stage, and dealt with more and more important perpetrators. It wasn't a year before she was in business for herself, courtesy of the people she did or did not take off the streets. She was as happy as a worm in an apple, and the only thing she worried about was that one day, Nick Stokes would try to set the record straight.

When she had heard that he was going to be charged with crimes, many of which she had been responsible for, her first thought had been that it was a trap. Still, she'd bided her time, and been shocked to see Stokes actually going to prison. She had as many contacts inside as out, and it had been so tempting to have him ended before he stepped off the bus.

Still, she was cautious. Just a few more months and she could retire. Maybe take a day and kill the people she thought needed killing, or just had pissed her off, then off to the islands. She already had her new bathing suit picked out.

But now Stokes was fishing, trying to draw her out, and it had almost worked. Still, with Stokes dead, it would take days to sort out what had gone down, and by then she'd be gone. She'd just have to forgo the first class ticket and she could leave today.

"Marta? What about Stokes?"

She had forgotten the cell phone in her hand, her mind racing over the past, and looking towards the future. She forced her attention back to the phone, one of the disposable, almost untraceable tools she relied on for this side of her business.

"Clean up any evidence, and see if you can get him cremated before the investigation starts. A tragic mistake in paperwork, whatever."

"Whatever you say, honey."

Whatever I say, she thought. A charmingly simple philosophy. Especially for a doctor who had needed a new and very authentic-looking medical license after she came out of drug rehab, who was willing to work for a year or two in the prison, doing the occasional favor in order to build legitimate cover. Doyle was mostly sober now, but she was also almost pathetically willing to do whatever it took to make Sanchez happy, in bed or out.

"See you soon, doll," Sanchez lied smoothly. Doctor Maggie Doyle still thought there was going to be a ticket to sunny climes and high living waiting for her when this was over. Foolish little dyke, Sanchez smiled as she threw the phone casually out the window towards a trash can.

Marta Sanchez wasn't interested in taking care of anyone but Marta Sanchez. And there was just about time to pick up her new bathing suit and pack before she collected her last payments and left town. She pulled away from the curb and headed towards the Galleria, smiling at the thought of Maggie Doyle taking care of the last unfinished business on her list. Once she got to the airport, Sanchez would call Otto to take care of Maggie Doyle.