I walk through the valley of the shadow of death
I fear no evil cause I'm blind to it all
My mind and my gun they comfort me
Because I know I'll kill my enemies when they come

-Through the Valley by Shawn James

The drive to the national forest is only about two hours but it feels like it takes a lifetime. Raylan speeds down the twisting corridor of I-75 with his foot pressed against the accelerator and a reckless look in his eyes. It's a beautiful drive,the highway surrounded by green forest on either sides, and the sky is blue apart from the occasional puffy white cloud but the anxious pit in Raylan's stomach keeps him from seeing any of it. Instead he focuses on the grey tarmac ahead of him and the time blinking on the stereo of his car. It's been 26 hours now. 26 hours, and he doesn't know what he's going to do if this is a dead end.

He doesn't know why he even cares so much. Of course if any co worker was in danger he would do his best to find them, or if any person was for a matter of fact. That's his job, it's who he is. But it goes deeper now then he imagined it would. There's fear, real and visceral and driving in the pit of his stomach. He doesn't know when Tim became more then just a co worker, became more then just somebody he exchanged snarky comments with in the morning. But he did become more, he became a friend and a partner and somebody Raylan truly trusts and respects and there are few of those people in the world, few enough that the thought of losing one of them sits like an iron weight in Raylan's chest.

And he never really thought about the fact that he was drawing closer to the orbit of Tim's life. Never thought about how he slowly started to care. Even as he picked up the call from the bartender and drove two counties over to save Tim from an ass kicking, even as he threw a blanket over his shoulders, even as he sat and just listened to the pain the younger man tried to hide. It had always just been the right thing to do, and so Raylan had done it without pause. But beyond that, he realizes now, he did it because he didn't like to see the pain Tim was in. Because he felt for him, not pity because he hated pity, but empathy because Raylan understood what he was feeling. Not perfectly, not completely, but enough. He understood enough to not want Tim to be alone. And now Tim is alone, alone with men who want something and will do anything to get it. Raylan's been around the block, he's seen up close and personal what gets left behind when men like them want something and it's not pretty. He refuses to let Tim be something left behind in the wake of human cruelty and greed, he owes him that much. He ignores the voice in the back of his head that all the determination in the world sometimes isn't enough.

His thoughts are interrupted by the crunch of plastic and glass under the tires of his car. He looks into the rearview mirror quick enough to see the remains of what looks like a taillight growing small on the highway behind him. There's a shock of something in his spine, because maybe this might just be somebody who put off going to the mechanics for a little to long, but maybe this might be the first tangible trace of Tim they've found since he disappeared. Maybe this is hope.

Maybe 30 minutes after Raylan passes the crushed taillight the GPS in his car instructs him to take exit 75, which Raylan does. For a while he drives through a rural area, green fields dotted with small houses and barns and the occasional cow. He passes a barbeque house and an elementary school before he hits a sign that reads in large white (albeit peeling) letters 'Welcome to McCreary County' after another 10 minutes of the same scenery Raylan decides he hates McCreary County. Eventually though the houses become few and far between and are replaced with trees, small at first but growing in size and density the farther Raylan drives. The next sign is smaller, and this one reads simply "Entering Daniel Boone National Forest". Now the road is enclosed on either side by towering green trees, the only break in the forest the occasional dirt or gravel turn offs. He passes a few of these before he eventually reaches the one he's looking for. He pulls over, tires bouncing as they leave the paved service of the road and kills the engine. Glancing at the GPS he sees the cabin is only about two miles up the gravel lane from where he os. He figures the element of surprise is one of the few things he has on his side right now and driving a car up to their door probably wouldn't help with that. Opening his glove box and pulling out his gun which he slides into it's holster on his hip Raylan adjusts his hat and steps out of his car, closing the door behind him. His feet crunch and shift on the gravel of the drive, and the sun filters down through the canopy of leaves casting shifting patterns on the ground. Pulling out his phone Raylan shoots a quick text off to Rachel to let her know he's here before setting off up the hill. As he walks he tries to tell himself he is not afraid of what he will find, but the truth is he is.

Tim wakes to cold water splashed in his face. He doesn't remember falling asleep, just pain and pain and then nothing. He jerks, body seizing involuntarily out of the chair he's in till he's stopped by the tape securing him to it. Spitting water out of his mouth and blinking his eyes to clear them he shakes himself until he jars his hand and then he freezes as agony comes rushing in. It's sharp and vibrant and overwhelming like the blade of knife and for a few seconds his vision goes dark and it's all he can focus on. He doesn't scream though, doesn't give them that. Finally he manages to get the pain under control, taking short quick breaths air hissing between his clenched teeth. Swallowing hard he looks up to see Brian standing in front of him with an empty bucket and a mean smile on his face.

"Morning sunshine."

He vaguely remembers his mother saying that too him in the early morning light, her face obscured by the gentling mist of time and her voice soft and gentle. Brian's is anything but, the once kind and loving words twisted into something cruel and angry. He shivers, the cold water still trickling down his neck and onto his back.

Luckily Brian doesn't seem to want anything else from him, throwing the bucket to the side and walking away from Tim without a second glance. He disappears down the hallway and Tim hears a door click. He doesn't know how long he was out for, long enough for the sun to rise and cast the bare little room into harsh relief. He feels hazy, disconnected. The world blurs at the edges, almost spinning when he turns his head to fast. His face hurts, his hand hurts. He wishes he could sleep again, he wishes someone would show up to save him. He doesn't think either of those things are going to happen.

He thinks what he hates more then anything is the waiting. When everyone else disappears and leaves him here trapped in this fucking chair with no control, no power over what happens next. Hates the not knowing, the uncertainty. They can do anything they want right now and they know it and he knows it and it makes him sick. But there's nothing he can do so he sits and waits and tries to ignore the dull ache in his hand. He can't see the damage, no matter how far he cranes his neck it remains frustratingly out of sight. He's almost glad, but in the absence of truth his mind creates a series of increasingly horrible visions. He tries carefully wiggling his fingers to try and scope out the extent of the damage but even that sends bolts of lightning shooting up his arm and he bites his lip so hard it bleeds. He doesn't try it again. From what he can tell though he has a few broken fingers, and who knows what other damage. It'll be over a month before his hand is at all useable again, and then months of PT after that if he ever regains full range of motion at all. He almost laughs at his prognosis, this is all if he manages to get out of this alive which he's still not sure he will. All in all this sucks and Tim is ready to go home.

He shifts in the chair, trying to get into a more comfortable position. His shoulders ache from being pulled behind him for what must over 12 hours now. His throat is dry and he can feel his lips starting to crack and his stomach growls. He tries to think of the last time he ate something, he skipped breakfast yesterday morning and dinner the night before had consisted of whiskey and self pity. He tries not to think about what he's going to do if his hand never heals. It feels like such a part of him now, his rifle and his aim and it's just what he does. With out it what use is he really? He's not a bad deputy, but he's average. The thing that sets him apart, the thing that makes him useful, is his aim. His sniper's hands. Without it he's just another average joe going about life as best he can. He'll have no purpose, no release, no reason. He said once "I can't carry a tune. I don't know how to shoot a basketball and my handwriting is uh, barely legible. But I don't miss." and that was true. But now, that might now be anymore, and without that what is he? It's a question he's never thought to ask himself before and not one he has an answer for.

Raylan's sweating. He can feel it trickling down the back of his neck slow and sluggish and salty. He'd cut off the main gravel path in case one of the men came down, instead opting to bushwack his way through the surrounding forest. It's fairly thick foliage and the ground is loose and crumbly beneath his feet. He feels like he's been walking for hours but a quick glance at his watch shows it's only been about 30 minutes. His only guide towards the cabin is occasional glimpses of slate grey gravel through breaks in the trees. The sun is high above him now hanging in the middle of the sky but the air is crisp and cool. The light it sheds is bright but cold and distant.

Eventually Raylan crests a particularly steep rise in the forest and when he reaches the top he sees in front of him a small dingy cabin in a clearing in the forest. Sitting in front of it is a car that matches the one described by Mrs. Tucker, a quick glance at the license plate confirms it is the one she saw. The one that took Tim. He can feel his heart beating heavy in his chest but he writes it off as the strenuous hike. As he's surveying the area the door to the cabin swings open and somebody steps out, Raylan ducks down behind some of the thick shrubbery in front of him, lying flat on the dirt and moss of the forest floor a branch pressed uncomfortably into his chest and the leaves of some small plant brushing against his face. The man rounds the car, coming close to Raylan's hiding place and he recognizes him from the grainy photo pinned to the board in the office as Hector Valdez. He's on the phone with somebody, head down and face intent. Raylan's too far to hear what he's saying but from his expression and body language it's not a conversation that's going well. He moves past Raylan, wandering slowly down the drive and Raylan lets out a breath he didn't realize he was holding. Once Valdez is out of sight Raylan rises to a crouch and staying behind the first layer of trees makes his way around towards the back of the cabin. Once he reaches what seems to be the back end he cautiously leaves the cover of the bushs, keeping low to the ground and sprinting across the open area between the forest and the cabin. Once he reaches the wall he slides along it till he's next to the window that's set in the center. Taking a deep breath he eases himself up until he can peer over the window sill and into the interior of the cabin.

Inside, sitting taped to a chair is Tim. Alive, and in one piece is Tim. Raylan's heart skips a beat. 29 hours since Tim was lost, 29 hours alone, 29 hours and still alive. Raylan looks him over as best he can from his vantage. His head is hanging down, face obscured, but Raylan can see what looks like blood stains down the front of his shirt and it makes his jaw tighten. A noise in the house gets Tim's attention and his head jerks up, looking to the left at something Raylan can't see. He get's a good look at Tim's face now and wishes he hadn't. It's purple and blue all over, there's more bruised skin then not and there are deep bags beneath his eyes and lines of pain in his face. He looks like he's been hit by a truck. Another man walks into the room, back turned towards the window and stands in front of Tim. He starts to speak, voice muffled by the glass and wood but obviously angry. The man's voice grows louder and louder and then when he's obviously yelling he reaches behind him hand disappearing under the baggy t-shirt he's wearing and when it appears again he's holding a Smith & Wesson 9MM. He shifts on his feet, a little to the right and reveals a tight lipped Tim with the gun half pointed at his chest

Automatically Raylan's hand goes to his side and he pulls his own weapon, releasing the safety. He keeps his eyes on the situation inside though, carefully watching the unknown man's finger drift towards the trigger of his gun, watches as he sways on his feet nervously. Tim's saying something now, Raylan can see his lips moving but no sound echoes in his ears. It's like watching a film on mute, trapped on the outside of the TV screen and guessing at the plot. What exactly is going inside Raylan isn't sure of but it isn't good that much is clear. The gun is making it's way up now, from Tim's stomach to his neck till it's at the same level as his face. Tim isn't talking anymore, his eyes flicking back and forth from his captor to the gun in front of him quicker and quicker.

Raylan knows there's a choice to be made here, and normally he doesn't have trouble with those but for some reason now he is. Maybe it's because this isn't just any situation, Tim's life is riding on the line here and that's a heavy weight to carry. For whatever reason he's uncertain. He stays there, crouched by the window with his gun in his hand and wavers and watches and feels his heart pound in his chest.

In the end though, he doesn't have a choice. In the end there never was one. It all happens in the blink of the eye, no time for weighing outcomes or rational decisions it's just thought and instinct and years of training. Something shifts in the man, his shoulders tense he stops swaying and yelling. Raylan can feel a decision being made inside. The mans finger goes for the trigger intent clear and in that moment Tim looks outside and his eyes lock with Raylan's and there is no choice when he sees the fear and more frighteningly the resignation in those eyes. Before he knows what's happened he's standing and pulling the trigger. His glock fires with a crack and the man inside crumples, red spreading across his back like a splash of paint in water.

Still acting half on instinct and adrenaline Raylan grabs his gun by the barrel and smashes the window in with the stock before clambering into the cabin. He feels glass slice the palm of his hand but barely registers the pain. He's barely inside before a second man rushes into the small room gun raised. Raylan gets him twice, once in the neck and once in the upper chest and he drops, hands clutching at the bleeding wound in his throat. He chokes and writhes and finally stills eyes wide and blank. All in all it takes maybe 60 seconds from the first man to go for his trigger to the second to die on the dirty brown carpet. There's a moment of silence before Tim's voice cuts through it.

"Well I see you aren't going for the subtle approach now are you."'

Raylan turns, lips pulled into a smirk and gun still in his hand

"No offense Tim, but you look like shit."

Tim grins and spits out a string of bloody saliva, letting his head thump against the back of his chair.

"You should see the other guy."

"Well the thing is Tim, I'm lookin' at two of them right now and they seem to be pretty okay to me. Aside from the whole being dead part."

Tim looks down at Raylan again and god, he's never been so glad to see Raylan's cowboy hat before not that he'd ever let him know.

"It was a bit of an unfair fight I'll admit."

"Oh, is that what you call being taped to a chair and beaten to a pulp? A bit of an unfair fight?"

Tim lets out a short laugh and immediately wishes he hadn't.

"I had them right where I wanted them."

Raylan raises an eyebrow.

"Of course you did."

It's funny because Tim doesn't know how to feel right at the moment. He'd imagined this moment over and over while he'd been stuck in this cabin but now it's here he's not sure whether he wants to laugh or cry. A minute ago he'd been certain he was going to die alone and unsure in this cabin and he'd accepted it and now Raylan's here and he's going to live and the whole thing leaves him feeling off center.

Raylan's moving toward him now, holstering his gun and starting to kneel at Tim's side.

"We need to go, Valdez probably heard the shots."

He reaches down towards the tape around Tim's wrists and Tim flinches away instinctively. Raylan looks up confusion on his face.

"My hand… Just be careful with my hand."

Raylan looks back down and Tim can see the exact moment Raylan sees it. His face tightens and his eyebrows draw together, expression stormy. He looks up again and there's no more confusion on his face just anger.

"Jesus, Tim, what did they do?"

"There was a hammer."

Raylan shakes his head and swears low and hard.

"Those fuckers"

He reaches back down to Tim's wrists and despite the anger in his voice his hands are gentle. Tim winces a little letting out a hiss as Raylan bumps his right hand and he feels broken bones shift and grind. Raylan flinches, pulling his hands back and letting them hover hesitantly near Tim's. Tim gives him a small nod, urging him on. Raylan returns to work and Tim grits his teeth and rides out the pain. After of a few seconds of fiddling Raylan swears again and shakes his head.

"I can't get it loose. I need a knife or something."

Tim gestures with his chin towards Brian's still body.

"He should have one. Check his back pockets."

Raylan nods and moves over rummaging through the dead man's pockets and producing a knife. He flicks the blade out and starts to turn to face Tim, standing as he does. He's about halfway to standing when Tim glances over his shoulder out the window. He expects to see trees and grass and sky but instead he sees the blank face of Hector Valdez with a gun pointed squarely at Raylan's back. It's a strange parody of earlier when he had looked out the same window to see Raylan's face peeking over the sill and for a second he's frozen stricken by the oddity of the moment. Then time jerks back into motion with brutal efficiency.

"Raylan behind you!"

Raylan looks behind him, throwing his body to the right as he does and twisting his torso around to face the window gun already drawn. There's the report of a pistol and then a second later another, the sounds echoing around the small cabin. Valdez drops disappearing to the ground outside with a neat hole in his forehead and then Raylan hits the floor awkwardly on his back with a soft thud. For a second the cabin is silent except for the sound of Raylan's short breaths and then he lets out a long sigh and sits himself up. His hat had fallen off during the action and he picks it up from the ground next to him, brushing it off lightly and placing it back on his head before pushing himself to his feet. Holstering his weapon for the second time he starts to turn to Tim again,

"Well holy shit…"

The words die in his mouth though as he completes his turn trailing off to nothing. There's a look in his eyes Tim's never seen before, a look of true fear and shock and uncertainty. His gaze is locked somewhere beneath Tim's face, on his torso. There's suddenly a sick feeling in Tim's stomach, a feeling that something's very very wrong. Still Raylan is silent, Tim wants to ask what's the matter but suddenly he's afraid what the answer is going to be. Has a feeling he already knows what it is.

Slowly, carefully, Tim looks down.