***Take a deep breath and dive on in. Things are starting to unravel for some, come together for others, but the party has just barely started. And, Houston?...I think we have a problem!***

***Thanks to my girls! You are all the best!***

"One bastard goes in, another bastard comes out."

– The Good, the Bad and the Ugly

-o-o-

"Once you've killed four, it's easy to make it five."

– Once Upon a Time in the West

Marshall paused for a moment on the trail, checked his map, compass, watch…he knew where he was going, but his brain was insisting on the rote gestures in order to regain focus. For the last thirty minutes he had forced himself to consider every scenario leading up to the buy, cycled through the options again and again, and now he was tired of thinking. There was no way to predict what he would find as he approached Redpoint. No way he could consider every quirk of fate or ill-timed action. Like the cattle drive itself, once the events were set in motion there was only time to react. If you were lucky, and if you planned well, you walked away with a hitch in your step and another notch in your belt. If not…the whole herd could run off a cliff and you slunk away with nothing but a bruised ego and a pile of wanted ads.

He softly 'hupped' Socrates back into motion as he remembered the first time his father had come home after an unsuccessful operation. The old man didn't talk about work much, but a particularly nasty knock on the head had him waxing poetic while nursing injuries on the couch.

"You boys know why I'm laying on this couch?" Seth's rumbled question was barely heard over the rain on the roof.

The brothers were sitting on the floor playing gin, relegated to sitter duties by their mother who had run to the store. Marshall tensed. Most question-answer sessions conducted by Seth Mann ended badly when his older brother was involved. And said brother was in a particularly surly mood to begin with, being denied outdoor freedom.

"The son of a bitch got the drop on you?" Chris answered, bored. "That's what you told us."

Seth readjusted the ice pack so he could raise his head and glare at the boy. "Don't swear in your mother's house, son. She can hear you all the way across town." His gaze switched to his silent son. "Marshall? I'm sure you've given it some thought?"

Marshall inwardly cringed as he heard Chris' forced sigh. If he answered he was screwed. If he didn't…he was screwed. A hierarchy of screwed-ness. But he'd rather fend off a teen-ager than his father any day. Placing his cards carefully on the floor, Marshall looked up at his father.

"Either the initial plan was wrong, which I doubt considering it's what you and your team do everyday, or there was an unknown factor that could never have been accounted for."

Chris mumbled insults under his breath and Seth laid back on the couch and closed his eyes. Marshall waited. A roll of thunder swirled around the house.

"God damned dogs," Seth spat, startling the boys. "They had fighting dogs behind the fence that no one knew about. No one. Must've just gotten them. The dogs went crazy as soon as they smelled us and the gig was up. All we could do was damage control."

The brothers shared a look, then stared back over at their father, waiting for him to continue. After a minute it was clear he had fallen asleep, exhaustion and meds taking their toll. They were off the hook. Marshall reached for his cards, but Chris was ahead of him.

"Gin."

Unbeknownst to Seth Mann, rainy day musings had become a pillar of planning upon which Marshall built every situation. Mary would singsong the phrase as they laid out an operation: "Don't forget about the dogs." Tease him about being mauled by a pack of Chihuahuas during his formative years. He chuckled at the image, sobering quickly, though, as the Redpoint Valley came into view around the bend of the trail. There were far too many dogs nipping at his heels today.

He reined in the horse and dismounted as his gaze swept over the landscape. The barn sat near the creek about a mile away, nestled within the stream-fed greenery and butted up against rising mesas to the north. One road meandered in from the east, the only way to approach the area by vehicle other than ATV. The valley would be a hive of activity within three hours when the cattle arrived, but currently there was no movement. Squinting, Marshall pulled out his binoculars and trained them upon the barn. No one out and about, but there were two vehicles in the parking lot: Brad's truck and the dark colored Mercedes. Cursing under his breath, he panned the binoculars across the rest of the valley.

Movement in a stand of trees about seventy yards from the barn caught his eye. Eliot's horse. The animal was calmly munching grass, rider nowhere to be seen. Marshall tucked the glasses back into their case after carefully re-checking the area near the horse. An odd place to leave your ride if you were going to be a participant in a high risk illegal activity, but a convenient place for a getaway car if you weren't supposed to be there. Marshall was nearly certain Eliot's involvement was peripheral, instigated by his relationship with Sheryl and any information she had passed along. What he wasn't certain about were the man's intentions. Observer? Or did he have delusions of cowboy justice?

Marshall pulled his Glock from his ankle holster and started down into the valley. He'd leave Socrates to enjoy the foliage as he hunted for the elusive wrangler. He was aware of the fact that he was likely at a disadvantage. Eliot knew this land better than he, more familiar with flora and fauna, and his heart pounded a little more quickly that he would've liked. If he was spotted first, well, he could only hope his gut feel for the other man was true.

Ten minutes later circumstance played in his favor. Two trucks rumbled into view from the north, approaching the barn ahead of their trail of dust, and the noise rousted Eliot from his hiding spot. Marshall grinned as he caught the motion out of the corner of his eye. Gotcha. Duck walking through inch thick sand was a quad workout he'd not soon forget, and the sweat beaded on his forehead as he reached an advantageous position about ten yards behind Eliot's perch. The trucks rolled into the parking lot with sprays of gravel and Marshall made his move. By the time the trucks were parked, the barrel of his gun lightly tapped the back of Eliot's head.

"Put both your hands on the rock. Now." He was surprised the man didn't startle.

Eliot moved slowly, following instructions. "Will it help my case if I tell you I heard you coming?" He stood perfectly still while Marshall frisked him.

"It'll hurt my feelings, but I don't see how it would defuse the situation." Marshall stepped back a few steps and told Eliot to turn around.

Eliot quirked an eyebrow as he turned to face Marshall. "I had pegged you as either ex-special forces or law enforcement. I'll assume it's the latter. FBI?"

Marshall was in no mood for chitchat. There was activity in the parking lot and he didn't need to be distracted. "Close enough. Convince me that I don't have to shoot you." Not an idle threat. He would rather not, but time was tight and he wasn't going to chance a bullet in his own back. Mary would kill him.

Eliot assessed his intent easily and kept his explanation short and to the point. "The electrician was no electrician. I knew something was going on, and then Sheryl told me about the feds. Some sort of smuggling operation that was going to get busted today." He shrugged a shoulder and glanced in the direction of the barn. "I don't exactly know what I expected to do. Observe. Make sure the bastard doesn't get away."

If he was lying, he was good at it. Marshall believed him. Knew that feeling of having to do something to protect the ones you love, even it that something didn't have a clear definition. It was a better option than wringing your hands in a waiting room. Sighing, he tipped his head towards the wrangler as he tucked his piece into the back of his waistband.

"Stay with me. You're not a cowboy today."

Eliot nodded in return, and the two men snuck forward a few dozen yards to find a better vantage point for observing the barn. The two men from the trucks were standing outside talking and smoking cigarettes. Waiting for something…or someone. A moment later Brad and Jaime walked out of the barn, Brad barked a command, and one of the men flicked his butt to the ground as he scrambled over to the closest truck. He released the back gate and reached under the cover to drag out a young girl by the ankle. She stumbled to the ground and stood hunched and cringing while the man repeated his efforts with yet another girl. They were dressed in sweat stained oversized tank tops and flimsy shorts, barefoot and red faced from the heat. Now, as they huddled together, Marshall could tell they were silently crying as the men converged upon them.

Eliot shifted with a quiet curse, ready to move until Marshall's hand fell upon his arm. "Stay still. They won't damage the merchandise." He could feel the other man staring at him, but never took his eyes off the scene unfolding in the parking lot.

Jaime approached the girls, laughing as they skittered away from him. One of the men pushed the shorter girl towards Brad and all the men shared a joke as the girl whirled and swung at her aggressor. Marshall's mouth was dry with anger and fear for the girls. He hoped his assessment of the situation was correct. That the girls were solely presentation of proof of purchase, and not afternoon entertainment for the men in the lot. Jaime finally snapped at the girls and they now stood still while he stepped forward to inspect them.

Marshall was reminded of a morning he spent at the fish market in Seattle. Boxes and crates of barely alive creatures being poked and prodded and assessed for freshness and other seafood criteria he knew nothing about. The buyers were methodical, brisk and unfeeling, only interested in certain traits and moving on to the next crate when they found the current lot lacking. The girls by the barn were treated the same way by the Mexican. He tugged on their hair, peered into their mouths, patted them down and even looked under their shirts. After walking around them one more time, he turned to Brad and held out a hand. Satisfied. As the two men shook hands, the other men loaded the girls back under the tarp.

Eliot was cursing creatively next to him by the time the pickups left the lot and Brad and Jaime walked back inside.

"There's more of them, aren't there?" Eliot asked, now leaning back against the rock they hid behind and wiping sweat off his forehead.

Marshall copied his pose and pulled out his canteen for a brief sip of water before replying. "Probably about twenty of them, according to the info I have."

Eliot wiped his face with his bandana, methodically folding it again before tucking it into his pocket. Thinking. Finally, he stared hard at Marshall.

"What can I do?"

Marshall turned to look back over at the now empty parking lot and quiet barn. Thought about Hardison's info and looked at his watch before making a decision.

"We've got thirty minutes before the shit hits the fan. I need to get into that barn without being seen, and back out again."

Eliot chuckled. "Covert ops in a desert setting right under the enemy's nose? I'm pretty sure I can help you with that."

-o-o-o-

Sheryl flinched as Carter's body jerked with the shot, the only sound from the gun a quiet mechanical spit. Her brain told her that was significant, but any rational thought was being overridden by revulsion at the thought of Carter's warm blood on her face. Panicked, she began to push at his shoulders to wiggle out from under the limp body. Dead body. Oh, Jesus, he was dead! Get him off! He slumped slightly to the side, but she was trapped awkwardly under his hips. Tyler was crying out from the bedroom – thank god the door was still closed – and she instinctively called back to reassure them it was okay. To stay in the room. Finally, the silence sunk in, and it occurred to her to turn her attention to her apparent salvation.

The woman seemed intent on wiping off her gun, head down and focused on the weapon, and Sheryl wondered why she wasn't helping. Why she didn't say anything. If she didn't already know the woman, she would think that…that something wasn't right. The smell of Carter's blood wasn't the only thing that now turned her stomach as realization dawned.

Licking her lips, she asked the question she already knew the answer to, "You're not Inspector Shannon, are you?" She could hear the blood pounding in her ears.

The dark haired woman shook her head and grinned ruefully while she reached down to search Carter's body. Sheryl tried to extricate herself once again, stopped as the woman reached out to lay her hand on her arm. The other hand now held a liquid filled syringe. Sheryl couldn't drag her eyes away from it. If she didn't look up, didn't meet the woman's gaze, then maybe this could still all be a dream. She could feel a chill creeping into her soul.

"How long until the cops get here, Sheryl?" the woman asked quietly, her voice almost friendly.

Sheryl thought she might hyperventilate. She was paralyzed. No. She had to think. There had to be something. One leg was going numb with the weight of the dead man, and she knew that even if she could fight her way free she wouldn't escape. She reflexively stared down the hall at the kids' door before locking eyes with the woman.

"Sophie…" It was a whispered plea. "Please don't kill my children."

Sophie didn't even blink. "I don't do four for the price of one."

Sheryl's confusion was quickly pierced by the prick of the needle in her arm. Swinging at Sophie's head with her free arm, she had time to scream at the kids to get away before her world went black.

-o-o-o-

Mary heard Sheryl's scream as she came around the back of the apartments. Heard the children scream in response and she bolted into a run. Christ on a bike…what the fuck was going on? She had her gun in her hand, dropped the go-bag a few yards from Sheryl's door and skidded to a stop with her back against the hot brick wall adjacent the door jamb. The door was ajar a few inches, an invitation into the unknown that was all the more ominous in the now silence. She tried to keep her breathing shallow and quiet as she turned her head to peer at the surface of the door, listened for a sound to give her a clue as to what lay on the other side. Her boot crunched quietly against the dusty concrete with a shift in weight…a little closer.

The silent house continued to taunt her, and she knew the time for inaction was swiftly coming to an end. Mary squeezed her eyes shut with a whispered prayer and mental summons for Marshall before she lunged through the doorway, the heat from outside following her in and clinging to her clothes while she hugged the wall. The room felt like a church in the middle of the day: bathed in a dim reverence that had you holding your breath so you wouldn't be over come by incense. To no avail. The metallic smell of blood crept into her senses before her eyes adjusted, and with her next breath she caught the underlying sweetness that had her gripping her weapon more forcefully. Head shot. Someone was dead.

Dread was replaced by anger, a protective fury that swept over her in a wave, and Mary slid further into the room with purpose. Whoever…whatever…had caused Sheryl's terror was still in this house, and they would not escape. She side-stepped around the couch, careful to keep one eye on the darker gloom of the hallway, and a tangle of bodies came into view on the floor near the kitchen floor, unmoving and ominous. She stared.

"Sheryl?" It was barely a whisper, almost as if she feared waking the dead. No response.

Nothing else in the house seemed to be stirring, and Mary quickly moved to kneel beside the bodies. Sheryl was pinned beneath Carter, equally still, but lacking the flaccid muscle tone around the neck and face that accompanied death. Placing two fingers on a carotid pulse, Mary sighed in relief as a slow but strong pulse greeted her. She turned her attention to Carter just to assure herself it was truly his brains on the wall…it was.

Mental tactical plans whispered in her head as she decided on the next step. Sheryl had no visible wounds, and she could only hope the woman wasn't slowly dying of internal injuries. She had likely been knocked out in the fight, but where was the gun? A quick visual sweep of the floor revealed no weapon. This kids? Was it possible Leanne had fired the shot while trying to defend her mother? That might explain their continued silence…hiding. Afraid. She needed to clear the rest of the house and find them and then she'd call it in.

Two steps into the hallway and she froze. There was another body. Fearing it was one of the children, Mary quickly covered the few feet to the crumpled form. Her confusion and nervousness only spiked when she realized it was an adult…a woman. Face down and tucked against the wall. Not immediately identifiable in the insufficient light. Suspicion flared and she wasn't taking any chances, reaching out a foot to toe the other woman's boot.

"Hey," Mary grunted, observing the form for a response. "You all right?" Nothing. "Dammit."

The woman was like a piece of cheese in a mousetrap, and every instinct told her to run the other way, but she had to get to the children. Pushing her boot into the woman's thigh a few more times provoked no reaction, and Mary began to carefully slide past her while keeping steady aim with the Glock. No surprises. She finally reached the closed door to the children's room and leaned and ear against the thin wood, still watching the body on the floor. There was a faint rustling from within followed by low murmurs. They were in there. A weight lifted off her chest and she turned to the door.

"Leanne? Tyler? It's Mary, I'm going to come in now, all right?" The doorknob turned freely. "Your mom is okay."

It was less of a sound and more of a disturbance in the air behind her that had her whirling in mid-action to bring up the gun. Too late. Sophie hit her in a low tackle, driving the air from her lungs as she pulled the trigger. The shot went wide and the women tumbled into Sheryl's room and crashed into the dresser. The force of the collision was further disorienting, and Mary lost her weapon as Sophie continued to drive them down onto the floor. The woman was relentless. Fists, elbows and knees flew in a savage battle for survival in the small space between bed and dresser.

Mary suddenly found a pillow planted on her face, and she bucked and stretched in order to tear at the object. A sharp pain near her collarbone, then Sophie's weight was gone. She threw the pillow to the side and scrambled upright, gasping, intending to pursue, but the house began to tilt before she cleared the bedroom doorway. Her legs were unsteady and she stumbled, forced to grip the doorframe as she leaned into the hall. Sophie stood near the bathroom, expressionless and silent, watching Mary's struggles to remain standing.

"What did you…" The words degraded into unintelligible mumbles as Mary's knees gave out and she slumped to the floor. She felt weightless; made up of silk strands that were unraveling into thin air. Her eyes were closed before her cheek met the carpet and the world faded to black. Shit.

Sophie smiled sadly as she watched Mary flop onto the floor. Mary. Not who she expected to come to Sheryl's rescue. The Glock 9mm screamed 'law enforcement' and Sophie guessed the blonde as FBI or DEA. Definitely government. Definitely bad. Obviously Sheryl played into Brad's drama in some manner and was under the protection of the feds. Obviously Carter didn't know that, and Sophie briefly wondered who had sent him after Sheryl and the kids.

No matter. Checking Mary's pulse to make sure she was still alive, Sophie now had to quickly decide on a course of action and get her ass to Redpoint. She was serious when she told Sheryl she didn't do a job for free, but now that a fed had seen her too…That was just bad luck disguised as charity. And the kids, well, that was going to keep her awake for a few nights.

Fifteen minutes later it was done. Sheryl and Mary were bound and gagged in the closet of the kids' bedroom, Sheryl already moaning as the effects of the ketamine were starting to wear off, and the children both rested on the floor under the open window. Unbound. Sophie stared at them for a moment longer as she fingered the scratches on her cheek. The girl was feisty. She didn't expect to have to chase her through the house. Reminded her of herself at that age: wild and uncaged…dangerous. She had dosed the kids carefully with the second vial in Carter's pants. They would wake soon…soon enough to escape if they kept their wits about them. Closing the bedroom door, she set about rigging a slow fuse.

Carter's cigarettes and matches – who still used matches? – were perfect. Sophie splashed gasoline across the living room floor, the walls, Carter's body, then poured the rest onto the couch. It would take a little time to get to the back rooms. She tucked the cigarette into the match book with about 2 cm of end exposed, and backed into the doorway to light the cigarette. The rosy edges of the burning paper reminded her of too many dark nights, and she was quick to place the matchbook at the edge of the gasoline soaked carpet before making her retreat. Ten minutes to disappear ahead of the inferno.

***Oh, sweet baby Jesus, this is *not* good. I'm really not sure how this could turn out well. At least Marshall is still in the clear, with a little unexpected help. Keep reading, friend...the story's not done! Oh, and please REVIEW! I don't want to send Sophie after you! ***