Thanks Jen and ArodLoverus2001 for your 'anonymous' reviews – glad you're enjoying it.

Chapter 25

"So what exactly happened out there last night?" demanded Art from the door of his office as they walked into the bullpen.

"Mission went Fubar," replied Tim, dropping his gun and badge onto his desk as he sat down somewhat gingerly. The stiffness in his body had been starting to ebb away, but his torso was a myriad of different colours from the varying bruises that were coming out from the fight and his muscles were complaining. His knuckles too were scraped and bruised; he wasn't looking forward to any typing today.

"Well gosh Tim," said Art as he walked towards them. "I sort figured that one out for myself. Given that SWAT attended a large warehouse late in the evening based on numerous panicked calls regarding a mass massacre by automatic weapons. Helpfully, someone had apparently mentioned our name so they called me to assist with identifying the two bodies that they encountered."

"It's a good thing that Rachel rang to tell you that we were all alive then," observed Raylan, trying Tim thought to burst the Chief's balloon before he got too carried away.

"I don't know that I would use the term 'good' in any way, shape or form around this series of events," snarked Art. "I might add that I am definitely removed from the AUSA David Vasquez's Christmas card list. He was good enough to swing past my house this morning on his way to the gym to make that point clear to me."

"To be fair," Raylan held up his hand.

"It wasn't her fault," inserted Tim and Raylan waved an arm in his direction. By the time her tears had expended themselves they had both been cold and Tim had lost the feeling in one leg. They had sat there for another ten minutes though, finding comfort if not sufficient warmth in the embrace and it had only been her shiver that had made them move. They had warmed up together in a shower full of soft kisses and soft touches before heading out to join the others

"She had him Art," added Raylan as Art gave Tim a baleful glance. "He was coming in."

"But….?" Art prompted.

"Someone didn't like that idea," shrugged Raylan. "Maybe his partner?"

"This makes no sense to me," complained Art. "How did Bond know that Tim was going to be there?"

"He didn't," said Raylan. "He knew Marion was going to be there."

"It was a trap for Miss Arnold?" Art blinked, glancing at Tim.

"Not exactly," Tim shook his head. After the shower Marion had dressed in her own clothes and gone out the back; even if his colleagues would have allowed him to he wouldn't have followed her. He knew that she needed her own space to contemplate and recover after her emotional release, knowing that if he tried to hold onto her she would run. She had returned with her shield of cold professionalism around her and they had talked about what happened over a late dinner. It had only been later that she had actually spoken to him; her voice had been quiet as she had told him about being introduced to the Arnold 'stable' of 'assets', of meeting the old Pommy poofter (1) and feeling annoyed when her uncle had paired them together for the complicated mission involving simultaneous targets. How he had just been amused at her arrogance (after three successful kills) and had all but snapped her in two when she had been stupid enough to have a go at him. How he'd taught her things during two weeks of continuous contact and how they had celebrated together once the hits had been made (and he had called her a prude). How he had often eaten with her and her uncle when he had been in Toronto, or met them at some of the closer fight nights, how he had taught her how to cook when she had visited his house whenever they had both been in Los Angeles. "Bond knew that Marion's uncle would know about the fights; he set a trap on the presumption that she would be there."

Art nodded. "So Tim sort of got in the way a bit.

"Fubar for all concerned," acknowledged Raylan. "I don't suppose SWAT found the other shooter?"

Art just gave him a glance. Snowflake's thought Tim.

"Identification on Mr Bond's shooter?" asked Rachel.

"Not as yet, and probably not likely," Art rubbed at his head. "There wasn't enough left of his face to do a database search, he has no fingerprints and…"

"No fingerprints?" interrupted Raylan, astonishment over-riding distaste.

"Frozen off apparently," Art nodded at the reactions. "So not some normal every day badass – this is the serious type of badass material that we're dealing with now. I'm going to take a wild guess and say that there will be no match on the DNA from the scene."

"What about Mr Bond himself?" asked Rachel.

"Everything as per what Marion told us and a bit more – he was SAS in his youth, multiple actions against the IRA and the Peterhead prison mission," only Tim understood the full significance of that information and his brows rose. "Nothing on his fingerprints or his DNA," replied Art which didn't surprise Tim at all. "Or his weapon." She had said that he was good.

"His phone?" asked Tim.

"He didn't have one," Art said archly, nodding as he saw his own disbelief reflected by his deputies.

"I wonder how much an assassin's little black book goes for these days?" wondered Raylan.

"More than all of us make in our lifetime I would bet," said Art. He looked at his deputies. "You two should go home for some sleep; Tim – I am making a call to a doctor and getting you checked out."

"I'm fine," objected Tim.

"I know you are but I enjoy having a doctor tell me what I already know," shrugged Art. "Almost as much as I enjoy them telling you what you don't want to acknowledge."

The doctor did in fact find the middle ground by agreeing with Tim that he had no serious injuries and that his head hadn't been badly damaged in the fight but insisting that he make himself horizontal for a significant portion of the day. Under pain of having Art lecture him for an equal period of time, Tim reacquainted himself with Art's couch and pushed Art's smile into the stratosphere of smugness by falling asleep within a minute.

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"Co-operation?!"

Raylan's brows rose at the explosion of Art's voice with the opening of the elevator doors. He glanced down at Rachel, who met his gaze with raised eyebrows, adjusted his hat and followed her into the office.

"Ah Raylan," Art greeted him flamboyantly. "Agent Weatherby and Agent Rudic were just here trying to explain the benefits of inter-agency co-operation."

"Generous of them," drawled Raylan, looking around for Tim and noting that Art's door was closed. Must be knocked about if he's sleeping through this he thought.

"Isn't it just," agreed Art with a heavy dose of sarcasm. "I was just about to explain to them how much you enjoyed co-operating with Agent Barkley."

"Oh they were good times," Raylan tossed his hat onto the bench then folded his length into his chair, placing his legs up onto his desk. "But it's Rachel's turn this time; Tim and I don't want to have all the fun."

"We're not here to cause trouble for the US Marshals," interjected Agent Weatherby, his face souring at Raylan's snort. "And we will do whatever we can do to assist with the investigation into the attempt on Deputy Gutterson's life."

"By interrogating Miss Arnold," stated Rachel in her best are-you-shitting-with-me voice.

"Marion Arnold has…" began Agent Rudic imperiously.

"Has nothing to do with this," stated Tim firmly from the Chief's door, his hair tousled from sleep but his eyes piercing as he exchanged a look of loathing with Rudic before lounging his way to his chair.

"You were lured into a trap last night by her uncle," exclaimed Rudic, turning back to Art.

"And how exactly do you know that?" asked Art with narrowed eyes.

Rudic flushed red, a look of chagrin on his face and Agent Weatherby made a slight noise.

"You have a tap on Tim's computer don't you?" realised Raylan.

"So that is the FBI's idea of co-operation is it?" demanded Art expansively, placing his hands on his hips.

"You didn't leave us any other option," snapped Agent Weatherby. "Marion Arnold has been a ghost since the incident in Redbud – she completely vanished and then when she did pop up it was in Toronto only….."

"Where you have no jurisdiction," observed Art helpfully .

"….and now you are preventing the FBI from interviewing her," finished Agent Weatherby sourly.

"You can interview her," shrugged Art. "As soon as this contract over my deputy has been well and truly put to bed."

"You know that she will disappear," complained Weatherby.

"You do know where she lives," Art reminded them. But there she has her uncle and his lawyers thought Raylan. Here she is alone.

"Why are you protecting her?" burst out Rudic. "She's a hired killer, she murders people. She murdered a man in your deputy's backyard!"

"That was self defence," contradicted Raylan. "As testified by a US Marshal."

"So she's screwing you too is she?" snarled Rudic.

Son of a bitch Raylan sat up suddenly, hearing the snap of pencil from his right and a coffee hitting the desk on his left and knowing his colleagues were as put out as he was and Tim was probably only slightly more dangerous. "Son – you had best watch your mouth," drawled Art. "Lest I have to wash it out with soap."

"We just want to talk to Miss Arnold," interjected Agent Weatherby hurriedly, giving his colleague a reproving look.

Raylan watched Art pretending to consider; they had no real justification for keeping Marion away from the FBI and everyone in the room knew it. Any judge wouldn't hesitate to order her detention, Judge Reardon would jump at the chance – the only reason they hadn't so far was probably down to AUSA Vasquez's machinations. "I suppose we could arrange that," allowed Art slowly. "She should be coming in soon anyway. Tim – perhaps you'd give her a call?"

Tim dropped his glare at Rudic to look at Art. Art nodded and after another moment Tim sat back down again, reaching for the phone and dialling the number that she'd given him on the first day. "Hey babe," his voice softened, instinctively Raylan thought, watching as his face relaxed into a smile at whatever her response was. "Ah actually, it would be good if you would come in a touch early? Yeah – we have some friends of yours here. FBI," he added after a pause and his brows lifted at the response. "That would be them yep. OK, see you then." He chuckled and then hung up the phone, lacing his fingers together as he looked up at the Chief and Agent Weatherby. "She'll be along in ten minutes."

"Raylan?" asked Art.

"On it," nodded Raylan and pushed to his feet, reaching around for his hat and placing it as he stepped past his desk. He heard a movement behind him and turned, raising a brow as he saw Agent Rudic prepared to follow him. He raised the other brow to Art and received a clear just go with it. He sighed and headed to the door with Rudic following, turning right to take the stairs rather than the elevator just for the fun of it. Rudic was still catching his breath when they came to the security gates in the front lobby. "Walt," Raylan nodded his head at the security guard.

"Hey Raylan," the guard looked at Agent Rudic with some curiosity but turned back to Raylan. "She coming in again?"

"Yep," Raylan nodded and parked his rear end against one of the benches. "In a few minutes."

"So you like this woman?" asked Rudic as the guard moved away.

"Miss Arnold?" Raylan glanced down at the agent, allowing himself to consider the question. "I do, yes.

"She's a paid killer," protested Rudic.

Raylan shrugged. "We all have our faults," although maybe not quite such a big one. "She saved my life," granted after putting it at risk "and she's here risking hers for Tim." And he loved her which really was the clincher but that wasn't a thought he was prepared to share with the FBI.

"And that absolves her from everything else she has done?" asked Rudic.

Raylan shrugged again. "Maybe not; I'm not the one responsible for those decisions. It means she's ok in my book." He glanced down at the smaller man. "Why do you care about her so much? I thought Tony Arnold was your target?"

"She's the way to get to him," replied Rudic tersely.

"How long have you worked the case?" asked Raylan.

"I was assigned to work under Agent Robert Simpson when I joined the agency eighteen years ago," replied Rudic. "He had a real knack for identifying patterns – I never saw them to begin with but almost all of the time they would pan out. It was he that first identified Tony Arnold's activities, but as an anomaly, a curiosity. He was Australian; most of his activities were in Canada, France – overseas; the stuff in the States was smaller, inconsequential. Then she came and he extended his business into America, installed his son in New York, started up his activities there. Simpson was made lead and he took me with him. We have got close a couple of times, but evidence goes missing, witnesses lose their memory or just vanish." He paused for a moment. "Agent Simpson died four years ago, heart attack in his car."

Something in his voice made Raylan frown. "You think it was Marion."

"I know it was her," snarled Rudic. "Rob was a health and fitness nut, always eating right, he ate salads on stakeouts for Christ sake, ran to work three times a week, cycled the other two and did laps every night. There was no way he had a heart attack – he was given something to make it look like that."

Raylan contemplated him, almost seeing the resentment and hate rolling off him in waves.

"I will see Tony Arnold down before I leave the agency," continued Rudic with real venom, seemingly unaware that Raylan was even there. He straightened, his hand moving his jacket away from his weapon, his eyes on the door. "And his niece."

Raylan turned back towards the front of the building again, for a moment allowing himself to just admire the way that she walked. She was back into the slacks, blouse and jacket again, her hair in a casual twirl since anything else was impossible under the bike helmet, looking like every inch a court assistant, her shoes the only outward indication that she was prepared for more than a business meeting. That walk though. His Marshal training reasserted itself, noting how Marion was using other pedestrians as cover for her walk into the front door smart – not particularly noble but then Raylan figured that you didn't survive long as an assassin by being noble. Her eyes found him almost immediately as she entered the door; his lanky frame and white hat not really made for blending. He offered a lopsided smile and then her eyes found Agent Rudic.

The antipathy was mutual apparently he observed, as Marion's lip curled slightly.

"Afternoon," Raylan pushed up off the bench and took several strides in her direction, tipping his hat to her and dropping his voice to just above a whisper. "Let's try and keep this civilised shall we?"

Marion snorted but she moved her gaze to him and it lost some of its loathing, pushing her jacket around her hip and passing her gun to him, hilt first. She crouched down, pulling the leg of her pants up a little and stood to pass the knife, again hilt first, to him. He tucked the gun at his back and flipped the knife so it was hidden against his forearm and gestured with his free hand towards the security gate.

"What, you're not going to search her?" demanded Rudic.

Raylan turned to give him a glance, saw that he was serious and sighed, glancing down at her. "You got anything else?"

"Nothing that will trip the metal detector," she replied evenly.

"Sounds fine to me," shrugged Raylan.

Rudic huffed and took two steps towards Marion.

"Touch me Neanderthal and I will break your fingers," snapped Marion coldly, bringing Rudic to a sudden halt but putting a marshal light in his eye.

"Civilised," muttered Raylan under his breath, stepping in between them to break the eye contact and laying a gentle but insistent hand on her elbow to encourage her forward. "Go – now."

He held out an arm, stopping Rudic from following as Marion walked through the metal detector and then submitted to a wand wave over from Walt. "Wait," he said and followed. He gave Walt a look and tipped his head backwards once, then took Marion by the elbow again and made his way to the elevator. The doors opened and they stepped in, ignoring Rudic's call of 'hold the elevator' as he was delayed by a fumbling Walt.

"He's not going to forget that," she said in the silence of the elevator.

"And yet somehow I don't care," shrugged Raylan, drawing a slight smile from her. "And how did he become such a fan of yours?"

She snorted. "They sent him in undercover – his mission was to try and pick me up in a nightclub. It didn't go well – for him," she added in a satisfied tone.

"Did you kill his partner?" he asked absently, looking down at her evenly as she turned to him slowly.

"Are you sure that is a question you want to ask?" she replied as the elevator came to a halt.

"Probably not," he repeated. "But I think I need to know the answer."

She looked away from him, staring at the elevator doors. Her reply after several moments almost caught him by surprise. "No. That was Ruup." She stepped out of the elevator.

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Rudic is an imbecile decided Art as the agent slammed his hands on the table, all but screaming into Marion's face.

He hadn't had high hopes for the interview to start with. Marion had been obviously on edge, full fight or flight mode engaged despite Tim's attempt to distract her (or at least that is what he was going to pretend the extended kiss and slap on her rear end had been for). Raylan's stunt with Rudic hadn't improved his demeanour, he had slammed into the room red in the face and puffing slightly – Marion's mocking smirk had just exacerbated his annoyance. Thank Christ he didn't see Raylan give her back her weapons.

The others hadn't been all that confident either; Art could see them congregating in a little group in front of Raylan's desk, very poorly hiding the way in which they were keeping an eye on the room. He tried to give a glare to his most senior deputy get back to work but wasn't really surprised when it was ignored.

Agent Weatherby, apparently being both the most senior and most intelligent agent, had not only indicated to Rudic that he needed to be as far away from Marion as possible but had commenced the questioning about the time in Redbud – Marion's answers were easy and practiced coached almost realised Art and his expectations had risen. Weatherby's next phase of questions was harder, probing about Marion's knowledge of Montgomery; he had paused at her first response, an artistic phrasing which made the answer obvious to all in the room but impossible to deem incriminating from the tape recorded, but he had allowed it. He had continued the questions and expanded, somewhat to Art's surprise, to Miguel and Carlos. He almost seemed happy with the amount of information that he was getting, Marion's answers seemingly linking certain facts within his mind; not so much Rudic Art had observed the agent almost vibrating with irritation.

When Weatherby had started on Bond Art had thought for sure that there would be no more information, but while Marion had taken longer to provide her answers, she had continued to talk – some of her responses direct where the questions related to the Arnold name (because there was probably surveillance thought Art) but reverting back to 'It was my understanding', 'It was my impression' and, Art's particular favourite, 'I couldn't put that on paper for you' when Weatherby had asked for a list of venues she had met Bond at. Agent Weatherby had then moved onto the real crux of the matter.

"Have you ever heard of The Serpent?"

"No," she had said baldly. "Is it some type of Greek myth?"

Rudic had made a noise but Agent Weatherby had rolled with it. "Have you heard of The Taipan?"

"Of course," she had nodded, surprising all of them. But only for a moment. "Bloody nasty snake from Australia."

"And what do you know of it?" Weatherby had asked after a slight glance at Art.

Marion had shrugged. "I'm no expert – I know that there are two species (2); the inland and the coastal taipan. Pretty much the most venomous snakes in Australia and the coastal is the largest venomous snake in Australia so it can deliver quite a payload if it thinks it's necessary. The inland is meant to shy and will retreat wherever possible but the coastal taipan? She's a different story. She will not only defend herself but she will chase a target if it's pissed her off – she's fast too, and she's very very accurate when she does attack." (3)

There had been silence for several moments, even Rudic's pacing paused. Hell had thought Art, shaking himself mentally; she had another career in theatre if she ever tired of killing.

Then Agent Weatherby had recovered himself. "I have several photographs here," he had shuffled through his papers and carefully placed out five photographs. "Since you are the one with the best knowledge of The Taipan, being the only Australian here," his voice had dripped with irony and Art was pretty sure he saw a quiver at the corner of Marion's lip. "I was wondering if you could give me your impression of whether she may have been responsible."

"You have to be fucking kidding me?" Rudic, whose agitation had been growing and growing through the series of opaque questions, finally moved from his corner. "You don't have a license to carry weapons in America – I could have you arrested right now! Who did you kill and who paid you for it?"

"And we're done," smirked Marion and stood up. "Agent Weatherby, Chief – lovely chatting with you."

"Anthony," sighed Weatherby as the door closed after her, reaching out to click the tape recorder off.

"What?" demanded Rudic defensively. "You were getting nothing out of her – she was just playing with you."

"I was getting information out of her," refuted Weatherby. "She just gave us enough information to backtrack the Martinez brothers and Montgomery's kills."

"Maybe," admitted Rudic grudgingly after a pause. "But nothing on Bond."

"I didn't expect her to," shrugged Weatherby. "If Bond has done work for both her uncle and her cousin like we think then there was no way that she was ever going to say something that may blow back on them."

"So what is the point of talking to her?" demanded Rudic.

"Because she is an arrogant little snot (4)," explained Weatherby in frustration. "She's got skills and she's lasted this long – she thinks that we can't touch her. So she'll talk, she'll tell me some of the people that she didn't kill – from that I will better the profile, identify patterns and somewhere in there I will find that one mistake that she has made, that one link that she hasn't cut off. And then I will have her."

But I don't miss had said Tim all that time ago was it really only a bit more than a year ago Art shook his head, he was getting too old for this shit. Tim's comment could have been considered arrogance, Art had almost thought it was – but it hadn't been, there had been too much derision in his expression for that – it had been confidence, self assurance but not arrogance. And that was the difference between Tim and Marion Art realised. They walked the same – they could do pretty much all the same shit, they both knew what they were capable of but Tim didn't try and ram it down your throat. Marion on the other hand, he looked up to where she stood next to Tim, laughing at something with the others, and sighed. Tim didn't seem to mind, he idly wondered if Tim saw something more than he did.

"I know you want to get her Anthony," Weatherby was continuing. "But she won't break – not like that. Now, go outside, take a breather and the Chief and I will see if we can get her to continue this conversation."

Rudic all but ground his teeth, but wrenched open the door and stalked out. Art watched Marion turn, noting the mocking glint in her eye and lifted his own to catch Raylan's eyes. Raylan read the message and started talking, distracting Marion back around away from the agent.

"He's wound a little tight isn't he?" observed Art aloud.

"Hmm," agreed Weatherby, frowning slightly as he watched Rudic making a phone call next to one of the windows near Tim's desk and standing. "They should have taken him off the Arnold case when Simpson died – the lead agent, been his boss since he started at the agency. He's always blamed Miss Arnold for it."

"Was it her?" Art lowered his voice as he opened the door.

"Could have been," acknowledged Weatherby, also lowering his voice. "Or it could have been a heart attack. Simpson had a …..er…. substance issue."

Art nodded and walked towards his little group. "So you two have caught up on some sleep? Well since it's only mid afternoon you could perhaps have a go at doing some actual work before you take young Timothy home for his beauty sleep? Maybe even find this third bastard before he has another go?" Because he didn't doubt Marion's assessment – not anymore. The tartness in his voice prompted some movement, all of them turning to head back towards their respective desks.

"Miss Arnold," started Agent Weatherby, standing in her way. Tim stopped next to her.

"I'm not talking about Uncle's business," Marion said baldly before he could continue.

Tim Art put his appeal into a look she needs to do this. Tim nodded, glancing at Marion. She sighed and turned back to Weatherby. "But," she added, "I could make an educated guess about which kills in The Serpent's file," her voice mocked the title, "actually belong to her and which ones have been incorrectly placed there. I might even be able to guess where else they might belong. Only if," she added in a lower tone and Weatherby frowned a little, "Deputy Gutterson asks me really really nicely."

Art rolled his eyes, sheeet and the blinds snapped shut from where Agent Rudic had been peering through them.

"Does it have to be here or can it wait until we get home?" Tim asked with a slight smirk, apparently quite happy to play along.

She twitched her nose as if considering. "I suppose it can wait until then – but I expect there to be more than words in the asking," she said warmly.

"Ok," he nodded, tipping his coffee to take a drink and stepping around Weatherby.

"Ok," she repeated, touching her tongue to her lips as she watched him walk away.

"Are we done now?" demanded Art, glaring first at a smirking Tim and then at Raylan who was grinning wildly. Neither of them looked even slightly repentant damn them.

"They're never done," commented Rachel dryly, following Tim to stand next to him with an open file. "Pair of horny teenagers."

"Do I detect a note of jealousy there Deputy Brooks?" drawled Tim, glancing up from his chair.

Whatever Rachel was going to say in response to that was lost in the sudden noise as the blind on the window in front of Agent Rudic suddenly collapsed in a heap, knocking over the coat rack and the plant on Tim's cabinet.

"What the …." started Art in annoyance.

"Shooter!" Rachel screamed and hit Tim in the chest with her shoulder, the sheaf of papers flying up with both of their legs as he was upended and they crashed to the ground.

The window and Tim's computer exploded almost simultaneously and Marion dropped to the ground covering her head with her arms as she was showered with debris. Another shot hit the floor near Tim's legs and she crunched up as the ricochet thudded into the wood near her head.

"Get down!" yelled Art, throwing himself backwards towards his office with Agent Weatherby, both of them drawing weapons out of habit and did an inventory of his personnel. Rachel had Tim pinned between the wall and the cabinet, the tip of Raylan's hat showed him under his desk and there was a group hiding behind the kitchen. "Anyone hit?" Blessedly there was silence. "Anyone got eyes on the shooter?"

"White male," called out Rachel. "Three buildings over, across the road."

"Agent Rudic – put that away," ordered Weatherby and Art turned to see the agent with his weapon in his hand. "You might hit a civilian."

A section of the glass partition between Tim and Raylan's desk exploded and Raylan ducked back down again behind the more solid portion.

"Raylan – I swear if you get shot by this bastard I will dig you up and shoot you all over again," threatened Art. "Has someone got hands on a phone?"

"Got it," called Wendy from behind the kitchen, even as Rudic reached backwards for his phone and opened it up; her voice with barely a quiver as she called for backup serious backup.

There was another flurry of shots, even the more frightening because they couldn't hear the noise of the gun, only the results as the bullets slammed into the Tim's desk one, two, three Art counted. There was silence and then the glass partition behind the guest chair shattered; there was a scream from behind the kitchen wall as the lamp next to the sink exploded.

"Damn it," cursed Art.

The photocopier started to move, rolling away from the kitchen and there was another flurry of bullets slamming into the machine – breaking fragments off and making it spit and hiss as the electrics inside were fried.

"No!" yelled Tim.

Art's heart missed several beats until he realised that Rachel was struggling to keep Tim against the wall; that neither of them were bleeding. Marion was the one moving, far too quickly for someone bent that low thought the portion of Art's mind that was free to make that observation. A small portion of his mind recognised the name of his most senior deputy being called; another observed the figure come out from behind the photocopier and go into the holding room but he didn't do anything more than register those facts because the majority of his mind was preoccupied with worrying about Marion as her movement caught the attention of the sniper. One bullet hit Wendy's chair, missing her by less than a foot, a second hit the floor next to her feet and the third skimmed past her shoulder to shatter the glass of the door. Marion threw herself through the hole, hitting the ground in a roll and disappeared out of range.

That concern addressed, his mind re-prioritised. "Raylan!" but the lanky figure was committed and didn't even slow, heading out the hole that Marion had made far less gracefully – which was a point he would enjoy making if he lived through it.

"Tim – you hold there," he ordered and trusted Rachel to enforce it, looking to the third point his mind had observed. He turned to look at the photocopier and saw the shadow on the holding room door – then Nelson stepped out, Tim's cannon against his shoulder, paused for just a fraction and then fired. The noise was enormous in the office, compounded by the echo out of the confined space of the holding room and Art shook his head trying to clear the ringing in it. God-damn he thought – staring at what he had previously considered his 'plodder' deputy. "What the hell Nelson?"

"I think I got him," said Nelson over loudly, looking slightly stunned but still holding the rifle ready.

"Move, move, move," yelled Art, holding his gun for no reason other than it made him feel better and closed up behind Tim who was being dragged by Rachel towards the door. Weatherby and Rudic closed on either side and Nelson followed at the rear, walking backwards with the rifle held to his shoulder.

Raylan had a lot to answer for.

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(1) Apologies for the term.

(2) Three actually – but the discovery of the third didn't come until 2007 so we'll stick with Marion's time frame and say two.

(3) sources; Wikipedia, Australian Museum, Queensland Museum, Australian Zoo (think Steve Irwin), Australia Geographic. NONE of these talk about the snake pursuing people – it is an old wives' tale I grew up with.

(4) As so succinctly characterised by the lovely Hippiemama3

Dynamics within the office choreographed with the assistance of a schematic by radishminister at the tumblr website