Witness Protection

Disclaimer:  I do not own either of the Mission: Impossible series or any of the characters therein.  I receive no compensation or any other tangible benefit from this story.  I am just a fan who enjoys taking the team out for an adventure every now and then.  🙂

Summary:  The DEA calls on the IMF to shut down a powerful drug cartel that has already been responsible for multiple casualties. Mission-focused.

Author's Note:  Three years ago, this story was just an isolated scene that I had dreamt about.  I had tried for years to make something work, to no avail.  But I want to say thank you to some amazing friends and fellow fans who offered suggestions, tips and (most of all) encouragement.  This story is complete because of you.  <3

*******

It was not yet daybreak when Jim Phelps pulled into the parking lot of a small, dimly lit gas station, deserted except for the tiny silver sedan parked inconspicuously near the left side of the building. He pulled the black Land Rover into the spot closest to the front doors and glanced at his watch.

Five forty-two.

It's too early for this, the white-haired agent muttered to himself, as he opened the driver's door and stepped outside. He shivered as the September breeze kissed the skin on the back of his neck. And this weather. But this was urgent, the Secretary had insisted. The little gas station on the edge of town was the most secure place that could be found on such short notice, and it was imperative that Jim be in and out before the doors opened to the public eighteen — now seventeen — minutes from now.

Jim pulled the door handle gingerly, half expecting it to still be locked. But the lights were on inside, and it looked like the tall clerk with the glasses standing at the counter had been expecting him.

"I'm sorry, sir, we're not open yet," he said by way of greeting.

"Forgive me, but I seem to be lost," answered Jim. "I'm trying to find my way back to Montana. But it looks like I'm going to need a map."

The bespectacled clerk, recognizing the codespeak, glanced briefly at an empty rack near the cash register. "There's none up here," he advised, "but I'm sure we have some back in the stockroom. Feel free to take a look."

He pointed toward a white wooden door nestled along the back wall of the store. Jim nodded his thanks, and his black dress shoes clicked against the tile floor as he headed that way.

The stockroom itself was small, and as dimly lit as the outside of the station had been. But even in the darkness, Jim easily spotted the brown cardboard box with MAPS written prominently on its side, nestled among some plastic crates. He pulled back the flaps and pulled out the familiar black rectangular box. A fingerprint scan, then a three-digit code. Jim slid the tiny disc into the corresponding slot and began to listen.

"Good morning, Jim," the voice began. "For the past two years, a Mexican drug cartel calling themselves El Valle Negro has been trafficking cocaine and heroin along the Southern U.S. border. Thus far, they have managed to evade capture."

Jim watched the stock footage of confiscated baggies of white powder disappear from the screen, replaced by two photos of young men in suits, as the voice continued. "Two nights ago, an anonymous tip prompted a DEA sting operation that went bad, and two agents were killed."

The screen changed to show a photograph of an attractive woman in her mid-20s with long, red hair, dressed in prison stripes. "This woman was taken into custody at the scene. She is presumed to be one of the cartel's associates and may have valuable information about their illegal activities. This has not been confirmed, however, as repeated efforts to interrogate her have so far been unsuccessful. Your mission, Jim, should you choose to accept it, is to identify the leaders of El Valle Negro and shut down their operation."

A question flashed through the white-haired agent's mind; a second later, the voice answered it.

"The DEA and the Secretary have specifically requested your team's assistance. As always, should you or any of your IM Force be caught or killed, the Secretary will disavow any knowledge of your actions. This disc will self-destruct in five seconds. Good luck, Jim."

Amid the high-pitched tones, Jim closed the disc player. By the time the puff of white smoke appeared, he was almost out of sight.

*******

Jim sat down in his familar chair and pressed the buttons that brought the large screen into view. A moment later, the five team members were looking at the file photos of the two deceased DEA agents.

Shannon recognized them instantly from news reports she'd seen the day before. "The agents from the drug sting," she mused.

"Yes," Jim acknowledged. "Killed by El Valle Negro."

"'El Valle Negro'," Nicholas repeated, with a slightly more authentic Spanish flair than his leader, as he poured himself a cup of coffee. "The Black Valley," he translated.

"Pushing a whole lot of white powder," quipped Grant, "and real good at flying under the radar."

"You're right, Grant," agreed Jim. "So far, the DEA has had little success in determining the gang's size or the identities of its members." The photo on the big screen changed to a mug shot of a Latino male in his mid-20s. "This man is Hector Garcia. He was arrested for purse snatching just moments after a major drug deal occurred in the same neighborhood. Authorities think he's involved with the gang, but haven't been able to prove it."

"Is he still in custody?" asked Nicholas.

Jim shook his head. "He was released on bail and promptly went off the radar. Apparently only his attorney knows where he is, and he's not due back in court for another couple of months."

"Is that who we're going after?" Max inquired.

"In a manner of speaking, Max," the team leader answered. "If we can figure out where he's hiding, maybe he can lead us to the bigger fish in the pond."

Grant cast a sharp look at Jim and was silent for several seconds before he finally spoke as the implication of Jim's words set in. "Don't tell me we're going after El Valle Negro," he said. It was both a statement and a question. "Isn't that the DEA's business?"

"The DEA has already lost two agents trying to shut them down," Jim sighed, his voice grim. "They're afraid of more casualties. So, they approached the Secretary to ask for our help."

"Guess they're not worried about us risking our lives," muttered Max, and Jim smiled faintly in response.

"Have we been able to identify any other members of the cartel, Jim?" Nicholas queried somberly.

"We do have one other possibility." Jim pressed another key, and the photograph of the young woman from the mission disc popped up on the screen.

"Pretty girl," Grant commented. "Who is she?"

"We don't know," Jim answered honestly. "The DEA arrested her the night of the sting, after the rest of the cartel cleared out. She says she won't disclose her identity or talk to anyone except witness protection." Jim's blue eyes twinkled. "We're going to make sure that she gets what she wants."

"If she is part of the Valle, why would they just leave her?" Shannon asked. "Surely they would know it's a huge risk if she talks."

"Maybe it's all a little too convenient," Nicholas mused.

"You think she might be a plant?" Max questioned, following his teammate's logic.

"I think it's something worth considering," the dark-haired agent replied.

Jim nodded. "I think you're right, Nicholas," he agreed. "We have to be prepared for every possible scenario, including that El Valle Negro may have intentionally left this lady behind to lead us in the wrong direction." He looked earnestly at his four teammates, his eyes meeting each of theirs in turn. "In fact, the only thing we know for sure about who we're dealing with is that they're deadly."

*******

The tall, beige walls of the federal women’s prison loomed large as the black van with big white letters spelling DEA pulled up in front of the door. From the courtyard, the prisoners watched in silence as a white-haired gentleman in a light grey suit exited the driver’s door. A second later, he was joined by a tall, blond man in a navy blue polo and crisp khaki pants. A gold star-shaped badge hung from a silver chain around his neck and gleamed as it caught the mid-morning sun.

Then the shrill whistle of the prison guard brought the inmates back to attention, and they marched back inside. Their required daily hour of recreation was over, and it was time to re-enter the eight by eleven foot cell where they spent most of their time.

The young redhead returned to her cell on the north side of the building and went inside, waiting for the guard to slam the door closed. Instead, she looked at the inmate and then nodded toward the office down the hallway.

"Some people here to see you," she said gruffly.

The redhead, sighing heavily, exited the cell once again and allowed the guard to lead her to a small office. The door was open, and inside stood the two gentlemen she had seen drive up a few moments before. The guard led her to the empty chair on the other side of the small table and she sat down. The two men followed suit, and the guard took her position standing sentry in the corner beside the door.

"I'm Bill Winters, lead investigator with the Drug Enforcement Administration," Jim began. "This is Jack Strong with the U.S. Marshal Service. We understand you're interested in witness protection."

The redhead glanced around reflexively, a haunted look on her face, and nodded ever so slightly.

"We wanted to see what information you have to give us," Max advised, "starting with your full name."

There was a lengthy pause. Just as Max was about to prompt her further, she spoke. "You can call me Annie Smith," she answered, her voice barely audible. "And I have plenty of information for you, but not here. Someplace safe."

Jim and Max exchanged a quick glance. "Ma'am, this is as secure an area as you're going to find given your current situation," he countered. "If you expect us to help you, you need to talk to us."

Annie continued facing forward but allowed her eyes to drift toward the upper left hand corner of the room and rest briefly on the bubble-shaped object mounted on the ceiling.

"There are cameras," she whispered, as the two agents discreetly followed her gaze. Then, just as discreetly, she shifted her focus toward her right shoulder, behind which the rugged prison guard stood scowling at the three of them.

"And guards," Annie continued in the same tone. "The people I know have their hands all over this place. They know everything that goes on here. And if they see me having more than a five minute conversation with you, they'll have me killed."

"How is that possible?" questioned Max, subconsciously lowering his voice to a stage whisper to match hers.

"They have ways," Annie said vaguely. "Get me out of here, and I'll tell you what you want to know." Her green eyes locked with Max's blue ones. "You do have safe houses, don't you?"

"Of course we do," responded Jim, "but that's not how the program works. You give us information, and then we decide if it's enough to warrant our protection."

Annie shrugged. "I'm sorry," she replied. "I just don't feel safe talking to you here. If you change your mind, let me know."

With that, Annie stood up, prompting the guard to snap into action, quickly walking up behind her and gripping her upper arm securely. "Good day, gentlemen."

In the next moment, Jim and Max were being ushered out of the prison by the same personnel who had checked them in just moments before, with little choice but to leave the grounds.

The opening of the front doors startled Grant, who was hidden from view sitting at a makeshift desk in the back of the van, even though he'd heard their conversation through the speaker concealed inside Max's Marshals badge.

"She didn't give us much," the Black agent mused.

"She sure didn't," Jim agreed, his eyes cast forward as he guided the van back toward headquarters. "I don't suppose you found anything."

"I'd be willing to bet that 'Annie Smith' is an alias, but I ran it anyway, along with the photo," Grant answered. "Nothing on either."

"You'd think that someone tied up in a cartel that size would have a criminal past," Max said thoughtfully. He looked over at Jim. "Do you think it's true that the Valle has eyes and ears on the prison?"

Jim shrugged. "She was definitely nervous about something," he conceded. "Maybe even scared."

"In any case, we're not getting anything else out of her as long as she's there," Grant remarked. "So what do we do now?"

"I don't think we have a choice," the elder agent admitted. "but to put her in the program and see what she has to say."

*******

The next morning, Jim and Max returned to the prison and presented the warden with an official-looking document, ordering the immediate transfer of one Annie Smith to the custody of the U.S. Marshals as part of the witness protection program. Grant had no way of knowing Annie's demographic information, so he had made an educated guess. Thankfully, it was good enough, and less than an hour later Max was helping the handcuffed redhead slide into the backseat of the black van.

The trio rode in silence until they reached the safe house — a large but nondescript two-story beach front home with beige concrete exterior, only a few feet from the waters of the Gulf of Mexico. Once again, Max offered his assistance as Annie exited the van.  Jim unlocked the front door of the safe house, and the trio went inside.

The room that greeted them was modestly furnished — a navy blue sofa with a couple of matching armchairs positioned around a small rectangular coffee table.  Along the right hand wall was a bookshelf with a range of reading materials.  Notably absent were television, radio, and telephone.  A wave of apprehension rippled inside Annie's stomach at the realization that not only would her every move be tracked and watched, but there would be no chance to connect with the outside world by any electronic means while she was here.

This isn't very much different from being in prison, she thought.

"Do I really need to keep these on?" she asked Max quietly, holding up both hands to indicate the handcuffs she was still wearing.

"I suppose not," the blond relented, as he found the proper key and released the metal bracelets.  Annie rubbed her wrists reflexively in relief.

"Thank you," she said gratefully.

Max nodded in response and gestured, palm facing upward, toward the sitting area.  "Won't you have a seat?"  he offered, more of an order than a question.

Annie sighed and chose the sofa, leaning up against one arm and stretching her long legs across the seat, while Max and Jim each took one of the adjacent chairs.

"It's time for us to find out if your information is as good as you say it is," advised Jim, his voice mildly stern.

"What do you want to know?" Annie responded, her blue eyes sparkling.

"Why don't you start with how you became involved with El Valle Negro," the white-haired agent suggested.

 Annie sighed heavily.  "I grew up in Oklahoma," she began.  "My parents fought a lot, and I ran away from home when I was sixteen.  I hitched a ride to Texas and ended up in a bad neighborhood...."  She looked down at her hands, and her voice grew soft.  "...doing whatever I needed to do to survive.  I'm sure you can imagine the rest."

"I think we have a pretty good idea," confirmed Max, his own voice now softer.

"My pimp was pretty abusive," Annie continued, her use of the term confirming Max's suspicions. "He used to hit me a lot.  One day, one of my johns found out and got me out of there.  He was part of the Valle, and after that they became my family."

"Did this john have a name?"  Jim asked.

"Hector Garcia," the redhead responded, prompting Max and Jim to exchange glances at the reference.  "I'm sure you've heard of him."

"He's been in the news recently," Max nodded.  "We thought he was part of the organization, but we weren't sure. How big is his role?"

"He's more or less a distraction," Annie answered, wrinkling her nose slightly.  "He gets involved in minor crimes to throw the authorities off the trail of the major deals."

"So who is in charge?"  Jim asked tersely.

"His name is Raul Montebueno.  I've never met him, but I've heard the sub bosses talk about him.  He runs the network and controls the drugs."

Max nodded.  "How big is this network?"

Annie's blue eyes met Max's.  "That's the one thing I don't know," she admitted quietly.  "It's a major organization.  Hector and I were based in Corpus Christi.  There were probably a hundred people there, and probably a dozen or more locations just like that scattered along the border.  But I do know the buck stops with Montebueno.  You catch him, you shut down the whole cartel."

"I don't suppose you know where to find him or his drugs?"  Jim questioned.

"There's an abandoned warehouse in downtown New Orleans," she reported. "I don't know exactly where it is, because I've never been there, but it's somewhere in the French Quarter. Just a short distance from the Port of New Orleans."

"So the drugs are trafficked by sea," inferred Jim.

"Cargo ship," Annie confirmed. "At least for the sites along the ocean. For the landlocked sites, they have panel trucks like the ones they were using the night I got arrested. They hide the drugs in boxes and it looks like any other furniture shipment."

"What exactly happened that night, Annie?" Max inquired, his voice quiet. "How did you get left behind?"

Annie sighed heavily at the memory. "I was helping load the drugs into the truck," she answered, her eyes downcast. "Then the DEA showed up and everybody started shooting at each other. I ducked behind some boxes for cover, and the next thing I knew the others were gone." The redhead looked up at her two interrogators. "I know I can't go back there. They'd never believe I kept my mouth shut. Ever since day one, it's been beaten into our heads. 'Get caught, and you're dead.'" She sighed heavily. "Look, I've told you about all I know. Do we have a deal or not?"

"Just one more question," Jim promised. "Obviously, we can't use your information until an arrest is made. We need to know when and where they are planning their next deal."

"Today's the twenty-seventh, right?" she asked. At Max's nod, she continued. "Tomorrow morning, just before dawn. There's a cargo ship docking in Gulfport, Mississippi."

At this, Jim rose from his chair. "Thank you, Miss Smith," he smiled. "We will get this information to the proper authorities and work on that new identity."

Jim's dress shoes clicked against the hardwood floor as he disappeared upstairs, leaving Max downstairs to watch over Annie.

*******

Grant looked up from his computer as Jim opened the door to the tiny room they were using as headquarters.

"Have you found out anything useful?" the elder agent asked, pulling up a chair beside his teammate.

The two agents stared at the image of Hector Garcia's mug shot on the screen in front of them. "Her information about Garcia checks out," Grant answered. "He's got a pretty long rap sheet but it's mostly misdemeanors and petty crimes — things he's been able to get out with little or no jail time."

"Have you cross referenced the dates with major drug activity?"

"Yeah," Grant replied, "and they line up."

"So he's a decoy," Jim deduced, "and probably not much use to us, after all. How about this Raul Montebueno?"

"I'm coming up empty," the tech expert answered, frustration in his voice.

"Nothing?" Jim cried incredulously. When Grant shook his head, he continued. "Well, maybe Montebueno is an alias."

"Or maybe she's lying," Grant countered. "But if she is telling the truth, and they are storing the drugs in a warehouse in New Orleans, I may have found it."

As Jim watched, Grant pulled up a street view of the French Quarter, then used gridlines to zoom in on a large, ordinary-looking white building on the shoreline. "This is the only empty building of its size in the entire French Quarter. If Annie's right, it's gotta be the one."

"And there's only one way to find out," Jim finished. He made one quick phone call, then reached in his pocket for his communicator. "Nicholas?"

"We're here, Jim," the dark-haired agent responded from a half mile away, where he and Shannon were sitting in the team's black Land Rover awaiting their team leader's instructions.

"Annie hasn't given us much to work with," he advised them, "but she says that El Valle Negro is storing their drugs in an abandoned warehouse on the French Quarter."

"New Orleans?" Shannon asked.

"Yes," Jim confirmed. "I need you two to go check it out. Your flight leaves in an hour. Grant will send you the coordinates."

"Right, Jim," Nicholas acknowledged.

"Be careful," the white-haired agent warned. "If this is legit, it could be heavily guarded."

"We will," Shannon promised, and the two agents broke the connection and rushed to get ready for their flight.

********

It was early afternoon by the time Nicholas and Shannon pulled up in front of the large white building where Grant's information had led them.

"Well, it certainly looks abandoned," Shannon remarked, "and I don't see any cars or anything that would indicate anyone is in there."

"Yes, but we can't take any chances," Nicholas said cautiously, as he handed Shannon a small, white, rectangular name tag and pinned a similar-looking one on his shirt. Shannon reached into the backseat and grabbed a dark blue keyboard with an official-looking document pinned onto it. Then she sighed heavily and smiled faintly at her teammate.

"Here goes."

The two agents got out of the car and walked slowly toward what looked like the front entrance of the building, with Nicholas slightly in the lead. He walked up to the door and raised his fist to knock. Suddenly, the door swung open toward the inside, and a slender Latino male appeared from the other side of it.

"Can I help you?" he said sternly.

Both Nicholas and Shannon recognized the man instantly — it was Hector Garcia — but gave no indication. Instead, the dark-haired agent smiled.

"City building inspectors," he greeted smoothly.

"What do you want?" Garcia growled, and from his tone it was clear he was in no mood for pleasantries.

"We inspect abandoned properties to see if they are suitable for renovation or demolition," Shannon answered. "This building is on our list."

"Well, it's clearly not abandoned, now, is it?"

"Apparently not," Nicholas agreed. "Would you mind telling us your name and what this building is being used for, so we can update our records?"

"That's none of your business," Garcia snarled, "and I'd suggest you move along."

Nicholas and Shannon, sensing that danger was imminent, didn't wait for any further prompting. "Of course," he replied, flashing another wide grin. "Sorry to have bothered you. Have a good day."

Garcia slammed the door in their faces without further reply. Nicholas and Shannon hastily got into their vehicle and left the property, waiting until they were a couple of miles away before pulling over to update their teammates.

"Jim."

*******

For the last few minutes, Jim and Grant had been waiting with nervous anticipation for word from their teammates. At the sound of Shannon's voice, Jim instantly pressed the button.

"How'd it go?" he asked anxiously.

"We're fine," she quickly reassured him, "but we just had a run-in with none other than Hector Garcia."

Jim and Grant exchanged surprised glances. "Garcia?" Grant repeated. "But Annie said he was in Corpus Christi."

"Well, he's definitely in New Orleans right now," Nicholas confirmed.

"So our star witness was wrong about Garcia," Jim mused.

"She's been wrong about a lot of things," added Grant. "It makes me wonder if there are any drugs in there at all."

"Well, Garcia was definitely guarding something," Nicholas reasoned. "He sure as hell wasn't about to let us see what was inside."

"He barely cracked open the door to talk to us," agreed Shannon.

Grant looked up at his team leader thoughtfully. "So what do we do now, Jim?"

"Nicholas, can you and Shannon find a safe place to keep an eye on the warehouse tonight?" the team leader asked.

"I think we can manage, Jim," the dark-haired agent replied.

"Good. In the meantime, I'll have another talk with Annie. I'll take Grant with me this time, and we'll tell her what we know. See if she changes her story."

Jim and Grant both got to their feet. Jim was two steps ahead of his teammate and had almost reached the top of the stairs while Grant lingered behind, looking at the camera feed. Suddenly, he called Jim's name, and the white-haired agent turned around hastily.

"What is it, Grant?"

"Trouble," Grant replied curtly, and he headed for the stairs without another word. Jim looked down at the monitor and soon saw what Grant had seen. Muttering a curse under his breath, he immediately followed suit.

*******

For at least the first hour after Jim disappeared upstairs, the silence between Max and Annie grew increasingly uncomfortable. In his role as a U.S. Marshal, Max didn't feel as if it was appropriate for him to initiate small talk, and the redhead he was guarding wasn't volunteering any of her own. But eventually, the two grew hungry, and helped themselves to ham and cheese sandwiches and raw fruit and vegetables with dip, from a local deli that had been brought in for them.

That's where everything changed.

Annie took a bite of her sandwich and then looked at it. "We didn't have ham and cheese growing up," she commented. "We were dirt poor. We barely had bread, and it was often homemade. My siblings and I would put butter between two slices and pretend it was a mile-high sandwich." She smiled at the memory, and then looked at Max. "What was it like for you, growing up?"

Max hesitated before answering. He didn't want to tell her anything at all, much less that he'd been adopted into a family who'd given him everything he'd needed and then some. At the same time, to ignore her question completely seemed rude. "It was hard for me, too, at first," he responded vaguely, his voice low. "But I got lucky."

"I didn't give myself a chance to get lucky," Annie admitted, "but after Daddy came back from the war everything was different. All he and Mommy did was fight. I couldn't take it."

When Annie's eyes met Max's again, something was different, and she knew it. It was the look of empathy. The look that said he knew firsthand what she was talking about.

Annie took a drink of her soda and smiled faintly at Max, her green eyes filled with compassion. "Were you in the war?" she asked gently.

"No," Max found himself admitting, but with no intention of elaborating.

"But you lost someone there." It wasn't a question.

Max looked down at his plate, having suddenly lost his appetite. He hoped if he waited long enough, stayed silent long enough, she would take the hint and move on to a different subject. After a few minutes he looked up again and found that Annie's green eyes were still fixed on him, boring a hole into him. Blast! He hadn't planned to answer the question at all, but looking at her it almost felt like she knew the answer already. Like she could read his very thoughts.

"My brother," the blond agent whispered. "He didn't die in battle, but the war still took him."

Almost against her will, Annie found herself reaching over and patting Max's hand. "I'm sorry, Jack," she said, and there was sincerely in her voice. Max smiled faintly at her.

The witness and her protector continued to make small talk off and on for the next several hours. The more time that passed, the more Max found himself drawn to both her and her story.

Annie was in the midst of another story about growing up poor in the Oklahoma Dust Bowl, when suddenly she stopped talking mid-sentence. Something outside had caught her eye. She jumped off the sofa and walked to the front window. Max, mildly alarmed, quickly followed suit.

"What is it?" he demanded.

"I thought I saw some dolphins playing," she replied, "over there."

Max looked to his right, in the direction Annie's finger was pointing, but he couldn't see anything. It was only a few seconds, but before he could look back he heard the telltale squeak of the front door being opened.

Max cursed aloud and jerked open the screen. Annie was running across the sandy beach, headed toward the shore. Immediately, Max gave chase.

"Annie! Come back!" he called after her. "What are you doing?"

"Going for a swim, Jack!" she returned, still running.

"Wait! Stop!" he called, but it was no use.

By the time Max reached the water's edge, Annie was already several feet out into the ocean. She turned back to face him and smiled.

"Annie, wait!" Max called again.

Seconds later, Annie disappeared beneath the surface. Max's steps were heavy and awkward as he tried to navigate the waist-high waves as quickly as he could. Finally, when he had reached enough depth and was close enough to the place he'd last seen her, Max launched his body into the ocean.

Opening his eyes underwater, the blond caught a fleeting glimpse of Annie's feet, just before they vanished into a thick covering of seaweed. He hastened to catch up with her, but he suddenly felt his foot become entangled in the overgrowth. Panic shot through his body as he reached back to unwrap the large weed. By the time he had freed himself, his lungs were bursting, and he shot back to the surface. He hastily sucked in a chest full of air and instantly returned to the seaweed garden.

There was no sign of Annie.

The blond kicked his legs frantically, awkwardly chopping at the dense greenery in a desperate attempt to locate any trace of the woman he'd been entrusted to protect. His mind raced at the same breakneck pace. He couldn't fail his team. He couldn't fail her.

Finally, when his lungs felt as if they would burst, Max broke the surface a second time and was surprised to see Grant standing there, waist-deep and close enough to grab his teammate's arm.

"Max!"

"Gotta find Annie," the blond gasped, pulling his arm from Grant's grasp and returning to his quest. Grant quickly stripped off his polo shirt and followed suit. For an unknown period of time, the two agents looked for the redhead, but she was nowhere to be found.

The last time Max came up for air, Grant was right there beside him, and once again he seized his friend's arm.

"It's no use, Max," he said gently, his voice just audible enough to he heard over the waves. "She's gone."

"No," Max protested, trying in vain to jerk free. "I can't give up yet."

"Max," Grant countered, "it's been too long. She couldn't still be alive, buddy. I'm sorry."

Grant took a long look at his teammate and squeezed his arm in sympathy. Max's breath was coming in heavy, labored gasps, and his face was ghostly white. "Come on, pal," he urged. "You look like you're about to fall over."

Reluctantly, and with one last forlorn look at the last place he'd seen Annie, Max allowed his friend to lead him back to the shoreline where Jim was waiting for them both.

*******

Max and Grant were both dripping messes when they returned to the beach house, so they retreated to separate bathrooms as quickly as they could in order to minimize the amount of water they left behind on the floor. Each agent took a long, hot shower to wash all of the salt and sand the Gulf waters had left behind.

But there was no shower long enough or hot enough to wash Annie out of Max's head.

When the blond agent finally emerged from the bathroom, Grant and Jim were both waiting for him. Max collapsed onto the sofa and sat there, head in his hands. Grant immediately sat down beside him and laid a gentle hand on his shoulder.

"Are you gonna be okay?" he asked softly.

"I let her get away," Max said sadly, instead of answering Grant's question, He looked across the coffee table at Jim, who was now sitting in one of the armchairs. "I'm sorry, Jim. She's gone, and the mission is over, and it's all my fault."

Jim sighed heavily and chose his words carefully. "Nobody's blaming you, Max," he assured his blond teammate. Nobody except you, he added to himself. "You couldn't have seen this coming."

"She was hell-bent on getting away, pal," Grant continued. "Nobody was going to stop her."

"And the mission isn't over," Jim concluded. "We can still finish what we set out to do, even without Annie's help." The elder agent's ice blue eyes locked with Max's own. "But we are going to need yours."

For a moment, Max was back in Florida, sitting in the tractor-trailer the day they'd lost Casey, when Jim had asked him to put aside his inner struggles and focus on finishing the mission. He'd done so then, and he knew that he would this time, too. But right now….

"I'll do whatever you need me to do, Jim," the blond answered, his voice barely audible. "I just need a little time alone." He looked over at Grant, who was gazing at him with worried brown eyes. "I'll be all right, Grant. I just need to clear my head, that's all."

Jim rose up from his chair and gave Max's other shoulder a fatherly pat. "Take all the time you need, Max. Grant and I will be upstairs when you're ready," he advised.

Grant gave Max's arm a final squeeze and then disappeared up the steps behind Jim.

*******

"Why do you think she did it, Jim?" Grant asked quietly, as he sat down in front of his laptop. "Why pass up a shot at a brand new start in life?"

"It's hard to say," Jim answered thoughtfully. "Maybe she couldn't stand the thought of life without the Valle."

"Or without Hector Garcia," Grant interjected.

"Or maybe you're right," Jim continued. "Maybe she was sending us on a wild goose chase. and she knew she'd be headed back to jail once we figured it out."

Grant nodded. "So where do we go from here?"

"I think we have to assume that there really is a deal going down in Gulfport tomorrow morning," Jim responded, "but that doesn't mean we can't look at other possibilities."

"Let's see if there are any cargo ships on the schedule." Grant suggested. As Jim watched, he effortlessly accessed Gulport's system software responsible for tracking vessels and cargo. "There's a bunch of 'em," he reported, after a few moments. "No way to tell which one might be the right one."

"Probably planned that way on purpose," Jim reasoned, mild irritation in his voice. "It makes more sense to have Nicholas and Shannon stand by to see if anything goes out of that warehouse in the next twenty-four hours." Jim glanced at his watch, then reached for his communicator. "Nicholas, Shannon, how's it going?"

"Nothing new to report here, Jim," Nicholas answered. "Garcia is staying inside and there's been no activity since our last contact. How are things there?"

"There's been a development here," Jim answered sadly. "Annie got away from Max and disappeared into the Gulf. It's presumed that she drowned."

Nicholas and Shannon exchanged shocked glances, as the dark-haired agent tried to swallow the lump that had formed in his throat. "'Presumed'?"

"Max and Grant weren't able to find her body," Jim clarified, "but I don't see how she could have survived."

"How's Max doing?" Nicholas queried, with considerably more worry in his voice than he'd intended, but knowing from past missions what was likely his teammate's current state of mind.

"I think he's okay." Jim's words, meant to be reassuring, were anything but.

You think?

"He's taking a moment to clear his head. He'll rejoin us in a bit."

Nicholas nodded, making a mental note to talk with his friend the next time he saw him. "So what's the new plan, Jim? There's really no reason now for you guys to stay at the beach house."

"No, you're right," Jim answered, casting a glance at Grant, who was typing furiously on his keyboard. "But it looks like Grant has a few more things to check out before we leave. So you and Shannon keep an eye on the warehouse. The rest of us will join you soon."

Then Jim cut the connection and turned his attention to his teammate, who had stopped typing and was now staring at his laptop with a scowl on his face. "What is it, Grant? Did you find something?"

"I got to thinking about Annie and all her stories about growing up in Oklahoma," Grant mused. "They seemed too credible to all be made up. So I did some checking."

As Jim looked over the Black agent's shoulder, he sucked in his breath. There on the screen was a photograph of a young woman of around twenty, dressed in a pearl-colored wetsuit. Her flaming-red hair was piled high on top of her head as she smiled at the camera. There could be no doubt that this was Annie Smith.

"Her real name is Rebecca Montgomery," Grant reported, "and she competed in several triathlons throughout the Midwest as a teen and young adult." Grant pulled up a newspaper article in the lower right corner of the screen. "About five years ago, she was implicated in a doping scandal and dropped out of sight. There's been no trace of her since."

"And that's probably when she moved to Texas and got chummy with Hector Garcia," Jim reasoned. He raised his right hand to his chin involuntarily, and Grant could almost see the wheels turning. "But if she was a triathlete, she would have had to be an expert swimmer," he reasoned.

But he left the rest of his thought unsaid as the heavy sound of footsteps told them that Max was finally coming upstairs to join them. Neither man said a word as Max walked over to stand behind Grant and peered over his shoulder at the images on the laptop.

Max was silent for a long moment before finally speaking. "Looks like she lied about a lot of things," he growled, in a tone that made it clear that he was in no mood for further conversation about Annie.

Or Rebecca. Or whoever the hell she was.

"It seems like the only thing she was actually truthful about was the warehouse in New Orleans," Jim agreed. "Do we know who it's registered to?"

Grant closed out the redhead’s picture and opened another database. He punched a few keys and waited for the results to pop up. When they did, all three men were surprised.

"Monte Bueno Corporation," Grant read.

"Isn't that the last name of the guy who supposedly runs the show?" Max asked.

"Yeah. Raul Montebueno," Jim confirmed, as Grant punched another key or two.

"And I bet this is a bogus company. There's absolutely no information about its purpose or any other business dealings," Grant reported.

"We are coming up empty, and running out of time," Jim noted. "I think we need to find out what's inside that warehouse."

"Garcia's not going to cooperate," Grant reminded him.

"That's why we're not going to give him a choice," Jim countered, a knowing twinkle in his eye. He turned to his blond teammate. "Up for a little pilot duty, Max?"

The frown that had been pasted on Max's face since coming upstairs now melted into a sideways grin. It was no secret to any of them how much he loved being in the air. "Always, Jim."

"Let me make a call," the team leader smiled. "I'll let Nicholas and Shannon know we are on our way."

*******

In less than an hour, Jim had used his IMF connections to secure a private plane, and Max was taking off from a small airstrip outside Galveston, headed for the French Quarter. As they flew, Grant was fiddling with one of his inventions. Jim, seated behind the Black agent, looked on.

"How does this thing work?" he asked, nodding toward the gadget that resembled an oversized camera on a telescope.

"When we reach the warehouse, Max will do a low flyover, and I'll aim the telescopic end towards the building," Grant explained. "It has an infrared sensor, so it will pick up the body heat signature of anyone in the building and display it on this screen. It should let us know how many people are inside."

"Hopefully not that many," Max mused. "We really need to see what's inside there."

"Yeah, well, it's too bad this thing doesn't have X-ray vision," Grant quipped.

The flight took just a little over an hour, and soon the warehouse was in sight. Max descended steadily as planned and reduced the throttle as low as he dared. As he flew slowly around the entire perimeter of the white metal building, Grant stared at the screen. It was clear that there was only one heat signature in the entire building.

Jim pressed a button on his communicator. "Nicholas, there's only one."

"It's gotta be Garcia, Jim," the dark-haired agent returned. "Shannon and I haven't moved from this spot. He hasn't left, and nobody else has come in."

"You know what to do," Jim advised. "Let us know when it's done. We'll land the plane and meet you there."

Nicholas broke off the communication with Jim and looked at Shannon. He sighed heavily. "Are you ready for this?"

"Let's just hope he doesn't come out shooting," Shannon answered wryly as she reached for the canister of knockout gas.

"No kidding," Nicholas agreed, starting the engine.

The two agents emerged from their hiding place and once again pulled up in front of the white shell building. Hastily they approached the structure a second time, and were slightly relieved when Garcia didn't spot them early and rush out to confront them. Nicholas walked up to the door and knocked very loudly.

Within seconds, the door burst open, and Garcia was standing there, a sawed-off shotgun in his hand.

"Didn't I tell you—?"

But he never got to finish the sentence, because Shannon's aim was true. The knockout gas met its mark, and Garcia collapsed in Nicholas' arms, the shotgun falling harmlessly to the ground.

Nicholas lowered him to the ground as Shannon keyed the communicator to let Jim and the others know that they had gotten their man. A few moments later, their three teammates came into sight.

"Nice work, you two," Jim praised, as Max picked up the unconscious Latino in a fireman's carry and stuffed him into the backseat of the car that Nicholas and Shannon were driving.

"Time to see what's inside," said Grant, as he started toward the building's entrance, with Nicholas and Max close behind him. Jim and Shannon remained outside with Garcia.

Despite trusting his equipment, Grant entered cautiously, but he found the large building to be completely empty. He stepped aside so his friends could enter, and he and Nicholas took a look around the lower floor while Max checked out the upstairs.

Not only were there no drugs, but there was nowhere to hide them. There was nothing at all except a crude cot with a single sheet and pillow, one chair, and one small table with a landline phone. The upstairs was equally bare.

The three agents went back outside and reported their findings to Jim and Shannon.

"My guess is that this is where he's staying when he's not off committing crimes," mused Nicholas.

"And that phone connection likely means he gets a call each time a deal goes down," added Jim, "and that he's probably expecting a call sometime before dawn tomorrow. Nicholas, do you think you could pull off Garcia's voice over the phone?"

Nicholas pondered this for a moment. He'd really only heard the Latino's voice during that one interaction, but he'd gotten by on less before. "I'll certainly do my best," he promised.

"Maybe you should have the mask ready, too, just in case," the team leader suggested.

"There's a plane parked beside the building that's gonna tip off anybody who shows up here in person," Max interjected, his voice low. "Even in the darkness, she'll be spotted."

"Good point, Max. Should we move her?"

Max shook his head. "We might have to make a quick getaway," he advised. He cast a quick glance at Nicholas, then looked back at the elder agent. "I'll stay here and keep watch. If there's trouble, I'll take care of it."

Nicholas smiled at the blond agent, grateful for his protectiveness, as Jim spoke again. "We could all stay here," he proposed, "and wait to see what happens at dawn."

But Grant shook his head. "The electric and phone hookups here are very rudimentary," he disagreed. "Not enough for all of the equipment I'll need if I have to coordinate things with the DEA."

Jim nodded. "Very well," he agreed. "We'll go find a room." He nodded toward the car. "And maybe try to find out what he knows."

"He's not going to talk to us," cautioned Shannon, recalling Garcia's anger during their interaction, "and I feel like any efforts at interrogation would only agitate him further. We should probably just keep him under wraps until all this is over."

With that, Grant and Max walked back to the airplane and grabbed the rest of Grant's equipment, which they placed into the trunk of the rental car. Then Grant handed Max a small electrical device.

"Use this signal relay to tap into the phone line," he instructed. "I'll send you the coordinates as soon as I get to the hotel."

Then Jim, Grant, and Shannon said goodbye to their teammates and headed for town.

Max and Nicholas went back inside the warehouse. Max took a seat on the cot, while Nicholas pulled the chair over next to him and sat down. The dark-haired agent bit his lip thoughtfully. There was an edge to Max's voice, a hardness to his gaze — things that might have gone unnoticed by the others. But Nicholas knew that Annie's death had bothered him, and was probably still bothering him. He hated to bring it up, but he had to make sure that Max was okay.

"Max," he began softly, "I'm sorry about what happened with Annie." A slight pause. "How are you doing?"

"You mean Rebecca," Max grunted.

The remark took Nicholas by surprise, for Jim had not yet shared Grant's discovery with him or Shannon. "What was that?" he asked.

"Her real name was Rebecca Montgomery. Grant found her in the system."

The edginess in Max's voice escalated quickly as he got to his feet and began to pace. "She lied to me!" he said loudly. "She lied about every damn thing she told me. And it pisses me off that I fell for it."

Nicholas also rose from his chair and walked over to his friend, standing in front of him and meeting his angry gaze. "You believed her." It wasn't a question.

Max glared at his teammate for a long moment, his blue eyes piercing Nicholas' very soul. "You didn't trust her from the beginning, Nicholas," Max said coolly. "I don't expect you to understand."

"Max." Nicholas cautiously reached out to lay a hand on Max's arm; to his relief, the blond did not pull away. "I'm not here to judge you," he said gently, his voice barely above a whisper, his brown eyes shimmering with worry. "I just want you to talk to me."

Max sighed heavily, ran a hand through his hair, then returned to the cot and sat down. Nicholas took his place on the chair next to him and waited for Max to speak.

"There was just something about her," he said softly. "When she talked about growing up in poverty, and all the violence and abuse she went through…" His voice trailed off for a moment. "There was real pain in her eyes, Nicholas. I felt drawn to her. And I wanted to protect her from all the evil things in the world."

Nicholas' heart ached in sympathy for his friend as he began to understand the depth of the emotional turmoil the redhead’s death had caused. He laid a hand on Max's shoulder as the blond looked down at his feet. "But in the end, I couldn't even protect her from herself."

Nicholas' stomach lurched, and he gave Max's shoulder a firm but gentle squeeze. "Max, this wasn't your fault."

"The hell it wasn't!" Max exploded angrily, shrugging off his friend's touch. "I should have stopped her!"

Nicholas ignored Max's wrath. "She tricked you," he countered.

"Then I should have been smarter!"

Max felt his face growing hot, threatening to smother him alive. He quickly got to his feet, driven by an overwhelming urge to run away from the guilt that was chasing him.

But there was nowhere to go.

Max stopped in front of one of the dusty warehouse windows and peered out, gazing at nothing in particular since night had already fallen outside. He heard the soft scuffle of footsteps behind him, and anticipated the gentle hand on his left shoulder before he even felt it there. Damn it! He didn't want to talk about this right now, but he didn't — couldn't — push Nicholas away.

"Max, look at me," Nicholas said softly, and with the slightest pressure turned his friend around to face him, his worried brown eyes pleading. "Max, please don't do this to yourself. For whatever reason, this is what she wanted. And she wasn't going to let you or anyone else stop her. Even if you'd managed to catch her this time, it wouldn't have mattered. She'd have found a way."

Max broke eye contact with Nicholas and looked down at his feet. "She was nothing but a liar anyway," he growled. "I shouldn't even care."

The pain in Max's voice was audible, and it hit Nicholas like a brick in the pit of his stomach. The dark-haired agent gripped both of Max's shoulders with both hands and waited until Max's eyes met his again.

"Max," he soothed, "it's okay that you cared about her. I know that you did everything you could to stop her, and to try to save her. You did your best. And I know it must have hurt like hell when she slipped away."

The blond agent was taken aback at the empathy in his friend's words, as Nicholas continued.

"It's okay to be sad that she died, and to wish that she had made a different choice. But in the end, you have to remember that she's the one who made that choice." He squeezed Max's shoulder fondly. "It's not fair to blame yourself for something that was never within your control."

Max, touched by Nicholas' concern and compassion, impulsively reached out and wrapped the dark-haired agent in a warm hug. "Thanks for trying to understand, Nicholas. And for not judging me."

"You're welcome, Max," Nicholas returned, thumping his friend's back fondly.

As the embrace ended, Nicholas maintained his grip on both Max's arms, his brown eyes twinkling but still laced with concern. "Are you going to be all right?" he asked.

Max's lips curled into a faint smile. "Eventually," he replied honestly, "but it might take some time."

"That's okay," Nicholas assured him, returning his smile. "Just try to remember what I said, all right? And know you can come talk to me anytime."

"I know. Thanks, buddy."

Shortly after their conversation ended, Grant beeped in with the necessary information, and Max used the signal relay to tap into the warehouse phone line. Within moments, Grant and the others were set up to hear any call that came in.

Max looked at his watch. "It's nearly ten o'clock," he observed. "Still a few hours before this is all supposed to go down. One of us should probably try to get some rest."

"Well, I've got to be ready in case the phone rings," Nicholas responded with a stifled yawn, "and you've had a rough day. I'll take first watch."

"The call probably won't come till early morning," Max countered. "Get some rest while you can. It's not like I can sleep right now anyway," he added to himself, not meaning for Nicholas to hear.

But Nicholas did hear.

"Max."

"I'm fine, I promise," Max said hastily. "Just don't argue with me, okay?"

Nicholas sighed again. "Fine," he conceded, "as long as you wake me for second watch."

"Deal," the blond grinned, and Nicholas settled down on the small cot. Within just a few moments he was asleep.

Four hours later, at two in the morning, Max woke Nicholas and then settled down to rest. But two hours later, the ringing telephone startled Nicholas and woke Max with a start.

"Hello?" Nicholas ventured, in a vaguely Latino accent.

"Hey there, lover." The voice was female. Sultry. One that Nicholas hadn't heard before. He glanced at Max, who was also listening thanks to the adapter he'd installed on the landline phone that amplified the caller's words.

Max was ghostly pale, all the color having drained from his face. Clearly, he had heard the voice before. Could it be?

It took everything Nicholas had in him to suspend his concern for his teammate and focus on the conversation at hand.

"How are things over there?" the lady was asking. "Any more visits from our friends?"

"No," answered Nicholas simply.

The woman chuckled. "Fools! I'm sure they're all gathered in Gulfport right now, waiting for a cargo ship that isn't coming."

So it is Annie! But how?

"We're here in Ciudad Juarez right now loading the truck. We should be finished by five-thirty and in Las Cruces by six."

*******

Across town, Jim was on the other line to his contact at DEA headquarters, while Grant was frantically pushing buttons on his laptop, sending alerts and coordinating personnel.

"Gulfport was a red herring," Jim advised tensely. "The deal is going down in Las Cruces, New Mexico, in less than two hours. They're coming by land."

*******

"What do you need me to do?" Nicholas was asking.

"Nothing, love," Annie replied. "Nobody's expecting us, so we don't need a distraction this time. Just sit tight, and I'll come get you when it's over." There was a slight pause. Then, "I love you."

Nicholas cast a wary glance at Max, who was still staring at the receiver in disbelief, though his face had now turned from pale to beet red. Nicholas' stomach lurched. "I…love you, too, babe," he managed to stammer.

"See you soon," she promised, and then the connection was broken.

"That was Annie. Or Rebecca," Nicholas amended. "But how—-?"

"I plan on asking her myself," Max growled angrily, rising to his feet and moving quickly toward the warehouse door.

"Max, wait."

"No time," he grunted. "If we leave now, we'll get there right at six."

Max paused at the door, sensing that Nicholas was not right behind him, and turned around to find his dark-haired friend still seated at the table. Max could tell by the look on his face that he was about to start explaining all the reasons why flying to Las Cruces right now was a horrible idea.

Max ran a hand through his hair. "Look, Nicholas, I'm going," he said flatly, before Nicholas could say a word. "You're welcome to come along if you want, but you'd better hurry up."

As Max disappeared through the door, Nicholas rushed to catch up. At least if I tag along I can keep an eye on him, he thought sadly.

Nicholas was quiet as Max put on his headset and prepared the small plane for takeoff. The blond's face was still flushed and his eyes were tired. He'd only had a couple hours' sleep, after all, and then having lost Annie only to have her turn up again with confirmation that she'd been a liar…

"Max," he began, once they were in the air.

But Max cut him off. "Not now, Nicholas," he begged, through clenched teeth. "Let me focus on what I need to do. We'll talk later, I promise."

Nicholas sighed heavily. "All right," he conceded, "but I'm here if you need me."

"I know." Then the blond fell silent as he channeled all of his energy and concentration on reaching his destination.

Nicholas, too, was silent, speaking only to let Jim know that he and Max were flying to Las Cruces. He sensed that Jim wasn't pleased, but the elder agent knew Max was listening and held his tongue, promising instead to meet them there later that morning.

********

For nearly an hour, Grant continued to contact DEA agents as well as state and local authorities who were close enough to the Las Cruces area to arrange roadblocks and conduct traffic checks, looking specifically for the kind of panel trucks Annie had indicated were the mechanism of transporting the drugs by land.

But they were all coming up empty.

Even as it passed five-thirty, the time when Annie was sure they'd be leaving Ciudad Juarez, border patrol agents had seen no sign of any such trucks leaving Mexico.

More than once, the DEA had called Jim back at their makeshift headquarters, asking was he certain that his information was accurate. That was hard to say. He was certain — but he'd been certain about Gulfport, too.

Jim and Grant had also done their best to keep Max and Nicholas updated. As the small plane — and the estimated arrival time — drew closer, the agents used their vantage point to look for the distinctive trucks. But they were also coming up empty.

It was a few minutes to six, and Max was flying low and almost directly over Las Cruces when suddenly a commercial truck with a dump bed caught his eye for reasons he didn't understand — perhaps because it was the first of its type that he had seen that morning. Nicholas soon noticed him gazing downward.

"What is it, Max?"

"That semi," Max responded. "Not something we usually see this close to the city."

"That's true," Nicholas agreed. "Don't they usually haul things in bulk? Coal, sand, gravel, things of that nature?"

"Right," Max nodded. "So why is that one hauling boxes?"

"What?" Nicholas exclaimed. But as he looked closer, he saw what Max had seen underneath the bright overhead lights of the city. The nylon tarp covering the truck bed was slightly askew, and what was sticking out was not bulk material at all, but what looked like a stack of cardboard boxes.

"That doesn't make sense," Nicholas mused. "As I recall, those beds are hydraulic. Why would you use them for boxes?"

"You wouldn't," Max said simply.

Instantly, Nicholas realized the implications, and rushed to report their observation to Grant and Jim, who quickly contacted local law enforcement to detain the truck.

It didn't go smoothly. There was a brief shootout, though no injuries were reported. Afterward, both the driver and passenger — a woman with fiery red hair — were taken into custody, along with a truck bed full of heroin and cocaine with a multi-million dollar street value.

*******

Max quickly located a small strip of pavement a football field length away from the area where the truck was detained and quickly landed the plane. He jumped out of the cockpit, almost before the plane came to a stop, and sprinted toward the location — so fast that Nicholas had a difficult time keeping up with him.

When Max got to the scene, the redhead was in handcuffs, and the arresting officers were about to place her inside the patrol car. Max produced his Marshals badge from somewhere inside his pocket and was allowed to approach the prisoner, while Nicholas remained some distance behind.

"Hi, Jack," the redhead said coldly upon spotting the blond agent.

"Rebecca," Max grunted, his voice equally frigid.

A hint of surprise crossed her face for a moment, but the iciness quickly returned. "I suppose congratulations are in order for you and your Marshals."

"How'd you do it?" Max demanded, and instantly the redhead knew he was talking about her presumed death back at the beach house. She smirked in satisfaction and hesitated, enjoying the power that withholding the information was giving her.

Impatiently, Max grabbed her upper arm and shook it hard. "How?" Damn it! He had to know!

A momentary twinge of fear coursed through her. She knew that the officers around her wouldn't purposely let him hurt her, but Max was fast, strong — and angry. There was no telling what harm he could do before they were able to stop him.

"Oh, all right," she relented with a sigh. "I suppose I owe you that much. If you know my real name, you know that I was a champion swimmer." At Max's nod, she continued. "The prison guard was part of my team. She followed us to the beach house and waited in a boat just out of sight. As soon as your people showed up at the warehouse and Hector knew you'd bought my story, he contacted her and she signaled me." Rebecca smirked again. "And I just swam right to her."

"You lied to me," Max said, the anger in his voice only thinly masking the pain in his heart. "Everything you told me was a lie."

"Oh, chill out, Jack. It was never personal."

"You're wrong," Max growled, his voice low. "It was very personal."

With that, the officers ushered the redhead into the backseat of the patrol car as Max turned and walked toward his teammate, who was waiting for him.

"Come on, Max," Nicholas soothed, patting the blond's shoulder in sympathy. "The others will be here soon."

*******

After receiving a call from Jim, Max and Nicholas reboarded the small plane and headed a few miles west to the city's major airport to wait for their three teammates. In less than two hours, Max was flying them home.

"The head of the DEA briefed me on the way here," Jim advised. "He wanted me to thank you, Max, for spotting the truck. It wasn't even on their radar and would have probably slipped right through otherwise. How did you know?"

Max remained silent, prompting Nicholas to throw a concerned glance in his direction before answering for him. "They didn't cover their load well enough," he said.

"There were enough drugs in that truck to kill thousands," Jim continued.

"So where's the rest of 'em?" asked Grant.

"In a warehouse somewhere in Ciudad Juarez," Jim replied. "The Feds and Mexican authorities are hoping to make a deal with Hector Garcia to locate them."

"So who's really in charge of El Valle Negro?" Shannon asked.

"Rebecca Montgomery," Max guessed, with an air of confidence.

"Right again, Max," Jim confirmed.

"But how--?" Nicholas faltered.

"Rebecca Montgomery. Raul Montebueno. Same initials. And I don't believe in coincidence," Max explained. "My guess is she met and got involved with Hector Garcia and his cartel connections when she was doing triathlons."

"She's the one who brought the drugs to her team," Grant continued.

"And she let herself be caught by the DEA to give them false information to throw them off the trail to Las Cruces," Shannon finished.

"Well, she's not going anywhere this time," Jim said resolutely. "Witness protection or otherwise. El Valle Negro is officially out of business."

*******

By the time Max landed in San Francisco, the debriefing was over.

The five teammates took the black Land Rover back to Jim's condo, then said their goodbyes and went their separate ways. Nicholas lingered near Max's motorcycle, hands in his pockets.

"Max," he said hesitantly, "do you want to come over to my place? Or grab something for dinner, maybe?"

Max gave his teammate a half-smile. "What's eating you, buddy?" he asked knowingly.

"You promised we'd talk later," the dark-haired agent reminded him, unable to hide the concern in his voice.

For a split second, the moment he'd found out Annie — Rebecca — was alive, returned to his memory. But Max shrugged it off and smiled broadly at his friend. "There's nothing to talk about, Nicholas," he said softly. "The flight home gave me a chance to think, to make peace with everything." At his teammate's skeptical look, he added, "I'm doing all right now."

"I just want to help," Nicholas said, with an air of defensiveness.

"You already have," Max assured him. "And I know you're there if I need you."

The blond reached out and slapped his friend's back fondly. "Thanks, Nicholas. For everything."

Nicholas grinned and returned the gesture. "Take care, Max," he replied. "See you soon."

The blond put on his helmet, waved at Nicholas one last time, and then sped off toward his home. Nicholas watched him until he was out of sight, then got into his BMW and disappeared into the afternoon sun.

The End

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