They weren't taken as far away as Henry would have guessed. He knew from the first glance that the area was familiar. Though he couldn't place a name with their general location, he recognized it as one of several family run vegetable farms just outside the city limits. The roundabout route was meant to throw them off. He could tell from Bill's expression that the plan didn't work for him either. Idiots.

His knees revolted in obvious displeasure as he eased himself from the cramped quarters. Proper posture would have to come in increments as he was unable to stand fully upright just yet. As he placed his palms on his lower back and stretched in earnest, Henry took the opportunity to look around. The field had taken on an eerie translucence, ripe with dew and reflecting the silver of a waxing moon.

They were not alone. Five hundred yards away, another small crew of men worked to repair a length of irrigation pipeline. Henry found himself more confused until the supposed repair crew successfully removed, what he had originally assumed to be, a broken length of pipe and pitched it onto a flatbed trailer. He was no metallurgist. Even still, he was pretty handy in his own right. Dollars to donuts, he just knew that the tubing joining the growing heap on the flatbed had to be copper.

They need an extra set of hands. It was all starting to come together now. The disjointed conversation he'd picked up back at the house plus the phone calls back and forth between the thugs and their mysterious ringleader. Henry had to give them at least a little credit. They were more organized than he originally thought. Not that it mattered much. He would still see to it that they received their fill of metal. Though, he was thinking more along the lines of the iron bars or lead bullets variety.

"Boy, Dawes really did a number on him, huh!"

Winnie didn't realize she was staring off into space until she startled at the statement. She looked up just in time to see the kid leaning over the back of the couch, staring at the helpless victim below. Clenching her jaw, she resolutely looked away not wanting to give him the benefit of her attention.

Not to say she didn't keep watch out of the corner of her eye…

She could feel his stare, though she couldn't see it. It sent a shiver down her spine before clenching painfully in her lower back, causing her to gasp. She cursed herself for the slip as it drew the young man's attention her way.

No…

He slowly edged near, eyes flicking back and forth between her and her son. Her pulse quickened and she felt Burton stirring next to her. She placed a calming hand on his knee, silently pleading him to stay asleep.

"Trek had lots of fun with you. I haven't had any fun yet. But since they left me behind, maybe it's my turn now." He oozed his way closer to them, hoisting his gun on his shoulder, advancing until he arrived toe to toe with her son. She kept her eyes averted, trying to appear as non-threatening as possible. Until, the punk kicked at Burton and the words were out before she could pull them back.

"Don't you dare touch him!" She ground out in hateful tones. So much for staying under the radar. Fully invested in keeping the kid's attention off of her son, she fixed him in a full on glare.

When he lowered his gun, she knew she pushed him too far. Winnie could no longer swallow the dryness in her throat as she fully realized her mistake. With her gone, who would watch after him until her husband got back?

The kid's eyes narrowed and then without warning he began laughing. "Nah, that's alright. We got all night and the fun's just starting. Don't worry, Ma'am – you'll get to play later when the kids are gone." He taunted over his shoulder as he sauntered back to the couch. With his eyes locked on her, he made a complete circle around the prone man.

She knew – she knew – that he was well aware of what he was doing, playing on conflicting emotions of guilt and relief. She may have succeeded to where it may not be her son experiencing the torment, but she just shifted the burden on the shoulders of a dying man. How could she live with herself after this, if she lived after this at all? If Burton were awake right now, he would be horrified. He would gladly have accepted the treatment in his friend's stead. Knowing this, why couldn't she bring herself to speak up even now? She tried – oh, how she tried. Again and again her mouth would open, but no words would form. Instead, she sank further into despair over her inability to take action.

Had the scenario been less dire, Henry could have taken a measure of pride in his work. He and Bill Guster had shown their taskmasters just how much men of their years could accomplish by performing as much work in a half hour as the previous crew had completed over the course of an evening. He supposed it wouldn't hurt to give them some pointers. Just because they were lawless didn't mean they couldn't learn a few trade skills. They simply didn't have a clue that he would see to it they had a bright future ahead…stamping license plates. Assuming, of course, that they lived that long.

Grunty and Pointy (as he had nicknamed them) once again grunted and pointed, indicating they were supposed to head back towards the van. As they made their way back across the field, conflicting emotions warred within; relief that the hard, physical task was done - uncertainty of what they would find when they returned…if they returned. As far as Henry knew, they had served their purpose and no longer had any reason for being left alive. That understanding just didn't sit well with him.

He needed a plan and he needed one fast.

The decline in Shawn's condition was frightening. Though she couldn't see the rise of his chest signaling breath, she could hear the wheezing that accompanied each.

"Hey buddy – how you doin'?"

The inquiry was not spoken in concern, as evidenced by the manic, almost giddy, laugh that followed. Any other doubt was put to rest as the kid proceeded to poke Shawn mercilessly. He laughed louder as his continual torment finally registered a response from the unconscious man.

At Shawn's groan of pain, Winnie felt a white-hot swell of anger surge within her. If an opportunity ever existed for a volunteer army to rise up and put Shawn Spencer in his place, she would proudly admit hers would be the first foot to cross the proverbial line in the sand. That was her right, not this pathetic excuse for a punk human being. Shawn may not have had a proper upbringing, in her opinion, but her son thought the world of him. She had history with him. To see him being mistreated this way caused a bubble of maternal instinct to form and grow and spill over into something reminiscent of pure, bruin rage.

'It's now or never'

Winnie quietly made her way over to the mantelpiece, eyeing the fireplace for anything of use. Cautiously, she reached up and gently grasped the brass candlestick, relieved at the heft of the piece. Slowly, she advanced on the captor as he continued to delight himself by poking endlessly at his helpless victim. Privately, she was grateful for the resulting groans; they steeled her resolve to take action and end this, once and for all.

In one fluid movement, one that would make her daddy proud, she brought the garage sale special down on the unprotected head – dropping him instantly.

She should have foreseen the consequences as he fell heavily onto the very man she had sought to protect. The cry was harsh and sharp, the mist glistening in his eyes matching her own. Ironically, the previous torment served to draw him to the surface just so he could be fully aware of the pain induced as a result of her intervention. There wasn't time for guilt, though.

It's for his own good.

Life is hard, painful, and unfair.

When this is over, I'll bake him cookies.

That resolute promise did the trick, bringing her back to action. Motherhood required her to make tough decisions, sometimes being forced into the role of the bad guy for the greater good. This was such a time.

With a grunt of effort, she managed to pull the now unconscious man off of the couch. Her efforts had been gentle, desperately trying to minimize further injury to the struggling figure trapped underneath. Once the thug had cleared the edge of the cushion, an unrestrained shove plummeted him – none too gently – to the floor. The dull slap of boneless meat on hardwood satisfied her baser instincts. Tomorrow, these feelings would likely disturb and frighten her. Tomorrow was tomorrow; right here and now, Winnie reveled in relief. It was time to get her boys some help.

She quickly stepped over the body on the floor, if she happened to accidently grind her heel onto exposed fingers…well, accidents happen. Offering another prayer of thanks, she kneeled next to her son's chair. He was already starting to wake up, but a little gentle expedition was necessary.

"Burton!" No response prompted her to take his face in her hands, turning him to meet her gaze. Finally, he seemed to register her presence. "Burton, I need your help. We have to go. Come on now."

With slow progress she assisted him to his feet as she offered words of encouragement. Unsteady as those feet may be, with every step he grew slightly stronger. Besides, there was just no way she could do this on her own. She had to have help. Her ultimate goal was to leave this house and make their way to a hospital. With two wounded charges in her care, her expectations would have to be downgraded and tackled piecemeal. Baby step number one; get to the couch. After that happened, she would figure out what baby step number two would be.

Winnie helped Gus ease himself against the arm of the couch, allowing him to rest and regroup. She gently lowered herself onto the edge of the cushions. Slowly, she smoothed back sweaty tendrils from the heated forehead.

"Wake up, Shawn. It's all over." The words were spoken gently, but with a firm undertone offering no other option. Shawn's eyes fluttered before finally remaining open.

"It's r-really over?" Cold shivers gripped him as he blinked heavily, trying to make sense of his surroundings.

"That's right, honey. Can you get up?" It may have been a question, but she gave him no time to respond. Instead, she lifted herself up and pivoted on her heel before bending to swing Shawn's legs over the edge, resting gently on the floor. His piercing cries of pain tore through her, making her repeated apologies feel trivial. She wasn't a lazy or uninitiated woman in any way. But her normal activities didn't lend themselves towards lifting bodies heavier than herself with ease. It took a lot of effort as she took on the role of primary lifter. As gently as possible, she eased her arm under his back and supported him as Burton helped pull. Slowly, they got him relatively upright. She only allowed the boys a minute to recover. It wasn't enough; Lord knows they needed more, but that was all she could give them. They had to make it out of the house if they had any chance at all.

Even slower, the trio made their way through the darkened house and out onto the driveway. Every bit of ground gained hard won in the battle of shuffling one foot in front of the other. She knew Shawn was trying. For every footfall he proved on his own, they dragged him three as his legs would entangle themselves. Every time he would catch his foot, usually on his other leg, he couldn't hold back the groan as he jarred himself sharply.

A thousand apologies divided between herself and her son at the agony they caused and they finally made it to the drive. She steered them straight for the Cutlass. Awkwardly and with no shortage of pained grunts all the way around, she and Burton managed to get Shawn lain down in the backseat.

The bluish, fluorescent lighting cast hard shadows through the car. Winnie strained her eyes as she fumbled with her keys, finally finding the familiar key. Wasting no more time, she rammed the metal in the ignition and gave it a harsh turn.

Nothing.

Again and again, she cranked the ignition in desperation.

"Dad did fill up the tank, right?" Burton muttered from his position, resting his forehead against the cool window glass.

She nodded roughly. "You know he did. Your father never runs the car past three quarters of a tank. Where does Henry keep his keys?"

Her son looked at her in confusion before finally catching up with the conversation. "Umm, I don't know. Why?"

"We'll take his truck."

"Desk…drawer." The weakened voice from behind could barely be heard over her pulse thumping in her ears.

"Shawn!" At least her son was showing that much awareness.

"Which drawer, Shawn?" Her tone was clipped and fast, urging him to a fast answer.

"Desk…by back door…mmmmmm…right side."

A bloodied hand thrust through the suddenly opened driver's side door, jangling a keyring just under her nose.

"These keys?"

She thought the maniacal laughter would haunt her dreams for years to come.