- MILES -

It was nearly dawn and Miles knew he was pushing the horses pretty dangerously and it'd be impossible to stop long enough to work on trading them out that would set them back even further. He didn't know exactly how much of a headstart Charlie and Bass' little group had, but he suspected it was at least a good twelve hours. So he pushed, he pushed the horses, he pushed Rachel, he pushed himself to the brink of insanity. Running plays of what he'd have done with Bass and Charlie if they were his prisoners. And if he was right, and this was the Patriots he knew they were about ten times more ruthless than he was, well most of the time anyway.

Trying to snap back into his Butcher mentality, sword first, question later. Easier said than done. Back then he was fighting to save his own ass, maybe Bass' too but if Charlie got caught in the crossfire he'd never forgive himself.

"We'll stop in Shreveport for the day. Ask if anyone's maybe seen them."

- RACHEL -

Miles made a rare attempt at a smile as he approached a lady in curlers fuffing around the front steps of her house. She would have been shocked if it wasn't for the fact that she knew where he was going with it.

"Hey ma'am, sorry to bother you."

The woman seemed a little suspicious, it was after all early in the morning and the town most likely wasn't used to visitors.

"My wife and I we're looking for our daughter." He put his arm around her shoulders.

"You know those Patriots that came down from Cuba?" Miles asked which on any other day would have blown her mind. Him, initiating conversation? It'd be a cold day in hell, but here they were, he was worried enough to start asking around before she did.

"Oh we know them alright." The rotund woman put her hands on her hips. "They keep out of our way for the most part, but they've taken over the old Sheriff station. The doctor deals with them mostly."

Miles raised an eyebrow as if to say "sound familiar?" But of course he was right, there must have been other towns like Willoughby, other desperate doctors willing to make a deal with the devil to save their people.

"Did any of them come back with any prisoners?" Rachel asked as butterflies fluttered in her stomach.

"Haven't seen them myself, but ma friend Winnie from two houses down was out rakin' leaves in the yard when they walked them through town. He said they both had brand-spankin'-new shiners. Guess they beat them up pretty badly on the road. They called the doc this mornin' 'bout the girl. Had a miscarriage it seems, poor thing."

The color drained from Rachel's face and the world was spinning. She reached out for Miles to steady herself.

"Where's the Sheriff station?" The sound of Miles' voice gave her goosebumps and just like that Rachel knew he'd gone back to that dark place where there's only strategy and fights to win or lose.

When the woman pointed to a direction down the main road, he made his way down the street in long strides she had trouble keeping up with.

- MILES -

It was past noon and Miles was perched on a rooftop under the scorching Louisiana sun with a pair of binoculars, his mood swaying between trying to keep a level head and take note of the soldiers and their movements, panicking that there was no chance in hell he'd pull this off and hating Bass for not being more on the ball. Having time to reflect he realized that finding Bass' discarded shirt likely meant that he and Charlie had been doing the nasty when the Pats got the drop on them. He counted twenty-five hostiles coming in and out of the compound, only five of them were high ranking officers, the rest were foot soldiers and cadets. He could have bombed the place and be done with them, if his damn kid wasn't inside. That fool Monroe he could maybe part with. He took another swig of whiskey, his road stash already running low, and squeezed his brain to try and come up with any sort of even remotely functional plan.

He was about to call it a day and try to get a shut-eye for at least a half hour when a civilian approached the station. The guy Miles assumed was the squad's Captain talked to the newcomer for less than a minute on the front steps, then paid him off and the dude was on his merry way. Miles didn't have a second to consider what that little exchange was all about because the Captain stepped forward into full view. If Miles had his trusty Marine-issue rifle on hand the guy would have been down before he took another step, but he didn't so now he was calling his name. Wait what?

"Miles Matheson. Wanna turn yourself in and save yourself the trouble? Your friend Monroe cut a deal for your daughter. Your life for hers. How's that sound?"

Sounds like Bass. Most people would have been at least a little upset at someone cutting a deal that involved their life but of course Bass knew him better than anyone and he knew he'd take the deal in a heartbeat. Miles made sure the soldiers didn't have a clean shot on him as he spoke, he hated having to reveal his position – Rachel was just downstairs, hopefully sleeping, most probably listening in as the whole thing went down. He just prayed the don't find her and then Charlie and Rachel could at least return to Willoughby together.

"Where's my kid? She alright?"

The Captain gave some inaudible command and two soldiers procured Charlie. She tried to stand straight, but it didn't escape him that she wavered a little from side to side. The fact that she wasn't resisting whatsoever scared him a little. He scanned her up and down. She was standing in a porched area so he couldn't check for the shiner the woman mentioned. What he could see though was the dried blood all down her pants. Those bastards didn't even give her a fresh pair. He grunted. Deep down he'd hoped it wasn't true. He wondered if Rachel could see Charlie from the front windows. He hoped she couldn't, her heart would break. He hoped she was okay. He'd get their kid back. He'd save Charlie. Whatever it took.

"You let her walk and I'm coming down." He yelled.

"Guns first, Matheson. Let's see them drop."

Miles tossed his ammo bag off the roof. It landed with a thump. He tossed Bass' Winchester shotgun after it.

"Let's see the Butcher's swords too."

"Son of a bitch…" Miles muttered under his breath as he removed his belt. He let them drop with a clank next to the other weapons. He felt naked without them, this couldn't possibly end well.

He wondered what shape Bass was in and whether he'd be able to fight. Who was he kidding? Bass would probably be able to slay a whole fuckin' platoon with his bare fists right about now.