EXT. WHITE HOUSE - DAWN Early morning. A faint glow in the sky. Silence except for the THWACK-THWACK of the NEWSPAPER GUY driving past. INT. WHITE HOUSE - KITCHEN - DAWN walt sits alone at the kitchen table, staring into space. Deep in thought. Considering something carefully. He rises, picks up the phone and dials. Keeps his voice low. WALT Hank? Hey, it's Walt. I didn't wake you, did I? (a beat) Good. Listen, I've been thinking. Could I take you up on your offer? The ride-along? EXT. BLUE-COLLAR NEIGHBORHOOD - MORNING CUT TO: A different morning -- these things take time to set up. We're in a neighborhood not unlike Walt's. A non-descript Ford is parked at the curb, blended in with the other cars. HANK (O.S.) It's down there on the cul-de-sac. White? Kinda redwood-looking trim? INT. FORD - MORNING - CONTINUOUS Hank sits behind the wheel. A subordinate agent, GOMEZ, is beside him. Hank is pointing out the TARGET HOUSE to Walt, who sits in the back seat in an ill-fitting bulletproof vest. HANK See it? WALT Yeah. Tiny house, a block down the street. Not at all noteworthy. WALT (quiet interest) That's a meth lab. HANK So says our snitch. Says some dude who goes by "Cap' n Cook" lives up to his name in there. Got himself a three pound flask and keeps it bubbling day and night. Says he always adds a dash of chili powder. (to Gomez) Ah, you exuberant Mexicans. GOMEZ Uh-uh. "Cap'n Cook?" that's a white boy's name. Dopey as hell. HANK Yeah? I got twenty bucks says he's a beaner. GOMEZ You're on. A yellow SCHOOL BUS chugs into frame, driving past. HANK Ah, here we go. Finally. (into his radio) School bus is clear. You got the green light. An affirmation comes back. Hank starts his engine. HANK (smiling, to Walt) watch this. This makes 'em shit. 25. Out of the distance, we hear a BIG ENGINE REVVING, speeding our way. A TRUCK roars past, heading for the cul-de-sac. Hank slowly follows it in his Ford -- just so Walt can see. Hank hums Ride Of The Valkyries, channeling "Apocalypse Now." Walt's POV: as seen through the windshield, the lead truck goes speeding into the target house's driveway. An ENTRY TEAM of six agents jumps out, looking like they just came from the set of a sci-fi movie -- they're covered head-to-toe in CHEMICAL SUITS and RESPIRATOR GEAR. They carry carbines and shotguns. One man lugs a battering ram. HANK Meth labs are nasty on a good day -- but when you mix that stuff wrong, you wind up with mustard gas. WALT Phosgene gas, I think. HANK Yeah, exactly. One whiff'll kill you. That's why the moon suits. 26. Walt nods, watches the entry team take position at the door. INT. TARGET HOUSE - KITCHEN - CONTINUOUS To call this a shithole would be an insult to shitholes everywhere. There's filthy clothes, overflowing garbage, rotting pizza boxes dating to the Clinton administration ••• along with stacked cannisters of plumber's lye and Coleman stove fuel. A rambling, Rube Goldberg lab of hoses and buckets stands out against the knotty pine panelling. A Mexican man, EMILIO, sits at the kitchen table, listening to headphones -- oblivious to the o.s. BANGING at the door. He's got an enormous mound of RED POWDER in front of him, and an even bigger pile of MATCHBOOKS on the floor. He scrapes off the striker strips and collects the powder. This is a source of red phosphorus for meth production. BOOOM! The front door busts open. Feds pour in, pointing guns and breathing through their masks like Darth Vader. Emilio nearly pisses himself. He starts to run for it, but doesn't get far. The agents hold him down, cuff him. EXT. TARGET HOUSE - MORNING Hank, Gomez and Walt wait in the Ford. The RADIO crackles. AGENT (RADIO V.O.) House is clear. We've got one suspect in custody. HANK Copy that. The suspect ••• might he be of the Latin persuasion? AGENT (RADIO V.O.) Si, Senor. Hank triumphantly puts a hand out. Gomez grumbles and pays him his twenty.