Disclaimer: Forgot about these. Don't think WB will sue me, do you? Anyway, in addition to the Dukes of Hazzard, which I don't own, I also don't own Peter McCabe. He was stolen from a Michael Keaton movie called "Desperate Measures." He just fit right into the story so I rolled with it. Good flick, you should check it out.

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Boss Hogg was sitting at Rosco's desk, filling out the paperwork when the Dukes came bursting in, Uncle Jesse flanked by his nephews. Daisy had been firmly told to stay behind – "In case something happens, one of us has to be on the outside," Jesse had told her by way of consolation. He looked a bit dazed when Jesse plopped down the mortgage check in front of him, and blinked, his forehead glistening with sweat from the day's heat.

"Lordy, never thought I'd see the day when I'd forget about Jesse Duke's mortgage payment," he muttered, more to himself but loud enough to be heard. He picked up the paper and eyed it. "You sure this check is good, Jesse?"

"Whaddya mean, is it good?" Jesse blustered, part of the routine. "I've paid you every month for the last fifteen years and have I ever passed you a bad check?"

The thing about Hogg was that he was very good at irritating people. Especially Jesse Duke. Sensing immediately that Jesse wanted nothing more than to come and go as quickly as possible, he called. "I dunno…you're gonna have to wait until I call the bank, make sure there's money in the account."

Making highly annoyed noises, Jesse continued to rant at the man as he calmly picked up the phone and dialed. They were too busy to see Henri-Mae slip in through the front door and head directly toward the stairs leading to the lock-up.

Bo, however, didn't miss it. He also didn't miss the frown on her face, the unsure set of her shoulders, and most certainly, he didn't miss that she seemed to miss him, entirely, walking past him as if he wasn't there.

Luke caught Bo's whiff of disappointment and shook his head. "You're amazing, you know that? You've kissed every girl in Hazzard county, done a lot more with half of them, God knows how many daddies have chased you with shotguns, and you're still looking at the one girl who doesn't want anything to do with you." Luckily, he kept his voice low so that the conversation went unnoticed while Hogg continued to upset Jesse with his slow-handed manner. "We're gonna have to get your head examined, Bo."

"It ain't that," Bo replied, frowning.

"Then what is it?" Luke demanded. He'd about had enough with this routine, and even though he'd learned the hard way from the mess with Diane and her traveling car show that when it came to getting between Bo and his latest love-interest, it was a lost cause, he also wasn't about to roll over and play dead.

"I don't know, I just…we talked when that Farrell guy had us tied up, and we sorta…called it a truce."

"Okay, fine, it's a truce," Luke said. "Doesn't mean she's gonna come running back to you."

"I know, she said as much," Bo replied. "I just…I guess I was hoping she'd be a bit friendlier."

"Girl had something on her mind," Luke observed. Then he realized the path she'd followed. Downstairs held a heavy, dark air, as if it were a new opening to Hell itself, and yet she'd gone down there as if with a purpose. "Wonder what it was…"

"Exactly," Bo said.

Luke shook his head. "It ain't none of our business," he said, as much to himself as to Bo. "Let the girl live her own life. She's been doing it long enough."

Bo jumped as Jesse slapped his hand down on the desk. "Told you!" the older man barked, and then turned to leave.

"Guess you're right," Bo said as they turned to follow. But there was something wrong…something coming from downstairs that wasn't right.

Something…horrible.

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Purpose drove her to the stairs. Henri-Mae didn't bother to notice who else was in the office, she was just reassured by the simple matter of there being police nearby. She went down them, the small bounces in gravity causing her shoes to make clumping sounds on the tile.

And when she got to the bottom and cleared the metal grating of the gate, she did not expect what she saw—

A gun-barrel, right in her face. And at the other end of it, Peter McCabe, looking at her as if she were a steak dinner and he'd just spent a week on bread and water.

"Heya there, Henri-Mae," he said in his thick, Louisiana drawl.

Her heart stopped beating for a split second, and when it resumed it went on overload. The shock of it sent a cold flush through her feet, up into her stomach and back into her spine, quickly followed by a rush of blood, causing her neck and ears to light nearly on fire. Her mouth quickly went dry and when she swallowed to moisten it, she nearly choked. "Pete," she managed, worried for a moment she was about to puke. "Pete, what are you doing?"

His face turned even darker as the smile curled at one corner of his mouth. He'd always had unusual lips, not very large but very well defined, puckering heavily just below his nose. "Whaddya think I'm doin', Henri-Mae?" he replied. "I'm escapin'. Been planning it for a while now. Ever since they told me they was movin' me."

She coughed a little, wondering what the hell to do, if she should try and talk some sense into him or if she should turn and run like hell.

It was as if he could read her mind. "Don't do that," he said. "You'll just get someone hurt and I know you'll feel really bad about that." He cocked a pointy eyebrow. "Unless prison's done the same for you as it did for me? Didn't think so, though, since you're wearin' a badge now. Gotta be a funny story, you'll have to tell me all about it later. Right now I need you to take off your belt."

She jumped a little. "My belt?"

"Your weapons," he said, not looking down but keeping his eyes right on hers. "Slowly, take out your gun, put in on the ground and kick it over."

She considered whether or not to obey. He saw it in her face, and sighed heavily.

"Look, Henrietta," he said, "I don't want to hurt you, but I ain't afraid to kill you. So do the smart thing and play along."

With a final swallow, she reached for her weapon and set it on the ground, nudging it over as he commanded. Her eyes went down unconsciously to follow the path it made, and they grazed over the unpleasant sight of the Federal Marshall, whose name she'd never caught, lying on the floor of the cell with his throat cut wide open.

She shut her eyes for a moment, nausea swelling in her gut.

"Now your club," he went on. As if in a hypnotized state, she obeyed, willing not to see anything else, but knowing that the other guards who had been down here…bad things had happened to them as well.

"Good girl," Pete said, even as her face began to contort with the effort it took to contain herself. "Now turn around."

"Why?" she asked, her voice cracking a little.

"'Cause you don't wanna see this." He reached forward and grabbed her shoulder, spinning her so that she flew into the wall. Then he let go, and she distinctly heard the scrape of her billy club against the floor as he scooped it up, and then…horrible sounds. Sounds of men dying. The crack of bones and the snapping of spines.

In spite of herself, she let out a shriek.

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"What the hell was that?" Bo demanded, even as his feet were moving forward. He'd heard a sound, a sound he had heard before, that was familiar to him but couldn't place for some reason. He was going down the stairs, and Luke was shouting at him to wait, and Uncle Jesse was ordering him to stop, but it was too late, gravity had gotten him and he was already at the bottom stair when he saw it.

Someone – it could only have been the convict, from the bright orange of his jumpsuit – had Henri-Mae at gunpoint. He had yanked her back by her hair and had the gun pressed solidly against her temple.

"Wrong party, rube," the man said to him, with a thicker Southern drawl than he'd ever had.

"Shit, Bo," Henri-Mae said, seeming more annoyed at him than she was at the predicament she was in, "when's the damsel in distress routine gonna get old?"

"When you ain't no longer in distress," Bo replied, just as Luke came right down behind them.

"Uncle Jesse, get out! It's a jailbreak!" he shouted up the stairs. Abruptly, the convict pulled the gun away from Henri-Mae's head and pointed it toward Luke, and before Bo could blink he'd fired a round into the wall, right beside Luke's head. The other ducked wildly, spinning around with his arms in the air.

"Get into the cell!" the convict ordered the two boys, aiming the gun at them, Henri-Mae between them. He waved once quickly with the barrel, and then cocked the hammer back threateningly. "Do it!"

Going in a strange parody of a hoe-down circle, Bo and Luke crossed the room and went into the cell that had held the convict not more than five minutes ago. This time when the door clicked shut, there was no question that they were in there for a longer time than they'd ever been before.

The convict turned to Henri-Mae, spinning her around to face him. He waved the gun under her chin, angrily. "Any more stupid things you'd like to do before we go upstairs? Just checking, 'cause I'm sure you'd hate it if this got any more complicated."

She didn't answer, just glared at him. Taking that for her answer, he spun her back around again, this time with his arm firmly around her neck. "Let's go clean house," he rumbled, and guided her toward the stairs.

Bo watched them go, a shout rising in his throat, but something sticky under his shoe brought him crashing back down to reality.

"Bo," came Luke's voice, and it had a strange tone to it, the kind he'd never heard before, but later on realized Luke must have used in the war all the time.

Underneath their feet was a pool of blood, coming from a man dressed in a suit. His throat had been slashed open by a very sharp object, as it was like a gaping mouth without any teeth.

Bo swallowed, hard. "This isn't happening," he murmured.

"'Fraid it is," Luke said, his eyes going back to the stairway, which was now empty, as the convict had Henri-Mae at the top. "And we're right in the middle of it, just like Uncle Jesse didn't want."

"Luke," Bo said, suddenly feeling like a child again, looking to his cousin like a big brother, or even a father. He was afraid, so afraid he couldn't even feel his own limbs for a moment, or control his own voice. "This…this is bad, isn't it?"

Luke looked back down. He couldn't answer.

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The second Uncle Jesse heard Luke's voice, he knew something was really, really wrong. The raw panic there, the fear, was uncharacteristic of his eldest nephew, who was usually so calm. But the order was clear, crystal clear.

"Get out! It's a jailbreak!"

"Jailbreak!" Hogg shouted, throwing up his hands and causing a splatter of papers. Without thinking, Jesse reached out and grabbed his shoulder and started to pull.

"What-what-what?" Hogg was ranting, even as he was dragged along. "Rosco? Rosco!"

The sheriff in question had previously exited the building for some reason, and was on his way back through the swinging doors when Jesse nearly rammed into him with Hogg.

"What in the blazes is going on?" Rosco cried, stumbling and twirling and winding up falling deeper into the room because of the collision. "Jesse Duke, where are you going—"

The gunshot rocketed past them and shattered the coffee mug sitting on the desk. Rosco yelped and turned in time to see the convict in his bright orange jumpsuit, Peter McCabe, holding the gun right in his face, his other arm wrapped in a vise around Henri-Mae's neck.

"Don't move, Sheriff," he said, and then cocked his head slightly to one side. "Looks like the old goats have left the pasture," he said. "Now go on over there and bolt the door."

Rosco stammered for a moment, years of playing the fool coming rushing to the front like a defense. "Uh, it, uh…it doesn't have a lock."

"Then make one," McCabe ordered.

Rosco looked around. There was a pipe sitting in a corner, leftovers from the updates Boss had had done to the jailhouse to prevent exactly this from happening. He picked it up and slid it through the handles of the swinging doors, firmly shutting them.

"The desk, put it in front, make a blockade," McCabe said. Rosco obeyed. McCabe turned to Henri-Mae. "You guys are just so helpful, he quipped at her. Her reply was to struggle in his grasp, even if just for a second.

"You won't get away with this," she said, struggling to keep her voice calm. "There were still those two Federal Marshals at the boarding house, and those other armed guards. They'll get reinforcements. They'll bring the entire National Guard if they have to."

"Good thing I got hostages then," McCabe replied. "Hey, Sheriff, any other entrances I oughta know about?"

"Well, uh…" Rosco hesitated, his eyes meeting Henri-Mae's. Both of them instantly thought the same thing.

Ever since that ugly business with that ex-con that had kidnapped Boss, held him hostage out in the middle of the woods and then nearly killed him, Hogg had carried with him the ugly scars of paranoia. He went so far as to have Lula Marie install for him a little escape hatch, a door that led to a small set of stairs that went down into an old storage cellar, which let out behind the building, concealed by brush and thatch that Boss let go wild there. The door was well hidden, one of Boss' little secrets, and quite frankly Henri-Mae hadn't seen exactly where it was. Rosco knew, and he didn't seem willing to tell.

She played along. "The Duke boys are always sneaking in and out through the windows in the file room, and Boss' office," she said, resignation in her voice.

"Why thank you, Deputy," McCabe said, giving her a twisted kind of smile. "What's say we take care of those windows, Sheriff? And then we'll go back downstairs, it's a lot cooler down there."

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The guard was starting to come to, but it was too late. By the time he managed to struggle himself onto his hands and knees, McCabe had come back.

"Hey, one of you lived," McCabe said, his voice sounding manically pleased. "Sheriff, drag this one into that other cell with you. Henri-Mae's gonna keep me company out here, so I don't have to go opening and closing the doors, giving you hicks a chance to escape."

Rosco grabbed the wounded man and half-dragged, half-pulled him into the cell with him. McCabe kicked the iron bar door shut behind him, and then let go of Henri-Mae, giving her a shove across the room.

"How gallant of you," she grumbled, rubbing her neck. Then she sank back against her desk, watching him carefully.

"Uncle Jesse got out?" Luke asked Rosco.

"Yeah, with Boss," Rosco replied, sounding a lot less like the village idiot and more like the Sheriff he used to be. "They'll get help, don't worry."

Don't worry. How hollow those words sounded.

"What were you planning to do, anyway?" came Henri-Mae's voice, from where she sat. She didn't seem terribly flustered, which struck Bo as odd. "Just walk out of here, in that pretty jumpsuit? I mean, what were you really thinking?"

McCabe had begun to pace the length of the room, the gun swinging at his thigh, but not for a moment did he look like he was out of control. He looked at Henri-Mae, his face growing impassive.

"Nothing ever works out the way you planned it, does it?"

His words seem to stop her. She went about rubbing the sore muscles of her neck, where he'd held her so fast for a decent amount of time. They'd been upstairs quite a considerable chunk of time, her and Rosco pulling every blind, closing and locking every window. All the while avoiding Hogg's little secret escape. And Pete hadn't spoken to her once.

The situation began to unravel itself in her head. So far, no one had guessed as to the connection she had with Peter McCabe, but unless McCabe continued to keep his mouth shut, that might change at any moment. He didn't seem over-anxious to exploit it, and so far he had avoided any intimate references…

"Truth is, I did have a plan," Pete went on, surveying the situation rather calmly. "But things kinda got…complicated." And the look he gave her was meaningful.

Because of me? she wondered. She also wondered if it even mattered. Of course, worse than that, she wondered when he was going to start shooting off his mouth—

He approached her, casting a look over his shoulder at the captives behind bars before coming between them and her, blocking their view. "So how do you want to play this?" he said, very softly so only she would hear.

Words escaped her. Her shoulders went up in a shrug.

"I mean, this deputy thing…that for real? Or you hidin' something?"

She drew deep, calming breaths. The compulsion to tell the truth seemed so ridiculous…"It's for real," she said, as softly as him.

"Seriously?" Very even, as if it surprised him, but wasn't worth getting rattled about. "Hm." His eyes traveled up and down her form. "You look good," he finally said, eyes coming back to hers again.

In, out, just breathe normally. "Thanks. Wish I could say the same to you."

He looked down at himself. "Well, prison ain't a nice place," he said dismissively, "but I guess you know that already." Their eyes met again, and he seemed to be considering her, searching her for something. "So are you really one of the good guys, or are you going to help an old friend out, for old time's sake?"

She looked down, her brain blanking. "I don't know," she finally said. "I just don't want anybody to get hurt."

He gave her one of his quirky little smiles. "Well, Deputy," he said, a touch louder, "you just make sure everyone stays calm and no one will get hurt."

She nodded. "And me?" she pressed. "What do you want me to do?"

"For now you can just continue to sit there and look pretty," he said. He reached around her for the telephone and picked up the black receiver. "I've got a few calls to make."