***Yes! It's time to find out what happened at the motel...are you ready? Strap on your thinking caps, my friends. There's more to this story that our marshals were privy to, and it's not going to make their jobs any easier. ***

***The characters and the storyline are fiction. The facts within are not. Google has been my fast friend. ***

"A man like Ringo has got a great big hole, right in the middle of him. He can never kill enough, or steal enough, or inflict enough pain to ever fill it."

"What does he need?"

"Revenge."

"For what?"

"Bein' born."

- Tombstone

-o-o-

"How the hell did we get ourselves into this?"

- Tombstone

The state police had set up a large perimeter, and nearly the entire parking lot of the motel was cleared of anyone but CSI and a mix of local and state law enforcement. If one looked carefully, with a trained eye, they could pick out the feds; likely a marshal or DHS agent. No FBI. Despite their best efforts to blend in, that personnel never quite pulled it off. The squawk and chatter of at least a dozen radio channels added a soundtrack to the psychedelic patterns of light and shadow cast by the patrol car light bars and ambulance strobes. A blue and red tableau of grim determination to solve the crime, and the man tucked into shadow near the motel office enjoyed the quiet anonymity. He was pleased. Wending his way through the civilian onlookers a short time ago, he heard no rumor or speculation beyond gang activity or random violence befalling a tourist. Small town thoughts remaining within their borders.

The traffic to and from the motel room had increased once the victims were removed; one shrouded for celestial departure while the other was swarmed by men intent on tethering the soul to the stretcher. They were closing the doors to the ambulance now, the 'whoop' of the siren clearing a path into the street as the vehicle edged forward. After watching a minute more to assure himself no one was removing equipment from the room, Marshall reached into his pocket for his phone. He dialed as he walked through the overgrown back lot to the truck.

"I assume you have a hell of a good reason for ignoring my first two calls?" Stan barked without preamble. "I'm too old kick your ass, which pisses me off more and just about guarantees I'll shoot you."

Marshall grimaced. "Sorry about that. I was maintaining a low profile for some surveillance. The local constabulary is to be avoided." He climbed into the cab and again checked for any activity before coaxing the rusty truck to life and pulling into the dark street. "I'm going to scope out the activity at the hospital before heading back to the ranch. See if anyone of interest is snooping around."

"Keep your head down. You're not exactly inconspicuous," Stan advised. Marshall heard the squeak of the office chair as the man rocked backwards. "I've got Charlie crawling up the ass of DHS now, but I doubt we'll know what went down until Taliswell's supervisor deigns to call me."

"Who?" Marshall demanded, intent on the street signs as he wound his way through town via back roads.

"One Derek Platte. That's all I have." Stan blew out a frustrated sigh. "They said he'd reach out by the top of the hour, so we wait." A beat. "How'd he look?"

Marshall pulled into the lot of a local supermarket across from the hospital and parked facing the ER entrance. The ambulance sat, dark and silent, under the covered bay. His mind fleetingly revisited chasing a bloody stretcher down a long corridor, and he closed his eyes to force the chilling scene back into the past.

"It looked bad. They called Lifeflight, so I doubt he'll be here long. Just enough time to stabilize him before they can take him to UNM." Albuquerque had the nearest Level I trauma center.

"Dammit," Stan whispered. The men sat silently for a moment. "You hear anything as to the shooter?"

Marshall shook his head even though Stan couldn't see him. "Nothing. But the state police will have his picture in their system now. IA can retrieve it."

Stan chuckled. "You think I'm not already on that? Stop sniffing around my job and get your ass back out of town as soon as possible. Oh, and Marshall?"

Marshall grunted into the phone as he climbed out of the truck. "Yeah?"

"Call your partner. We don't need WWIII at the ranch if she gets wind of this while you're gone."

Marshall missed a step. He hadn't thought of that. His brain was still gnawing on the fact that had he arrived at the motel twenty minutes earlier, they'd be loading him into that bird on the helipad right now. Stan was right, he needed to put it into gear and do what he needed to do, including reaching out to Mary. Despite the remoteness of the ranch, it was still a small town. An event of this magnitude would incite a flurry of gossip and a phone tree of Sequoia proportions. He couldn't wait too much longer.

"As soon as I'm out of the hospital," he said, checking his watch. "Call me when you have more."

He tucked the phone back into his pocket and walked casually into the waiting room of the ER. Seeking out the vending machines, Marshall bought a soda and plopped down onto one of the vinyl chairs with a sigh and a slouch. Just another friend or family member waiting for word about their loved one. He knew the nurses would remain mum on the condition of a patient, especially a high profile one, so he waited.

He saw no suspicious characters lurking about, but patience paid off within twenty minutes. A pair of troopers ambled out of the treatment area in search of refreshments, deep in conversation.

"…think he's gonna make it. He was lucky the perp was using shorts." The first trooper smoothed out his dollar before inserting it into the machine.

"I've never seen that. Heard of it, but never seen it." The second man waited and counted change from his pocket. His radio squawked and he keyed it silent. "What the hell is a pro doing in this shit town?"

"Holbrook has the case. We'll just have to see if they throw us some scraps. But a bit of advice," the older man waited until the other retrieved his drink, "don't ask too many questions when a fed takes a bullet."

Marshall feigned restless sleep as they passed him on their way back, mind turning over the information unwittingly imparted. A pro. They had been made. But who was the target? Taliswell, or himself? It was a question better pondered far from bright lights and chances of recognition. Hearing the helicopter arrive, Marshall vacated his post and wandered back into the night before the activity behind the 'authorized personnel only' signs could spill out with the transfer.

He was hitting speed dial before he realized the phone was in his hand. Her voicemail was not what he wanted to hear. Cursing the lack of cell towers and cheap government phones, Marshall dialed again only to be interrupted by the signal of an incoming call. Stan.

"That was quick," he answered.

"We got an ID on the shooter," Stan's voice was grim. "This wasn't his first rodeo, and ICE better be prepared to tell us a damn good story."

Marshall trotted back across the road towards his truck. "I overheard a couple of troopers say it was a pro. Using .22 shorts, apparently. A signature style? Aversion to silencers?"

"No one traces .22 short ammo sales, but you're going to leave a trail if you're buying silencers," Stan added his hypothesis. "Our man is Duro Baljic, somewhere between thirty-four and thirty-six years old. Last known address was Serbia in 2007. Over 250 confirmed kills."

Back in the truck, Marshall leaned back against the seat in the darkness and blew out a long breath. "A Serb? That doesn't even make sense to me, and I'd like to think I've wrapped my brain around this op fairly well." He rubbed a hand down his face and started to feel a little anxious about getting back to Mary. "We're missing some crucial pieces of information, Chief."

"My thoughts exactly…hold on…" Stan's desk phone was ringing. Marshall heard him answer, then he was back on the line. "Marshall, it's Platte. I'm putting you both on speaker." A few clicks and shuffles later and the crude conference call was under way.

The men traded greetings, the marshals expressing their condolences for Taliswell's condition, then Platte launched into a quick update regarding leadership changes within the operation. There would be no delay in the schedule.

"Agent Hardisen has already been out to the target barn to plant some surveillance equipment. He's fully prepared to take lead." Platte said.

"The electrician." Marshall didn't let his mind wander past seeing the man leave with Eliot; dangerous ground beyond that. "Well played. I wouldn't have guessed."

Stan interrupted before his inspector could ponder the ruse further. "So, Agent Platte, I guess our burning question is: What the hell are you boys squeezing that popped out a Serb? And when were we going to know about it?" He only let the question hang in the air for a moment. "There's a difference between throwing my marshals into the middle of the OK Corral versus doing the tango with members of a wet team wanted in two countries for war crimes."

"Baljic was a surprise to us, too." Platte sounded tired. "With as much trouble as we've been giving the cartel down south, I didn't expect to see sicarios up here."

"Let's pretend we don't know anything about the cartel's involvement," Marshall drawled, irritation creeping up the back of his neck slightly faster than the chill of apprehension, "and you crack open a file and start filling us in. Otherwise, I can call my partner and have your witness packed in about a half hour. In the wind by midnight." He grimaced with the delivery, hoping his boss was going to back him up. Though the likelihood of two assassins was slim, he couldn't shake the image of a laser beam dancing on Mary's back.

Pratte bristled. "The details of the cartel involvement are agency only. There are players we prefer not to toss into the lion's den, and its operations have no bearing on our source…your witness."

"We don't want the names of your undercovers," Stan sighed, hoping to stave off an argument. "But there is a good chance my inspector was the target tonight. He was headed to the motel when Taliswell was taken down, and from the reports I've read, Baljic was waiting. We're involved now, Platte, not just spectators. If I need to get the ADA on the phone to Assistant Secretary Morton…"

"You understand this operation is probably our last shot at these fuckwits before they hole back up in Mexico, right, McQueen?" the agent was angry. "We've lost too many agents to the crap going on down there."

Marshall listened to his own pulse during the ensuing silence. Stan was giving Platte time to decide…or rather, time to convince himself he was doing the right thing. It had now been forty minutes since he had arrived on the scene at the motel. If Mary had found out, and hadn't heard from him, she'd be making decisions now. He knew what she would do. Just as he thought he'd have to beg off the call, Platte spoke.

"Christianson has gotten himself into bed with two brothers; Luis and Jaime Sancristo, usually known as the Garcia brothers. 'Garcia' was their mother's maiden name." Marshall heard Stan hiss a curse. Platte continued, "Luis, Lucho as he's called, is the elder and more dangerous of the two. He's not too far down the food chain in the Beltrán-Leyva Cartel, and therefore controls a good portion of the trafficking operations in these parts. In fact, after we arrested Villarreal last fall and capped a few of his lieutenants, Lucho is near top dog."

"Okay," Marshall interrupted, turning over the facts in his head. "The cartel, especially that high up, isn't known for dealing with small town losers like Christianson. Nor do they often dabble in local human trafficking rings. What are we missing?" He needed the big picture. Could fill himself in on the details later.

Platte answered, "Christianson is a pawn, he just doesn't know it. As you probably know, the Beltrán-Leyva Cartel has been infighting since 2009. Long story short, Villarreal was the leader of the Los Negros, an enforcer gang within the Leyva that battled for dominance of this region. I'm sure you've read about the beheadings? That was him. Their opposition is the Los Zetas. Well, Garcia is trying to make inroads into the Zetas…get behind enemy lines. And he's found a way.

"Brad Christianson thinks he's trading sex slaves for heroin and some crates full of small arms. He's actually dipping himself in honey and strapping himself to the termite mound. The whole exchange is just a drop off point for Garcia's offering to his inside man in the Zetas. No, you won't get that name."

Marshall's eyebrows climbed upwards. "There's a Zeta at the ranch?"

"I didn't say that," Platte cautioned. "What I did say is that Christianson is the mechanism by which Garcia will deliver proof of good faith. Once the shipment is received, Brad is no longer needed, and the portal into the Zetas will be established. We need to get that shipment, the recipients, and Brad Christianson before anyone is eliminated, and the buy on Sunday night is our only chance."

"And our witness plays into this how?" Stan thought he knew, but wanted to hear it voiced.

Platted yawned, excused himself. "Sorry. It's been a long day." He cleared his throat. "Our Zeta isn't going to roll over on Garcia no matter which way we play it. Christianson, if he's smart, will keep his mouth shut also, but Mrs. Christianson is another story. She's seen the currency, she's overheard the conversations, and she's going to force Brad's hand. He's made. If he doesn't give us Garcia, we'll put him in general population."

"And he'll be dead in a week," Marshall concluded. "If he sings, you'll make sure he's got a nice, quiet place to get a law degree during his first twenty years. Right?"

"And that, gentlemen, is as much as I'll be cleared to tell you." Platte's voice faded as he moved away from the phone. "I'm being called back out. I will keep you apprised of our agent's condition. I trust that this information doesn't change our original agreement?"

Stan was quick to clarify. "We'll take all the information into consideration and confirm with the ADA that our services are still offered, to both you and Mrs. Christianson. I need to update my marshal at the ranch first. She's not going to be…amused."

Marshall snorted. "About that, Stan. I need to call said marshal." He sat forward and turned the key in the ignition. "Agent Platte, thank you for the education. Good night." Hanging up, Marshall belted in and thought about the call he needed to place to Mary. There was no way he would be able to fully update her via the phone, and he doubted they would be able to meet discreetly tonight. There was too much going on, and too many wary eyes could be watching.

Easing the truck into gear, he noted the missed call when he keyed the phone. "Dammit." She must have called while he was on the conference with Stan. He hadn't heard the quiet beep. She was going to be livid. Flay him alive livid. And panicked. Not outwardly, nothing that would defy training or veer her off course, but a visceral reaction to uncertainty they had both experienced before.

He allowed himself the brief pleasure of remembering how she had felt under his hands that afternoon. Remembered the hint of uncertainly in her eyes when she had told him it was time to stop thinking. Scared. Of rejection…of acceptance…of letting someone in who could destroy her. If that's where they were going, if this partnership was going to become something more, then that part of her heart she had protected for so long would be set in his hands. Treasure. He already thought of her as his, and were he on the other end of that phone…Shaking his head in pained frustration, Marshall dialed the number.

***Daaaaaang. That's some bad juju. Tossed into the middle of a potential Mexican cartel turf war without their say so. If Stan and Marshall are annoyed, Mary's going to be...well, keep reading :) Please please REVIEW! If you're lost at all, PM me. I'm happy to clarify. ***