Chapter 14: Like a Bat out of Hell

Tim checked windows and doors more than he needed. He would have walked the perimeter of the house if doing so wouldn't appear conspicuous. The point of a safehouse was that it blended in with the neighborhood. Skulking around the house made him look suspicious regardless his good intentions. Despite the unease bubbling in his gut, Tim remained indoors and began another round of keeping his eyes peeled for anything out of place.

He guessed that maybe part of his dogged persistence stemmed from the wildness in Darla's eyes when they met on the staircase. Gone was the unrestrained desire. She denied being spooked, but something had shaken her. He doubted if anyone else had contacted her by phone. Only he had the number to the new one he'd given her. After she vanished inside her bedroom, he'd gone in search of Smith and Jones. He found the Marshals chatting over pizza. They were arguing over which brother was the better athlete, Eli or Peyton. Neither had talked to Darla so he left. That's when his marathon inspection began.

On the darker side of midnight, Tim still hadn't shaken the feeling that something was off. He returned to the kitchen. Smith mumbled something into his cell phone and then shoved the device into his pocket.

"Mullins," Smith said.

Tim nodded, but he wasn't sure if he believed that was Art on the other end. He asked, "Where's Jones?"

Smith's eyes narrowed. The movement was slight, but Tim recognized the tell. The answer to his unease had just revealed itself. He drew his handgun as Smith pulled his.

"Don't," Tim said.

"What?" Smith said. "They'll just think you finally snapped. You killed Jones and the girl. I'm a hero for taking you out."

"It won't go down that way."

"You're that sure of yourself?"

"Yeah." Tim pulled the trigger.

Smith anticipated the gunfire. He flipped the lights. Footsteps scattered across the floor. Tim knew the other Marshal could be anywhere so Darla became the priority. He took the staircase two steps at a time. When he reached her room, she was already dressed.

"What's happening?" she asked.

"We have to go." He grabbed her hand and led her down the back staircase.

"They found me?"

"Something like that," Tim said.

The staircase put them in a game room. There were no exterior doors. Tim tried a window that he'd locked an hour before. With the butt of his gun, he broke the glass and used his window to clear the sharp edges. The move should have tripped the silent alarm, but Tim didn't have time to wait for back up. He whispered, "Come on!"

Darla didn't hesitate. She took his extended hand. He crawled through first. Somewhere a dog barked, but that was the least of Tim's worries. He listened for footsteps and breathing that wasn't his or Darla's. He heard nothing. Tim took Darla's hands. She came through the window and landed with minimal assistance.

Not to draw attention to himself, he'd parked on the next block. Bullets whizzed by them as he led her into the cover of the neighbor's shrubbery. Smith's pounding footsteps followed. Screeching tears interrupted the quiet night. Tim refused to let that distract him. He'd studied the neighborhood before he joined them. He knew the best route to his car and he'd be damned if he didn't get Darla safely there. Her safety was his only priority. Nothing else mattered.

Once they reached the neighbor's patio, he paused to pull his Beretta M9 from his ankle holster. Tim pressed the 9mm into Darla's trembling hands. He closed both hands around hers and waited until the shaking ceased.

"I'm getting you out of here," he said.

Her brown eyes were round and wide as she stared at him. She hadn't said anything since he grabbed her from her room. Her fear was strong. Tim didn't fault her for it, but he couldn't help but admire her level head. Despite the terror clearly etched across her face, she hadn't balked or cowered to weakness. He couldn't risk her breaking now.

"Believe me?" he asked.

She nodded.

"Say it."

"B-believe you," she said. "I believe you, Tim."

Her hand steadied, and he released her. He nodded toward shrubbery on the other side of the in-ground pool. The overhanging branches from the trees that lined the border continued to shield their movements as they skulked the perimeter of the yard. An iron fence created a slight delay but Tim worked fast to hoist Darla to the other side.

Within seconds the whoosh of rapid gunfire whirled past his ears. Smith and whoever came to assist him were using silencers. Tim didn't want to return fire and give their assailants accurate info of their whereabouts. At this point, he figured the men were just guessing. Once he cleared the iron fence, he and Darla would have a straight path to his car.

He holstered his weapon and made his move. A lucky shot nailed him in his left shoulder just as he touched ground. The wound hurt like a sonuvabitch, but Tim didn't have time to surrender to pain. He readied his handgun and gestured for Darla to follow him. They cut through a front yard. Tim expected more gunfire and footsteps on their trail, but he didn't hear anything. When they reached his SUV, he tossed Darla the keys.

"Drive."

She unlocked the car, slid inside and followed his orders without question. Tim respected the natural instinct that guided her to put the vehicle in reverse instead of roaring out of the neighborhood. At the end of the block, she asked, "Which way?"

He gave her directions that put them on the interstate.

"Are we leaving Kentucky?"

"No," Tim said. "Just making it harder for them to find you. Did you bring the phone I gave you?"

"Yeah." She glanced at him. "Are you…? Were you hit?"

"Yep," he said. His handgun now rested in his lap. He'd begun to apply pressure to his shoulder. The pain was on the wrong side of unbearable.

"We have to go to the hospital."

"No," he bit out. "We stop and you're dead. We're not stopping. At least not yet. Keep driving."

"But you're bleeding, and you're so pale."

Tim laughed. "I'm always pale."

"You look like a ghost," Darla said. "Don't joke. It's not funny. You have to get help. Is there anybody we can trust?"

"Yeah, but you can't stop driving."

She gripped the steering wheel so tight that Tim feared she'd rip it out. "You can't die."

"I won't."

She shook her head. The passing streetlights afforded him a view of her face. Tears streaked her cheek.

Tim reached out to brush the swell of her cheek with the back of his hand, careful not to stain her face with his blood. "I'll be okay. I think it went through. This won't kill me."

She sniffled a few times as she nodded. "That sounds like a promise."

He hesitated for a moment. Other promises waged a battle to past from his lips. Then the silent warnings flared that moving too soon was dangerous. He was shot for goodness sakes! Not to mention her status as a witness. He pulled his hand away to continue putting pressure on his wound. The physical pain began to dull in comparison to the agony of confronting his emotions. Again. Walking away from her earlier had been one of the hardest calls ever, but one he didn't regret. Later, the uncertainty in her eyes as they crossed paths on the landing bothered him more than he wanted to admit so he'd buried himself in work. Good thing he had or he wouldn't have known the layout of the house. As the highway stretched before them once again, he longed for the skills to handle romantic entanglements with the skill he handled an automatic pistol. He wanted Darla, but at this point, he couldn't imagine not fucking this up.

R&R

Rachel discovered that fantasies could pale in comparison to reality. She'd never admit anything aloud and had a hard enough time acknowledging the truth herself, but she had wondered a time or two about Raylan, his bed, and the taste of his mouth on hers. She'd figured with his swagger, there had to be something behind that level of confidence. He couldn't gain that kind of arrogance just because he was damn good with a gun. His kisses and the fullness of his erection had left her damn near dizzy. If he hadn't pulled away, she wouldn't have. The bright light of morning should have shamed her with that knowledge, but she refused to be baited. Rachel Brooks wanted Raylan Givens and now she had to make peace with it.

At his insistence, he'd taken her back to her place. There was no way in hell she'd do the walk of shame at work despite how tame her night was in Raylan's bed. After their initial argument simmered and he won the battle, the ride had progressed in silence. Rachel wasn't pissed. Her brain was trying to process everything. She'd long been accused of being a head person and that much was true. Being attracted to Raylan was understandable. He was hot. The dark brown eyes, the sexy drawl, the stud walk. On a physical level, he was all that. Still, Rachel wasn't fool enough to lie to herself. Her attraction to Raylan went beyond his looks. He was a good man. He wasn't perfect. Hell no. But he was good.

"Mind if we stop for donuts?" Raylan asked.

She searched his face for the joke, but he was serious. She nodded. "Go ahead."

"Still sore at me?" He flipped the signal and moved into the left turn lane.

"About what?"

He shrugged. "Anything."

"If you're referring to your cave man tactics and your need to escort me to my home, then no. I'm not sore. Not too much anyway."

He guided the Lincoln into an easy turn that led them into the Dunkin Donuts parking lot. "Drive through?"

"Whatever you want," she said.

"I'm going in." He parked. "Don't leave without me."

She gave him a smile. "Wouldn't think of it."

He shook his head and laughed. She watched him disappear into the store with his trademark stride. Of course, the Stetson was balanced on his head, giving him even more of a cowboy appearance. Through the glass windows, she watched him charm the clerk as he made his selections. In the back of her mind, she thought of one who wasn't captivated by the Givens charm. Art would loose his shit if he caught wind of their…relationship if that was the appropriate word. Their boss' preference was no secret. Rachel was the Golden Child, and she liked being in Art's good graces. He'd always been good to her. Fair, just, and good. She'd heard horror stories from other black female Marshals, but her time in the Lexington office with Art Mullins had been a dream. Disappointing him was not on her list, but neither was this thing with Raylan.

She released a loud sigh. The answers weren't easy no matter how she looked at it.

He returned to the car with a newspaper, a bakery box, and two coffees. She helped him place the coffees in the beverage holders. He settled the box on the rest between them and tossed the paper on the backseat.

"Starving?" She nodded at the box.

"I didn't get that many," he argued.

"A dozen?" she asked.

"Give or take."

His follow up grin made her laugh in spite of her resolve to scold him. He started the engine and had them pulling into her drive sooner than she wanted. Minutes later, he was comfortable at her dining room table with a plate of donuts and the steaming coffee. When she peeked at him, she found that the Real Estate section had stolen his attention.

She returned to her room to shower and dress in her usual jewel-toned blouse, slacks, and matching jacket. Raylan joined her, newspaper in hand, as she sat at her dressing table to apply her make-up.

"What's your opinion on condos?" he asked.

"Never thought much about them," she said. "Joe and I inherited this house from his grandfather. We remodeled it a few years ago."

"Would you want to live in a condo?" Raylan sat on the edge of her bed just behind her. His gaze locked on hers in the reflection of the mirror. His intense stare followed every move she made. "You don't need half that stuff."

"Thank you," she murmured, twisting the mascara closed. "I never thought about a condo. Joe will keep the house, of course. I don't know where I'm going after the divorce. I never thought about buying a condo."

"Do you prefer houses?"

Rachel frowned. His stare unnerved her. She caught him licking his lips while she applied her lipgloss and she had to blink. "Um…I don't know, Raylan. I don't like mowing, so maybe not. I like yards, though. Backyards for cookouts. But I don't like dealing with grass."

"Hmm…"

"I'm done." She'd brushed her hair into a ponytail and make-up was the last item on her list.

"Not quite."

"You need to pack your stuff now—"

"No, I can do it later."

Raylan was quiet for a moment. Then he gave her a hard look. "You're smarter than that."

"I can't get everything now. It's too much. Besides, we have to check in with Art. He's expecting us to take the morning shift."

"I'll talk to Art," Raylan said. "You start packing the essentials. Guys like Joe are unpredictable. Get everything that's important to you. Stuff he'd fuck up just because. You're not staying here anymore."

"Rayl-"

"I'm not arguing, and I'm not being a dick either. You said yourself he ain't acting the same," he said. "You're not staying over here like a sitting duck."

"Where do you propose I am staying?" she asked, not unwilling to admit he had a point. Staying another night in Joe's house was unwise. The time to move on had come. She was ready.

He grinned. "My bed has plenty of room."

"I can't—"

"We won't tell anybody," he said, his expression serious. "Nobody. And I'll sleep on the floor if it makes you feel better."

"Technically, I'm still married."

"In your heart, you're divorced," he answered. "Pack your bags."

Rachel both loved and hated the smug look on his face. She retrieved her luggage from the hall closet. Raylan called Art to check in. When he moved into the living room, she knew something was off. By the time he finished the call, she had filled the largest bag with paperwork, clothing, and shoes. The second smaller bag contained make-up, jewelry and a few framed photos. His drawn face made her hurry and close the zipper.

"Done?" he asked.

"Yeah," she said. "What's wrong?"

"Hell broke loose at the safehouse. Tim and Darla are missing. Jones is dead. Smith was shot."

"What does he say happened?" She shouldered the smaller bag. Raylan had already claimed the larger one and was leading them out. As they passed the dining room, she noticed that he'd taken care of the donuts, coffee, and newspaper. She locked up as they exited.

"Smith isn't talking. He's in a coma."

"Oh, shit," Rachel murmured.

Raylan put her bags in the trunk of his car. Once they were inside, he said, "The GPS on Tim's car and phone have been deactivated. He hasn't called in."

"We have to find them."

He nodded. "The scene looks like an ambush from the inside. Like Tim is the asshole, but we know he's not."

"Does Art?"

"Yeah, but without Tim…" Raylan sighed.

"He's protecting Darla," Rachel said. "He cares about her. I wish I knew where he'd take her."

"I think I do."

"Yeah?"

Raylan nodded. "Put your seatbelt on."

She followed his bidding. As he started the engine and pulled away from the curb, she touched his thigh. He quickly closed his hand over hers.

"We'll find him," he said with confidence. "I have an idea where he's headed."

"Where?"

"Somewhere close, but not obvious. He knows he'll need back up he can trust," Raylan said. "That's you, me, and Art, but Art can't get involved, yet. So that leaves us. He's taking her where he knows I'll look."

"Harlan County," Rachel said.

"Yeah, that'll be the place."

[A/N: Thanks for reading, reviewing, and leaving kudos! If you're new, welcome! If you've been reading a while. I appreciate your patience. You have no idea the challenges life has thrown at me lately, but writing fan fic has been an amazing relief. However, the semester starts tomorrow and I'm gonna have to fight for the time of writing fan fic. I hope to have another chapter up in a couple of weeks. Cross your fingers for me. As for the fic…well, there's a bit of action in this chapter, some romance, and some internal processing. For once, Raylan's the only one who knows what he wants and is certain about it. Everyone else is kinda coming to terms. The next chapter should be an eye opener for Darla/Tim and an introduction to some of Harlan County's finest residents. As always, feel free to share your thoughts. Hearing from you is inspiration!]