The continuation of the shiteth hiteth the fan. A smallish chapter (for this fic) again – but it would have been too big all together with the last chapter.

Chapter 10

Tim frowned at the phone as he heard the familiar, but empty voice saying that now familiar phrase '...not available right at this moment. Please leave me a message and I will get right back to you.' "It's me – again," he added as he stepped out of the elevator, glancing through the doors at Amabel's desk and finding it empty. "Ring me will you – just so that I don't panic and send out the 101st Airborne looking for you."

Raylan quirked an eyebrow. "She standing you up?"

"Maybe," admitted Tim. "She was hiking in Harlan though – cell signal is patchy at best."

"I'm sure that's it," grinned Raylan and opened the door to the bullpen, letting Tim precede him through the door.

Rachel looked up with a smile and took the coffee Tim held out to her. "So how is Winston?" he asked, letting Raylan slip past him into his cubicle before moving around to his own to place his cup of coffee on his table. He took Art's cup out of the tray, noticing a folder on his desk with a post-it note emblazoned with 'The info you wanted. A'. He missed half a step as he realised what it was, but dropped the tray into the bin and walked towards the Chief's office.

"Deputy Raylan Givens," yelled a voice from the door. Everyone looked up at the tall and broad man standing in the doorway, every inch of his dark suit and sunglasses proclaiming him as government agent.

"Here," called Raylan, turning back from placing his hat in its customary position. "Can I help you?"

"You can tell me the hell why you're interfering with an FBI investigation," snarled the man, followed by a much shorter, but similarly dressed man.

Danny and Arnie Tim dubbed them, being reminded of the movie (1), stepping out of the way nimbly as Art marched out of his office towards the group and following at a more relaxed pace, still with Art's coffee in his hand.

Raylan was holding out his hands innocently, leaning back in his chair. "I have no idea what you're talking about."

"Don't give me that shit!" yelled Arnie, incensed by the attitude and holding up a handful of file. "We have your name on the search for The Serpent Marshal," he sneered. "And the internet trace on the Arnold's website brought up an IP address in this building – are you going to pretend it wasn't you?" he demanded.

Tim stiffened marginally even as Raylan looked over with a laugh and happened to meet his eyes. Half a moment went past then Raylan stood, smiling and holding his hands out. "You caught me I guess."

"Since when the hell is assassination and money laundering under the purview of the Marshal's Service?" shouted Arnie.

"Since when is it acceptable to come into my damn office and yell at my marshals?" demanded Art as he came up next to Arnie, Tim having recovered himself to be at his shoulder.

"Who the fuck are you?" demanded Arnie turning around.

"I am the fucking Chief Deputy US Marshal of this office," returned Art with spirit. "Who the fuck are you?"

Arnie recovered his composure. "Special Agent Weatherby," he said in a stiff tone. "This is Special Agent Rudic," he indicated his colleague and with almost synchronised motions they flashed their credentials. "Of the Federal Bureau of Investigation – New York office."

"Well I don't know how they do things in New York Special Agent Weatherby," started Art in his you've-pissed-me-off-asshole voice. "But here in Kentucky we actually ask permission of the Chief before we bawl out one of his Deputies. There are few privileges associated with this job and I guard each one of them jealously."

Weatherby frowned in confusion as Art glared at him, flicking his eyes to Tim who was smirking and Raylan who had snorted, and glanced at Rudic. "My apologies Chief," he started in a more reasonable voice. "There has however been a gross attack on the jurisdiction on two of FBI's longest running cases and if they have been compromised in any manner – I will have someone's head on a platter."

"That's another one of the perks," stated Art casually. "Now – why don't you step into my office and you can discuss it? Raylan – perhaps you'd care to join us?" he suggested with a raised brow.

The FBI agents followed the chief with Raylan slouching behind them – Tim followed and manoeuvred his way to Art's desk to place the coffee cup on the table. "Thanks Tim – if you could..." Art blinked at the arms crossed across Tim's chest as he leaned on the corner of the lounge "wait just over there," he changed his words mid stream. "Raylan, if you could," he blinked again as Rachel deftly ducked under Raylan's arm and found a spot next to Tim "shut the door." He sighed and indicated the two seats in front of his table for the two FBI agents, reaching for his coffee and sitting down at his own chair: Raylan closed the door and moved to the side of Art's desk. "Now – if you wouldn't mind telling me why the FBI has come into my office this morning?"

"On Saturday night Deputy Givens," Weatherby gave Raylan a glare, much to Raylan's amusement, "initiated a search for The Serpent."

"The Serpent?" repeated Rachel with half a laugh throwing a glance at Tim. Her eyes narrowed when she didn't get the answering smile she was expecting and she took a glance over at Raylan, finding that he too was watching Tim carefully.

"Did you do such a search Raylan?" asked Art with half a grin.

"Not to my knowledge," returned Raylan casually, leaning back against the wall and waiting to see where this went. He was becoming very interested in Tim's reactions.

"So what is "The Serpent"?" asked Art, punctuating his voice with the inverted commas.

"The Serpent is the code name for one of the most dangerous contract killers in the northern American continent," returned Weatherby, picking up one of the files from the table. He saw the reaction of Art and Raylan. "So you do know about her?"

"Probably not as much as you think," replied Art, making his own conclusions about the look on Raylan's face. "Why don't you tell us," he invited, "who is she?"

"She's a violent contract killer," replied Weatherby, and lifted up a thin manila folder and handed it over to Art, who leant back into his chair a little and opened it up. Raylan moved to put himself behind him and looked over his shoulder. "We estimate that she has about one hundred kills, she stabs them, poisons them, bashes them to death, shoots them. There isn't a method of killing that isn't in her resume."

Tim reached forward over Weatherby's shoulder and picked up the other, much larger folder. "That's the Arnold file," said Rudic, reaching for it, but Tim just nodded and leant back against the window, opening it. Rachel flashed a glance to Raylan, received a raised brow in return and leant closer to look over Tim's forearm when he didn't immediately lower it to a better height for her.

"So why hasn't the Marshal Service ever heard of this "The Serpent"?" quizzed Art after a momentary pause, and flicked through the rather gruesome photos within the file, Raylan pulling faces behind him.

"Because we have nothing on her," replied Weatherby in some disgruntlement. "And I mean nothing. Everyone knows she exists – she's like the boogyman story that criminals tell their kids – rat on your pops and The Serpent will come and get you (2)."

Art cocked an eyebrow at Raylan; Raylan just smirked back then glanced up at Tim expecting to see an answering smile, but found instead that he was busy reading the file in his hands as if it was the new best selling fantasy novel.

"But we have nothing on what she looks like," continued Weatherby, oblivious to the byplay in front of him. "She doesn't leave anyone alive to tell the tale – we have no fingerprints, no DNA, nothing."

"So to ask the obvious question," said Raylan. "How do you know that she is a she. I can't image that there are too many hitwomen out there," he tipped his eyes up to check for a reaction – nothing, not even a twitch of a smile at his own words being used, still reading.

"She left two witnesses alive about five years ago," replied Weatherby sourly. He forestalled the next obvious question even as Raylan's mouth opened. "One was five years old and the other one was her blind grandmother. All we got out of them was a French accent, soft step and a smell of freesias. The little girl said she had a scary picture of a snake on her ankle."

Tim heard Raylan's response to that through a fog as he focused hard on the file in front of him. It was all there – everything she'd told him; how Tony Arnold had emigrated from Australia to Canada after finishing his teaching degree, taught art for years at a small school and worked his way up to head master. It documented his occasional trips to Australia while his SASR soldier brother was alive, the amounts of money that he had sent to Australia after his death in a training accident. It detailed how he'd resigned while still relatively young and opened a successful printing shop in Toronto, taken in his niece when his sister in law had died, how the business's success had all but exploded and how he had opened a printing shop in New York which his son ran. Then there were the bits that she hadn't mentioned – the allegations of false identity papers that had been with him since his teaching days, the money laundering through the printing shops, the money counterfeiting (foreign currency mostly so there was little interest from the Secret Service); the drugs and the protection business that ran from the New York office; the assassinations.

He turned the page to the next section of the file and stared at the large glossy photo. She was walking in front of her uncle; there were other figures behind him that were out of focus – whoever had taken the photo was concentrating on her. She was dressed elegantly, slacks and a purple tailored blouse only partially covered by a suit jacket; her hair wrapped in a loose bun at the top of her head. There was no sign of a gun, but just from how she held herself, the way her eyes were focused, he knew she carried one on her hip – and he felt stupid. He'd sensed it, the way she handled herself, the way she didn't even blink when he held a gun to her face, the way she moved – he'd just been so blinded with lust that he hadn't allowed himself to suspect. In the cold light of day now it was all so blindingly obvious. The woman that he'd slept with was an assassin, possibly out to kill his partner.

"Tim!" he started as the almost shout and Rachel's soft touch to his arm finally penetrated and looked up, finding Art was holding out his hand for the file and that Rachel was looking at him curiously.

"She's something isn't she," smirked Rudic, reaching for the file and noticing the page he was on. "You can't imagine what hardship it was to follow her around all day," he nudged Tim with a wink. He looked up and took half a step backwards at the hostility in Tim's eyes.

"Who is she?" intervened Rachel, managing to step firmly on Tim's toe as she took the file out of his hand and stepped past Rudic. She looked at the woman in the picture with some curiosity before handing over the file to Art and accepted the other one in return, stepping back (in between Tim and agent Rudic) to open it and very aware of Tim's eyes over her shoulder.

"Tony Arnold's niece – Marion," Rudic continued in an instructive tone after a pause in which he convinced himself that he'd seen nothing more than a mocking glint in Tim's eyes and Weatherby sat back. "A little domestic disaster (3) if ever there was one. Army brat – her father was in the Australian special forces, died in a training accident when she was ten. Mother went off the rails then – drugs, shoplifting and prostitution. Girl followed her for a bit – only went to school to get suspended, got lifted for all sorts of minor crimes; shoplifting, break and enter, affray, drug related stuff. Mother never got her out of trouble, it was always Sergeant this or occasionally Colonel that who bailed her out. Mother got put away for some time when she was about thirteen – court ordered her put into foster care, but the Regiment closed ranks – literally took her into the barracks until the mother was out. She straightened out from then – the mother was in an out of gaol until her death – the kid spent more time in the training field than anywhere else except maybe school. She's a smart little cookie, up in the top five in most subjects – excelled in languages – at last count she can speak five."

"Including French," noted Weatherby ominously.

"She came over to Canada to live with her uncle after her mother died," continued Rudic. "Started to help in the printing business by taking photos for him – crazy stuff, under waterfalls, hanging off cliffs, climbing up to the top of trees – he printed them directly and made a fortune. He opened a business in New York, same sort of thing, and sent his son Craig to run it. She helps out there occasionally but for the main she stays with her uncle in Toronto."

"And why is Miss Arnold a concern to the FBI?" asked Rachel, holding the pages firmly in her hands even though she could feel that Tim had finished reading and was waiting for her to flip over.

"Because she also runs her uncle's security, and has a significant input into her cousin's" answered Rudic, giving her a glance. "Which as you can see," he nodded to Art and Raylan who were looking over the first part of the file, "is a very significant issue."

"How can you have all this on him and they not be behind bars?" demanded Art.

"Because it is all supposition and unsubstantiated," replied Rudic. "We know they're doing it but there is no proof. We have wire taps on their phones, but they change their cells more than once a day, we have a trace on the internet sites, we watch their accounts – they just doesn't make mistakes." The agent's frustration was palpable.

"So what does Miss Arnold do – as part of the security?" asked Raylan, glancing once at Tim and Rachel, reading the other file. Tim was almost on top of Rachel, his hands were clenching on his forearms as he waited with poorly disguised impatience for Rachel to turn the page.

"Outwardly? Close security for her uncle mostly," replied Rudic. "She's sixth dan in ninjutsu, teaches classes once a month in Toronto but doesn't compete. She holds a Class D gun license in Australia – must have accessed it through her military contacts – and the Canadians recognise it (4) so she carries a handgun around Toronto. She shoots regularly at a local range; we suspect very well but her scores are never recorded. She has no gun license here in the States and we've had in the lockup on a couple of occasions – she always refuses to talk to us, has a sleep in the cell until her uncle's lawyers have made mince meat of the arrest and she gets out. But she does also design his overall strategy – she is the one who interviews the household and shop staff, she arranges the flights when he comes to New York to visit Craig, she choreographs his routes to and from work. She put together Craig's team and takes point whenever she is in New York. She's killed three people but the Canadian system judged them as self defence – which," he admitted grudgingly, "they may well have been."

"So perhaps you can see Chief why we are so interested in the fact that someone from the Kentucky Marshal's office has shown interest in both these files at almost the same time?" Weatherby leaned forward. "The thought that Marion Arnold could be The Serpent is a tantalising possibility."

"Well I can imagine that such a possibility would get you a little hard," agreed Art and closed the file. "However I don't think any of my Marshals can help you – can you?" he looked at Raylan who shook his head.

"But – you did a search for The Serpent," protested Weatherby.

"I did a search for a French red head with a snake tattoo," replied Raylan precisely. "On the information of someone I should have known better to listen to."

"Who?"

"Boyd Crowder," replied Art. "You'll have a file. Local kingpin down in Harlan and Raylan's sometime friend, sometimes enemy."

"Not sure which one at the moment," added Raylan helpfully. "He suggested that she might be taking a shot at me."

Weatherby frowned. "Any idea why?"

"Oh Raylan has a wide and varied list of people he has pissed off," said Art cheerfully, ignoring the wounded look Raylan gave him. "Hell – it could be Crowder himself!"

"They would have to be connected and be well resourced to be able to afford The Serpent," observed Weatherby. "I'm going to need to talk to this Crowder."

"Be my guest – be sure to let him know where you got his name," smiled Art. "Amanda..."

"Amabel," corrected Rachel.

"Amabel up at that front desk can give his address," finished Art, standing as Agent Weatherby stood.

"Now just wait a minute," exclaimed Agent Rudic, still seated. "None of that explains the internet search on the Arnolds."

Art glanced at Raylan and received a wide eyed look. His own soured but he turned back to Rudic, "maybe someone just checking out the calendars for sale?" he suggested, moving past Raylan and opening the door. "There were some pretty pictures there."

"I can trace that IP address further," said Rudic in a threatening tone.

Art gave him a smile. "You do that then why don't you – let me know so I can put my own order in."

Left with no-where to go, except out the door, the two agents did so, Weatherby with a sense of purpose and Rudic unhappily.

Art watched as they paused at Amabel's desk and gave her a nod when she looked his way. "No," he said as Raylan made a move towards the door. "You can wait just there." They waited in silence for another few moments while the FBI agents were given the information, then Art gave them a wave as they went out the outer door. He waited another couple of moments then closed his door again. His facial expression changed somewhat and he looked over at Raylan as he opened his drawer and extracted a bottle and a glass, pouring himself a very generous nip and drained it. "Now tell me Raylan that I didn't just lie to our federal colleagues when I said that none of my Marshals know Marion Arnold."

Raylan grimaced.

"When you say 'know'," mused Tim slowly, staring at the ceiling with his head against the window. "Do you mean 'have an understanding of a person' or do you mean in more a biblical sense?"

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(1) Twins

(2) The Usual Suspects

(3) Walter Goggins' line in the Bourne Identity

(4) Have no idea – but Australians and Canadians generally get on well (the whole part of the monarchy but not really thing I suppose) so let's just run with it.