Lone Wolf Mcquade Page #4

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- Room 418.

Ranger! Wait!

Please. She needs rest.

She was very lucky.

Bobby...

Bueno.

(siren)

Howdy, Ranger.

The feds. They've taken over.

Marcus Jackson, FBI, Houston.

- McQuade, Texas Ranger.

- I know.

I'm sorry about your daughter,

but this is a federal case.

From now on, it's out of your jurisdiction.

There's brass everywhere. 9mm.

Excuse me. Get it to the lab. I want a

ballistics report. Let's see what we got.

I guess this is his show.

There were pages blowin'

all over the place when I got here.

I kept this one.

It's a logbook page from an army convoy.

Fort Nelson.

Ranger?

- Hello. Lieutenant Dade, Shipping.

- McQuade, Texas Ranger, El Paso.

I'm calling to verify that shipment

number... 5501 left Fort Nelson yesterday.

Yes, sir, it certainly did.

- What were the contents of those trucks?

- Sir, I'm not at liberty to say.

- Who is?

- Colonel McNeil, sir.

- Would you connect me, please?

- Yes, sir.

(knock at door)

- Colonel McNeil's office.

- Could I speak to the colonel?

- He isn't in today.

- When do you expect him?

- I haven't the faintest idea.

- Where is he?

- I don't know.

- Lady, what the hell do you know?

I only work for the colonel.

I don't sleep with him.

You won't get anywhere that way, Ranger.

Follow me.

- What the hell are you doing?

- Accessing into Aristotle.

- Who?

- The military central computer.

You see, I borrowed the codes

from the Texas Criminal Info Center.

- Sh*t. - If you get it figured

out, kid, let me know.

Wait, Ranger, I'm in. I got it.

I got it.

They got a shitload of guns. Oh, man.

- Look at that.

- Holy sh*t.

- Good job, kid. Really a good job.

- Thanks, Ranger.

(McQuade) Here's our little Judas goat.

- What's his connection?

- His name's Snow.

Hustler, dealer, pimp, you name it.

There isn't any dirt

he doesn't have his hands in.

What do you say

we pay him a visit, Ranger?

Let's go.

- You gonna park?

- Hang on.

What?

You're learning, kid.

I see I got a lot more to learn.

Come on, kid.

Son of a b*tch.

Whoops.

Senora?

Dond fue el hombre que pas ahorita?

Gracias.

- Remember me, Snow?

- J-Jesus!

Watch it!

Round the front.

Muchas gracias.

Goddammit! Sh*t!

Don't!

- No! No!

- Come on!

(Snow moans and whimpers)

Come on.

- Take him.

- I'll call the fire department.

Later. I need to talk to him

before I let the feds have him.

You're gettin' more slippery all the time,

ain't you?

Come on. How many times

have I busted you, you son of a b*tch?

- Argh! It hurts my hand!

- Yeah, it does, don't it?

(Snow) You son of a b*tch!

Can I borrow that contraption?

Sure.

What are you gonna do?

Stop! Wait!

(Dakota) Got something to say, pissant?

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