Author's note-

I'm sorry if this isn't as good as the last chapters have been. I've been fighting a migraine all day, so I'm not at my best.

Anyway, hope you enjoy.

(Yes, I am evil. xD)

Chapter Nine

A black and red bug crawled down his arm. Art flicked it away, and watched it scuttle up the wall he was crouching behind. Tim knelt next to him, one knee touching the floor. Rachel met Art's eyes from the other side of the gate. They waited as the entry team rushed past, black clad bodies strangely silent.

Art glanced over the wall, studying the scrubby yard. The entry team reached the house. A quick hand gesture from the team leader sent three of the men to watch the back exit. Two men stepped forward, using a battering ram to smash open the door. Shards of wood flew into the air as the door caved in.

They rushed into the house, guns raised. For a long moment, barked commands filled the quiet street. Booted footsteps tramped down the porch stairs.

"All clear, Art." The team leader yelled. "We got him. Piece of cake."

Art eased to his feet, sliding his gun into his holster. "Told ya you should have let me go first."

The black clad man laughed. "Not worth my hide if some dirt bag plugs you. You know that."

"Thanks, Scott." Art walked towards the house, stepping around a rusty metal rake laid actoss the path. "Nice job."

Rachel nudged a broken brick aside with her booted foot. "Cheerful looking place, isn't it?" she muttered.

They skirted around the rotting carcass of a truck. A cat hissed at them from underneath it, taking off for the undergrowth in a blur of grey and black fur.

"I've seen worse," Tim muttered back. "Believe me. At least this has a roof."

They reached the porch stairs. The team leader eased back into the house to let them pass. "One at a time, folks. Those steps aren't too sturdy." He held out a hand towards Rachel. "Ladies' first?"

She raised an eyebrow but took his hand, entering the house. The stench of rotting things forced her to stifle a cough.

"Did he just call us fat?" Tim asked. "Boss, do you think I'm fat?"

Art chuckled but chose not to answer the question, walking lightly up the stairs instead. He stopped in the hallway, looking around. "Guess the maid hasn't visited for a while."

Tim stepped in behind him. "Does he have a dead body stashed in here?"

"More than one, given the smell," Scott chuckled. "Think this is bad, you should smell the bathroom."

Tim shook his head. "Thanks, but no thanks. I think I can live without inhaling that."

Scott led the way towards the living room. Halfway there, they could hear shouting. "Hey, dickhead, don't touch my stuff!" A high-pitched male voice yelled." "Get the hell off that, jerk!"

They squeezed through a doorway made narrow by the cardboard boxes piled next to it.

Three black clad men stood in the room, guarding the small, bony man sitting on a blue over-stuffed chair that had seen much better days.

"Mr. Arnold, my name is Art Mullen. I'm with the US Marshal service. We're here to take you back into custody for parole violations. We have a warrant to search your house for guns."

They bony man turned to look at Art. He wore a dirty white tank top, baggy underpants and mismatched socks. "Ain't no guns here, Mr. US Marshal."

"You were seen bringing weapons into this house, Mr. Arnold. We know they're somewhere in here," Art said. "Now, we can do this the easy way- you tell us exactly where they are, or we can do it the hard way and tear this place apart."

"I ain't telling you anything, dog turd." Mr. Arnold smirked. "'Course, you gotta watch out for my little surprises..." he drew the last word out, beady eyes fixed on Art's face.

"Sir, what do you mean by surprises?" Rachel asked. She took a step away from the boxes clustered by the wall.

Mr. Arnold grinned widely, showing teeth that were rotting out of his head. "The kind that go ker-boom, of course."

Tim tilted his head. "Did you just admit to placing bombs in your own home?"

"I think that he did," Art agreed. "Tim, Rachel, take our guest here out to the car. I'm sure the folks at Big Sandy will be delighted to have him back."

"Aw, hell, man." Mr. Arnold whined. "You can't do this. It ain't fair."

Tim grabbed his arm. "You did it to yourself when you told us you have explosives hidden in the house."

They made their way to the door. Art turned and followed them. "Scott?"

"I'm pulling my men out, 'till we get the all clear from the bomb folks." He nodded at the men still in the room. They moved past him smoothly, easing out of the door.

"You think the little shit is telling the truth?" Art asked, taking a deep breath as they reached the porch again.

"Damn if I know. It's his style though." Scott shrugged. "Just not willing to risk it." He paused at the top of the stairs to tape the door closed. "Have to get someone to sit on it until the bomb dogs can work it."

They reached the road. Art headed off towards his car, signing off on the paperwork. He handed it to Tim. "Here. Go get him a bunk."

Tim took it and got back into the car. He wound the window down. "Any word from Raylan?" he asked.

Art shook his head. "Nothing yet. I'll call him."

Tim nodded. "Okay."

He started the engine and made a neat U-turn, driving out of the street.

Scott watched as Art dialled a number on his phone, pacing a small circle as he waited for it to connect. The call went to voicemail again. Art left another message, the hung up.

"How's your deputy, by the way?" Scott asked as he un-snapped his body armour. "I heard about what happened."

"I don't know." Art held up his phone. "I've been trying to reach him, but he's not answering any calls. Keep getting voicemail."

Scott tossed his armour into the back of his truck. "You want a ride?"