"Nobody knew what I was up to...They still don't know...I've never felt as alone as I did then."

Flashback - Leslie County, Kentucky - March, 1993

Georgie turned down the lengthy dirt drive leading up to her family home in the truck her father used to drive. She passed the battered white mailbox at the road's mouth, her hand reaching through the open window out of habit to drag her fingers along its surface. The neat black lettering of the family name had worn off over the years from this action. Now, only an 'H' and a half-smudged 'w' were left of the Haywood name.

The short ride reminded her of the multitudinous repairs which needed to be made to the property. The split-pole fencing had begun to rot long ago, the grass bordering the road was slowly encroaching upon the driving path due to lack of use, the stable needed to be painted, the horses needed exercising, and the house was an animal of its own.

She had her work cut out for her, that much was certain.

To cap it all, as she pulled up alongside the largest of the seven paddocks on the ranch, the check engine light kicked on.

"Dammit," she groaned, throwing the vehicle in park and dropping her head onto the steering wheel with a dejected thump.

God only knew what that damn light meant and how much it would cost to fix.

A red hot bubble of anger suddenly burst in her chest, flaring like wildfire all the way down to her toes. Small fists beat the wheel's worn leather surface in a blind fury, the injustice of it all serving to fan the flames of her indignation once more.

It just wasn't fair.

Her parents, the home, their finances, none of it.

How could anyone expect her to cope with all of this?

With a hearty sniff, Georgie gathered herself, blinking back the tears of frustration which had been threatening to spill over since early that morning.

The first was when she dropped her best friend Luli at the airport. Lu had generously offered to help pack up Mrs. Haywood's personal effects and prepare the house for an estate sale. She had stayed as long as she could, but needed to head back to California on the red-eye that morning. The women hugged each other tightly amidst Luli's promises to call later that night and Georgie's repeated gratitude for all of her help before they finally parted and Lu boarded her flight.

The second blow occurred when Georgie returned home and loaded up the remaining thoroughbreds from her family's stables to take to auction. She had stared at the empty stalls for a long while, able to perfectly imagine her father rolling in his grave at the thought of the Haywood ranch being barren. It was a small godsend he wasn't alive to see that day come to pass.

The third instance came about when Georgie reached the auction house and received insultingly low estimations on the value of her stock. She hadn't been an active part in the ranch's mechanisms since high school, but the young Miss Haywood had the common sense to review her father's books to know what a reasonable value of the remaining stock should be.

All hope seemed lost when not one bid was placed on the horses she had brought. Not a single one. It was then that Georgie knew she was being blackballed by the county. Someone had put out the word not to bid, because that same someone or someones intended on pushing her to sell everything for a song.

As it stood, the likelihood of making the next mortgage payment was slim to none. There was less than three weeks to come up with nearly ten grand. The only remaining hope would be the estate sale which would be occurring the following morning.

With such an unpleasant experience to look forward to, she hopped out of the truck and began unloading the horses one by one into the large paddock.

Ten thoroughbreds in varying shades of brown, black, gray, and chestnut were soon grazing contentedly in the open pasture, their tall, sleek forms haloed in the golden glow of a setting sun. The woman couldn't help a small smile for the idyllic picture they painted.

Closing up the horse trailer, she trudged slowly back toward the house, kicking aside the few stray pebbles which littered her path. Habitually wiping her boots on the welcome mat, she steppe inside and called out, seeking the house's only other occupant.

"Mama?"

"In here Georgie," came the reply, the familiar voice coming from the dining room where Georgie's mother was dutifully unfolding and refolding linens.

"Mama, what are you doing?" She asked exasperatedly, "We're supposed to be packing your things."

Mama was hardly deterred, "Oh, I...I know that. I just...remind me why I have to leave, again?"

"You can't stay here, Mama." Georgie reiterated, "There's not enough money to keep this place afloat."

Mama shook her head, her nose turning up with her disagreement, "Your father, he had a life insurance policy. We need to call the lawyer, he should have a check for us…"

The younger of the Haywood women tried to gently explain their situation once more, "Mama, the policy is void, remember? The payments lapsed while Daddy was in the hospital. Judge Tompkin ruled in favor of the insurance company."

"I know that," Mama snapped, her cheeks flushing a dull red, "but Tiberius Welch, your Dad's lawyer, he's going to take care of it, they'll pay out. Then we can come home."

Georgie didn't have it in her to fight her mother on this today. She wanted to say Tiberius was a lazy mule who rolled over rather than do any actual lawyering on their behalf. As far as she was concerned both Tiberius and his brother were useless blowhards who'd never done an honest day's work in their lives.

Instead, she let out an exasperated sigh, bit her tongue, and continued packing.

"Gerogiana Rosalie Haywood, I am in no mood for your attitude." Her mother's voice cracked like a whip, and much to Georgiana's annoyance, she felt herself flinch in response.

Ah, the ubiquitous middle name shame game.

No matter one's age, the use of one's entire given name by a parent would forever be an indicator of wrongdoing.

Personally, Georgiana had alway loved her middle name. It had belonged to her great grandmother, a black sheep from her mother's side of the family whom Mrs. Haywood had quietly adored.

An antiquated photo of great grandma Rosie in her wild youth had been posted on Georgie's vanity mirror for as long as she could remember. Another photo containing a baby Georgiana in the arms of Rosalie and her husband Gerald, hung on the wall in front of her.

Baleful gray eyes spared a look for the photo in question,Georgie's mind formulating a strange sort of apology that the occupants of the stationary photo were forced to witness their family's dismantling.

"Mama, don't you think I'd give anything to keep you in this house?"

Georgiana wasn't entirely sure her mother realized that moving her out was killing Georgie too.

"I can't do it, I've looked at every possible avenue. I can't take care of you every day and still pay the bills. I can barely keep up the mortgage payments as it is. I know this is the last thing you wanted, but I'm doing everything I can…I didn't want this either."

Georgiana made her way into the kitchen without another word, proceeding to box up her mother's preferred coffee mugs and tea cups, tucking a new box of chamomile tea, a bag of her favorite coffee, and a stack of soft linen napkins in with the bunch.

Mama gave her a few minutes of solitude then appeared in the kitchen doorway. She gave her daughter a small, placating smile. "I know you're doing your best, baby. I can take care of myself, though, I promise."

Georgiana held back the fresh wave of despair threatening to spill over. "You can't, Mama, and that's okay. There is nothing to be ashamed of in needing a little help. I want you to be able to enjoy your retirement without worrying about whether you've paid the bills, if you've eaten, if you've filled your prescriptions...I want you to be able to relax, to be happy."

"I'd be happier if I could live out my days in my own home." Mama grumbled under her breath, the reply serving to add another heaping helping of guilt to Georgiana's conscience.

The last night the Haywood women spent in their family home was a tense affair. Rather than reminiscing over the best times of their lives together in that house, Georgiana spent the rest of the night treading eggshells with her mother. In the vein of keeping her happy, she made all of her mother's favorite things for dinner.

Two hours after her return, Georgiana placed a platter of crispy fried chicken in the center of the table, the dish wafting mouth-watering curls of steam in all directions. Alongside the platter were two small dishes bearing yellow tomatoes and grilled okra while two roasted yams sat piping hot on a small plate between them. A mound of fluffy buttermilk biscuits capped the small feast, resting in a wire basket at the end of the kitchen table.

"It all looks delicious, baby girl."

Georgiana felt her mother's arms wrap around her, giving a comforting squeeze before they sat down to dinner.


The following morning was a somber one as Georgiana loaded her mother's belongings into her father's truck. Mama's discontent had resurfaced with every box and garment bag her daughter placed in the truck bed.

The women climbed into the vehicle shortly after, making the short drive to the outskirts of the nearest city, pulling into a neat little parking lot lined with trees, its brick and limestone welcome sign read, 'Honeysuckle Ridge Independent Living Community'.

A very smiley woman named Kelly was waiting to greet them with a team of moving men in tow.

"Hello, hello! Why don't y'all come on in and make yourselves at home, I'm Kelly Anderson, we spoke on the phone. You must be Georgiana and this," she aimed her dazzling smile at Mama, "This must be your lovely mother, Helen."

Helen Haywood blinked stoically at the sizzling ball of entirely too much energy standing before her in a modern peach colored dress, then swiveled her head toward her daughter, her look a condemning one.

Kelly gave Georgiana and her mother another tour of the facilities, culminating in the one bedroom apartment Mrs. Haywood would be occupying for the foreseeable future. The movers had made short work of her belongings, the array of boxes and bags were already stacked neatly in their proper rooms, ready for unpacking.

Mama had said nothing since they arrived, silently observing her surroundings without comment.

"I'll stop by to help you unpack everything after the estate sale, okay?" Georgie has been watching her mother carefully since they arrived, hoping she would warm up to her new surroundings a little before she had to leave

Mrs. Haywood merely nodded and shuffled from the room without so much as a goodbye.

Georgiana cleared her throat and gave a jerky nod, not really looking in the other woman's direction, her eyes still on the hallway through which her mother retreated. "I can come back this evening, can't I?"

"Of course," Kelly intervened, patting her arm and guiding her gingerly toward the exit, "Our visiting hours are till 10 pm."

"I'm sorry," Georgiana immediately apologized, "She's usually much more friendly than this...My mother's become a touch forgetful over the past few months, it's resulted in a bit of animosity. She might not recall why she's here-"

"Don't you worry Miss Haywood," Kelly assured, resting a gentle hand on Georgiana's forearm, "There's a transition period for all new residents. Helen will warm up to this new chapter before you know it. As for the forgetfulness, once your mother settles into a consistent routine with her medication and her new lifestyle, you'll be surprised how quickly that cognitive function bounces back."


"Well, I'll be damned, if it's not little Georgie Haywood!"

The woman in question inhaled a deep, calming breath through her nose, feeling her insides roil with loathing for the voice which carried from the bar's entrance.

She was in absolutely no mood for this.

Georgiana had just returned from Honeysuckle Ridge, where her mother had flatly refused to see her, stating she was too tired for visitors before closing the door in her face. The drive back to town was abysmal, every mile Georgie put between her and her mother seemed to add to the weight pressing on her already heavy shoulders.

The estate sale had finished a couple hours before, and they were none the better off for it. A number of items sold, mostly thanks to some out-of-county buyers who were not in the midst of the silent battle going on between the Haywoods and everybody else.

Most of the people who came to the sale were just townsfolk looking for gossip. Fussy old southern women arrived in their delicate shawls with their prim daughters, girls who had not long ago stood beside Georgiana in their debutante gowns, cohorts of a privileged life, all eager to see how far the Haywoods had fallen.

They all tutted their ersatz commiserations then tittered in self-satisfied amusement behind pale church fans, the stiff fabric waving lazily to remind Georgiana that those women and their families held the keys to the county, of which she was now considered a flagrant outsider.

Their gleeful schadenfreude had her blood boiling all afternoon, and now, when she finally had a moment of solitude to drink away her ire, another county nuisance was raising his fat bald head.

Archie Higgs was the man calling loudly from the doorway. He and his family lived on a twenty-five acre ranch directly east of the Haywoods.

Georgiana had once deeply admired the Higgs, having grown up and gone through school with all three of Archie and Maribelle's children. She had even dated their eldest son Francis for a handful of years. Nowadays, she found Mr. Higgs to be abhorrent in the highest degree.

You see, Archie was actually one of five family ranches which shared borders with the Haywood estate. The six families had existed not only amicably, but with a deep sense of community for many years. The parents were friendly and helpful, the children spent most of their young lives together, and life was peaceful simplicity until the other families started getting greedy.

You see, it was evident from a young age that Georgiana Haywood loved the family's ranch, but had no interest in studding horses, raising thoroughbreds, or any of the like.

The girl's father, Magnus Haywood, was tall, soft spoken, and a complete pushover where his child was concerned. He encouraged his daughter toward whatever passions tickled her fancy, never once insisting she follow his footsteps.

Their fellow ranchers implored him to begin insisting she show a more active interest, perhaps by marrying a rancher, but Magnus had no ears for it.

He would always shake his head and deplore, "Surely, I'd hope my little rose petal marries for better reasons than making sure someone can take over for her old man."

With no one to take on the responsibility, the Haywoods would likely sell once Magnus became too old or too ill to continue running the place. Such an event would leave nearly a hundred acres of open land available for purchase.

This realization changed the ranchers' tune quickly enough, the prospect of owning even part of the parcel too exciting to pass up.

From then on, the heads of the five surrounding properties would meet with Mr. Haywood at the local watering hole at least once a week, drinking from old copper mugs and badgering him to sell. This continued for a number of years, until Magnus fell suddenly and seriously ill.

Friends and family visited him daily, keeping his spirits high over the months as his condition continued to worsen and the doctors' attempts at treating him failed one after the other.

Then, in the height of a warm Kentucky summer, Magnus Haywood could no longer fight. He passed away with his wife and daughter at his side, leaving the fate of their property to them.

The other ranchers didn't even have the decency to wait until Magnus was in the ground before setting their relentlessness on Mrs. Haywood.

Unfortunately for them, the loss of her husband had changed Helen Haywood, hardening her into a woman nobody recognized. Not only was she disinclined to sell, she had flat out refused to even meet with the neighboring ranchers or their wives, calling them all manner of names from vultures to carpetbaggers.

Helen's condition deteriorated to the point her daughter had to get involved, taking over the family's finances and control of the estate in perpetuity.

Georgiana immediately set to selling, amassing a nest egg to support her mother until the house and land could be sold. Now, she was weeks away from the house going into foreclosure, and the whole town knew it.

It was this, she knew, which had dragged Archie Higgs from the comfort of his typical Sunday evening spent cradled in the worn leather of a lazy boy recliner.

"Arch." She acknowledged, hardly sparing a glance for the portly old rancher sidling up to the bar.

Much to her annoyance, he drew up a chair right beside her.

"I heard there was a decent turnout at the estate sale today?"

Her gaze didn't leave the back of the bar. "If, by decent turnout you mean a gaggle of county women coming to gawk at my family's well-publicized fall from grace, then yes, it was a great turnout."

Archie twirled the ends of his mustache around chubby fingers, "I sure am sorry for your troubles, Georgie. You know your daddy, he was a good man."

"Yes, he was." Georgiana agreed, clamping her teeth to keep back the diatribe she longed to hurl at him.

He pointed to the six copper mugs sitting on the bar's top shelf, "That one on the right was your old man's. The five of us ranchers each drink from that cup twice a week in his memory."

Georgiana was pointedly silent, her eyes resting on the mug in question with a look of utmost loathing.

"I'm sure you tire of hearing this," he blustered on, placing a beefy hand on her shoulder, "but you know as well as anyone Magnus'd want to sell to someone in the county."

"He didn't want to sell at all, Mr. Higgs, and certainly not for the pennies on the dollar you and the rest of our esteemed neighbors seem intent on offering." She leveled him a gaze which could curdle milk, brushing his hand from her person while holding his eyes with such scrutiny it made the man blanch.

"Surely, I don't know what you could possibly mean by that." Archie assured, smoothing over the uncomfortable silence with what could only be described as good old boy bravado.

Georgiana swiveled her seat so she was facing him. "I may be young, I may not be experienced in stud farming, but I know damn well what the Haywood estate is worth Mr. Higgs, so don't try my patience. The least you and the rest of your yellow-bellied companions can do is pay me the kindness of being honest. You want to split the property amongst yourselves, expanding all of your ranches into the vacated space. I can understand that. Hell, I'd do the same if I were in your shoes. However, you don't get to go and lie about what you've really been doing. I know full well you've been upending my sales left and right in order to pressure me into selling, because you know Mama doesn't hold the keys to the kingdom anymore and I sure as hell can't be prevailed upon to run the place."

Archie remained impassive, though his cheeks had taken on a slightly sallow hue. "How is Helen?"

"You know damn well what shape my mother is in, Arch." Georgie's voice cracked like a whip, causing the whole bar to quieten.

Her continued dismissal of him served to grate on the man's nerves.

"I'd be a bit more civil if I were you, girl. This doesn't need to be as difficult as you're making it out to be."

Georgiana leaned into Archie's face, noting the cold sweat which had begun beading at his hairline. "I've got nothing to lose while you all have everything to gain. I plan on making this as difficult as it needs to be to ensure you never own so much as a twig of that property."

Archie sat back in his seat, giving her an appraising look.

"You know my boy, Francis, he's been asking after you. Perhaps he could stop by and say hello-"

"If you think sending an ex-boyfriend for a good old fashioned shake down will garner you any good will, you're sorely mistaken." Georgiana cut him off, signalling to the bartender for another bourbon neat. She tossed a twenty on the countertop and pointed to Mr. Higgs, "And I'll take care of his tab, seeing as his budget's so tightly wound he's gotta blackball a twenty-three year-old to cover his nut."

A few nearby men could be heard chortling to themselves, having stopped their game of billiards to listen to the old rancher's dressing down at the hands of a young girl.

Her thinly veiled insult and their jeering laughter was the last straw for Archie. He straightened his jacket and slid from the bar, "You're a real piece of work, Haywood. Your Mama'd be ashamed. It's certainly not becoming of a lady."

"So I've heard," Georgiana drawled with an exasperated roll of her eyes, "I'll try not to crumple under the weight of the county's shattered expectations of me."

Archie made it halfway across the bar before she added in a carrying voice, "Oh, and Mr. Higgs? Be sure to tell the others, Mr. McAllister, old man Wilkes and the brothers Welch...I'm not selling. Not to you toerags, anyway."

"Well," Mr. Higgs tipped his hat and flashed Georgiana a nasty smile through the bar's mirrors, his bruised ego carefully concealed. "We'll just see about that. You have yourself a lovely night, Miss Haywood."

Georgiana didn't spare him a passing glance as he left the building, closing the door with a bang behind him.

"Don't you listen to 'em Miss Georgie."

Barty, the owner of the establishment and the acting bartender had watched the whole ordeal with obvious contempt. "It's damn shameful what them folks is doing. They heckled your Pa till his dying breath to get him to sell. He was like you, too proud to back down, and then your Ma, they were takin' advantage of her delicate state, trying to push her into selling for a pittance too. It's a crying shame, dishonorable trash."

Georgiana set her glass on the bartop with a sigh, "I know, Barty. They don't know it, but I know everything that's been going on while I was away, and for that, I thank you."

Barty smiled proudly, then waved to a drifter as he left the bar in a hurry. "Anything for old mister Haywood's kin. Your Pa helped me out of a couple tight spots in my youth, loaned me the capital to build my bar. I owe him a great debt."

"You're probably the only decent man in this town, Barty." She smiled genially at the friendly older man, glad there was at least one person in the whole of Leslie County she felt she could trust.

The man grinned and waved off such praise, halting in his enjoyment when a special bulletin appeared on the small, battered television in the corner of the bar. It appeared the local news was issuing an alert for a suspect in a murder investigation up in Lexington.

A grainy picture of a tall, slender man with short, dark curls appeared on the screen.

'...a native of Baton Rouge, Louisiana, Moreau-Lilet is an active criminal whose syndicate is responsible for much of the bootlegging occurring between the Gulf Coast and Chicago. He is wanted for questioning regarding the recent murder of the Fayette County civil attorney..."

Barty turned back toward the bar with a scowl, "You be sure to lock your doors and windows tonight, Miss Georgie. Ain't no telling what fools might be running out in them woods."


It was late that evening, and Georgiana had been packing her belongings for a quick flight back to California when a tentative knock could be heard on the front door of the Haywood family home.

She peered through the peephole to see a familiar face looking back at her.

"What do you want?" She called irritably, not opening the door. "If your dad sent you to talk to me-"

"He didn't send me. I heard what he said to you at Barty's. I wanted to come over and apologize…"

Georgiana heaved another sigh and opened the door.

Francis Higgs stood on the oak threshold, his sandy blond hair tousled from the windy summer night. He was just as handsome as Georgie remembered, much to her annoyance.

"Your dad's a real ass," he was summarily informed before she stepped aside, wordlessly inviting him in.

"Actually, I thought we could go for a ride, get you out of this big house." He flashed a charming smile and held up a bottle of wine and two plastic cups, "Besides, I heard you had a real banger of a day without my old man acting the fool."

This actually brought a small, cautious smile to Georgiana's lips. It really had been a horrendous day.


Fifteen minutes later, Francis's truck was parked at the top of a hill overlooking the whole of the Haywood estate. He and Georgiana were seated atop the cab, sipping strawberry wine and admiring the view while the last shocks of orange sunlight retreated over the horizon.

Once the sky turned dark and the first blanket of stars appeared alongside the full moon, Francis cleared his throat, "I'm really sorry about my old man, Georgie. He was way out of line today. I know you've been having one hell of a rough patch with everything going on."

'Yes, with everything going on, your dad and the rest of the ranchers have the audacity to expect me to sell for nothing...It's completely unreasonable."

Francis's freckled cheeks flushed a dull pink, "That's not what they're trying to do, I don't think, might not see it now, but they're actually trying to help you get out from under this place."

Georgie scoffed, "Frank, that's an outright lie."

"It's not," he insisted, "Georgie, everybody knows you're in over your head with the estate, I'm sure they don't want to see you drown beneath its weight."

She didn't believe any of the ranchers held such sentiments, especially not after her conversation with Mr. Higgs that afternoon. It was a lie.

Wasn't it?

His certainty made Georgiana question her understanding of the issue. Perhaps she was in the wrong? Perhaps Francis knew more than he was letting on. Archie was his father, after all.

"I'm twenty-three," she said in a barely manageable whisper, "I'm twenty-three years old, Francis. My daddy is dead, and today I dropped my mama off at an assisted-living facility, which apparently is tantamount to me putting her in the grave myself. The rest of my life is in California. My job, my friends, student loans, my apartment...am I supposed to just leave it all behind? All of this not to mention the hundreds of thousands of dollars it would take to keep this ranch alive through the end of the year if it doesn't sell. It all sits on my shoulders, and I knew that, I knew being an only child meant I would be the one to handle all of this, I just never in my life thought it would be so soon. I think I've earned the right to be a little stressed out."

"You need to let people help you," Francis advised sagely, "I can help, if you'd let me."

The smile he offered was warm and reassuring, the only really good thing which had happened to Georgie all day.


Francis dropped Georgiana back at her front porch an hour later, tipping his hat and smiling at her once more. "Give me a call when you get back from California, we can meet up for dinner or something."

"Yeah, alright," Georgie agreed breathily, turning the handle on the front door and stepping inside.

She giggled softly to herself at the pleasant turn the evening had taken.

Seeing Francis again was like coming home. He was comforting familiarity after all this stress.

The two had split up when they went away to separate colleges, but it seemed that old flame was still there, despite old Mr. Higgs' sour attitude.

Mama would be hissing mad if she knew Georgie had even given Frank the time of day. There was something about him that had never really grown on her. Perhaps it was how he so obviously pined for his parents' approval, or how he felt the need to brag himself up unnecessarily. It might have been the way he spoke to Helen's daughter which set her teeth on edge, there was no telling what it might have been.

In the end, it was no secret that Helen Haywood was no fan of Francis Higgs, which in Georgiana's youth had made him all the more appealing.

The possibilities of rekindling that old relationship clouded Georgie's mind, causing her to miss the tall shadow looming behind the door.

"Bon jou, chèrie."

The voice was smooth as silk, it's lilting Creole accent giving the words a roguish edge.

The very criminal from the news broadcast stepped into her path, pointing a gun at her.

Georgiana staggered backward, pressing herself against the banister leading upstairs.

"Easy there. Not one word, chèrie. I mean you no harm."

He was taller than the grainy photo had suggested. Much, much taller, and stockier. The man's frame was nowhere near as lanky up close. His shoulders were broad and his arms were long but they were powerfully built. The hand which held the gun pointed in her face was at least twice the size of her own.

"Wh-who are you? What do you want?" Georgiana cursed her own stammering, idly wondering if Francis would hear her should she scream. She took a reverse step into the next room, thinking the windows might assist in her endeavor.

The intruder seemed to read her mind, "I wouldn't make any rash decisions if I were you."

"What do you want from me?" Georgie repeated, backing away from his advancing form only to find herself bumping into one of the parlor sofas.

"Have a seat," the man gestured, "and I'll answer your questions."

Georgiana eyed him suspiciously, mentally calculated her options then proceeded to take a seat on the cushion furthest from him.

The man let out a small chuckle, then took the seat in the very middle of the sofa. He crossed his legs, which were clad in a pair of dark maroon slacks, and straightened the orange button down he wore, its first few buttons opened to reveal a 'v' of dark skin dusted with black curlicues.

He looked like he had fallen straight out of 1975 and landed in her living room.

The man grinned, watching curiously as she scrutinized him from the black beret on his head to the heels of his leather boots, trying like the devil to discern what he was there for.

"Relax," he reiterated, "I'm not here to hurt you."

"You killed that man up in Fayetteville County. I saw you on the news. They called you-"

"Lilet," he nodded, holding out a carefree hand, "Richard Moreau-Lilet, bootlegger, rum runner, criminal mastermind-"

"Murderer," Georgiana added with a glower, refusing to let him off easy.

He blinked back at her, the deep obsidian of his eyes glinting with something deadly. "Yes, I am."

"You admit it?" she gawked, "Just like that? What kind of monster are you?"

A deep, lusty laugh roared from Richard's throat, showcasing a set of sinister-looking white teeth. "I'm the thing that goes bump in the night for the kinds of criminals your local newscasters have never even heard of."

Georgie scowled at his obvious enjoyment of this conversation. "What do you mean?"

"That attorney I killed in Lexington, he helped run a low-level human trafficking operation spanning from Cleveland to Baton Rouge. He and his associates are responsible for the disappearances of more than one hundred women and children in the past two years. They took a friend of mine's five year-old girl two months ago." Richard allowed the atrocities to sink in for a minute, his countenance turning dark. "I was too late to save her, but I made sure he never laid a hand on anyone again, so if you're wondering if I feel an ounce of regret for what I did, I most certainly do not. You still want to call the cops, chèrie?"

Georgiana found herself shaking her head of her own accord.

His face relaxed into a pleasant smile, "Bon, très bon. Now, my dear, are you ready to hear my proposition?"

Eyes still wide and mouth still clamped shut, she nodded, her instincts somehow overriding all common sense.

"I couldn't help but overhear you at the bar down the road, before I was forced to leave due to my face being plastered on their television screen,"

Georgie vaguely recalled a man whose face she could not see leaving the bar as she was talking to Barty.

"It seems you're in a bit of a tight spot financially. I can help with that."

The two eyed each other for a long moment Georgiana spoke.

"How could you help? And more importantly, what are you looking for in return?"

Richard's smile widened, "I need to lay low while this blows over."

A scoff leapt from the woman beside him, "That's aiding and abetting."

The fugitive rolled his eyes, "Thank goodness for Nancy Drew novels. If not for her, you southern debutantes might not have the foggiest idea what aiding and abetting even meant."

"I'm about this close to letting you sleep in the crick out back." Georgiana snapped, holding up a tiny gap between her finger and thumb. "There's no need to be rude Mister Lilet. I'm merely pointing out a rather hefty risk I'd be taking by giving you a place to rest your head."

The retort seemed to delight Lilet, who chuckled before returning his gun to his jacket pocket and pulling out a stack of new 100 dollar bills. He held the cash at eye level, "You tell me when, and we've got a deal."

Georgiana's mouth fell open when he pulled out another stack and placed it alongside the first.

Then another.

And another.

And another.

She let him continue a while, curious to see just how much cash the man was carrying.

Two stacks later and RIchard gave her an amused though chastising glance, "Now you're just being greedy."

"You never said how long you were going to be here," she contended, pleased she seemed to have thought of something he hadn't, "I can't very well name a price on an indeterminate amount of time…Though, if you've got associates who pay this well, feel free to have them visit too."

Richard let out a genuine laugh and set the stacks onto the coffee table, "Very well then, $70k for two weeks safe harbor, cash up front, and a recommendation of your services to my fellow ne'er-do-wells. You can even tell the police we held you at gunpoint if they find you out."

Richard held out his hand, which she stared at for several seconds before finally taking it and giving it a hasty shake.

"What can I call you?" He asked, continuing to watch her with a peculiar sort of amusement.

Georgiana hesitated. She certainly didn't want him sharing or using her real name. He seemed to know this, waiting patiently for her to decide on what moniker she would use in this new gray area of her life.

She thought for several long moments before settling on the only name that ever felt right.

"Rosalie. You can call me Rosalie."


Present - Unknown Location, Palmira, Colombia - February 13th, 2000

Rosalie groaned as she was jostled this way and that.

Her head positively ached, and something warm and tacky was trickling down her cheek.

She couldn't see anything.

Why couldn't she see anything?

The space was stiflingly hot, making it difficult to breath.

The nauseating smell of petrol filled Rosalie's nostrils, her stomach heaving its discontent. She fought back the reflex, focusing on breathing through her mouth instead.

A pair of sharp male voices could be heard in the space behind her, difficult to distinguish over the sound of a radio crackling cumbia music. The surface beneath her vibrated steadily, then Rosalie was jostled again, alerting her that she must be in a vehicle trundling a rather bumpy road.

Yes, she could hear the engine now.

A few loose items rolled around the space Rosalie could only assume was the car's trunk, indicating the road they were driving was at an incline. She had no idea how long she had been unconscious for, and the mountain range beside Palmira stretched for hundreds of miles, there was no telling where she might be. The car's elevation increased further, sending Rosalie rolling to the front of the trunk with the compartment's contents.

Her arms were cinched behind her back, keeping her from holding herself stationary. The tendons in her shoulders screamed their protest at the unnatural angle every time the car's movements sent her body tumbling.

This continued in the same vein for what felt like hours.

Rosalie was certain she was on the verge of passing out when the vehicle finally slowed to a stop and the engine cut off, leaving the trunk still and quiet. Her breath stopped as she listened for any kind of movement outside. The click of a key being slid into the trunk's lock sent her pulse racing. Silence stretched for the space of a few seconds before the compartment was opened and a blinding light stole her sight.

She tried to turn away from the source but rough, calloused hands reached in and dragged her from the trunk without care. The muscles in her back and shoulders spasmed from the rough treatment, causing a groan to fall from her lips.

Her eyes adjusted to the darkness of her surroundings, vaguely registering the glow of a handful of campfires and red gravel moving beneath her before she was hoisted higher, sending another lightning bolt of pain through her upper arms.

The men dragging her were bickering back and forth, tossing the occasional derogatory taunt her way.

Rosalie pointedly kept her silence. There was no point in opening hostilities just yet. She needed to buy herself time...time to find an exit, time for Raymond to realize she was gone.

The men slowed as they reached what Rosalie could only assume was a campground.

She lifted her head to peer at the battered wooden fence which created a corral against the mountainside. One of the men unlocked the gate, revealing a clustered group of women and children cowering against the mountain's rocky face.

Rosalie was unceremoniously thrust into the gaggle of women, falling hard, headlong into the dirt.

The men's derisive laughter jeered from the edge of the corral before they shut the gate once more, the sound of crunching gravel beneath heavy boots signaling their departure.

Several hands were on Rosalie at once, lifting her from the dirt and easing her to her feet. She whimpered at the searing pain in her shoulders and the taste of blood which was no doubt pouring from her nose. There was a scrape somewhere along her hairline and her front was covered in dirt. The grit and grime stung unpleasantly.

Several voices soothed, gently shushing while they turned her this way and that.

Rosalie barely noticed the feeling of small hands gripping hers and a sharp rock being wedged between her wrist and the ties which bound them before her arms were suddenly free.

A sharp hiss of pain followed the limbs' release and a dull ache throbbed inside the muscles and tendons as they settled back into their proper place.

A warm, wet cloth carefully wiped the blood and dirt from her face.

"Thank you," she rasped, blinking away the haze which threatened to overcome her vision.

"Shhh..." came the gentle reply, a kind, weathered hand reaching to brush across her forehead.

"Thank you..."

Rosalie's world went black.


Six Hours Later...Palmira, Colombia - February 14th, 2000

Raymond, Ted and Dembe finally gave up on tearing apart the area surrounding the bar in search of Rosalie.

It had been six hours since she went missing, and there wasn't a single sign to point them in the right direction.

Kate Kaplan was directing Red's remaining associates as they swarmed the small village of Palmira with unrelenting force. They were scouring every corner for clues which could lead them to the Rosalie's whereabouts while their employer and his compatriots circled back to the safehouse.

Raymond was pacing the lounge like a caged animal. The air around him thrummed and crackled with a fury so palpable it felt as though the room were pressurized, the very molecules they breathed pressing the space's occupants deeper and deeper into the floor.

Ted was seated in a nearby armchair with his head in his hands.

He blamed himself for Rosalie's disappearance. There were distractions in the bar which caught his eye, and rather than insist he fulfill his duties, Rosalie had urged Teddy to blow off some steam and talk to the pretty girl at the bar who had been eyeing him all night.

Ted barely noticed when she left for the ladies room. He was far too enamored with his pursuits, he didn't notice when she had been gone for ten minutes, eleven, twelve...

He noticed when Reddington came tearing across the room.

It had all come crashing down around him then.

The sight of the empty room sent his stomach into the soles of his feet.

Dembe remained ever watchful, observing the proceedings with a somber expression.

The two men before him could not have exhibited a greater disparity. One was loping the room, rage incarnate, while the other was so riddled with guilt he could hardly raise his head.

They would find Rosalie, Dembe's faith was unshakeable in that regard. His friend was clever and resourceful; regardless of who took her, Rosalie would find a way to keep herself safe long enough for them to locate her.

The long-term question was how much damage this incident would create within their cohort. Though the two men showed it very differently, Dembe could plainly see the self-blame riddled in Raymond and Teddy's features. Each felt responsible for the lapse in Rosalie's security.

They all felt as thought they should have been more alert. It was common knowledge, after the altercation with Fisi in Kenya and Mesrine at the Armel's estate over Christmas, that there was a target on Rosalie. The German wanted her for reasons as of yet unknown.

They knew he was after her.

They should have done more.

Kate Kaplan blew in through the main door, a scowl on her face and her handbag in hand. "I've got three dozen associates searching the surrounding cities. I've sent another half dozen to reach out to our contacts in the local cartels. We will have a more comprehensive view of where Rosalie could be come morning. Did you find anything near the bar?"

"No" came Ted's dull response, "There wasn't anything to go off of, no eyes in or out, no witnesses, no evidence."

Red's pacing had yet to cease, and this reminder of their shortcomings where his lover's security was concerned had him sending a crystal vase soaring across the room to shatter into a thousand pieces against the stone fireplace.

The room's three remaining occupants maintained a somber silence, watching as he retreated to the solitude of the master bedroom.

"Allow me," Kate insisted, gesturing for Dembe and Ted to remain in the immediate vicinity.

She followed Red's hunched frame the length of the hallway, breezing unblinkingly past each door he slammed between the lounge and his destination. When she reached the suite, she found him standing framed in one of the soaring archways leading to the veranda.

His hands clutched the stone arc like a lifeline, looking for all the world like a man who'd been robbed of every good thing in his life.

In a way, Kate supposed that was true.

She had known Raymond Reddington before he was Raymond Reddington. The man had lead the charge in all that happened with Katarina and Masha, trudging forward long after he was branded a traitor, lost his home, and was disowned by what little family he'd had left. He pressed onward each and every day with little regard for himself.

Now, when it seemed he had finally found something good to call his own, she was being taken from him.

The thought tore at Kate.

Though she and Rosalie had endured a tumultuous beginning to their acquaintance, their head-to-head during Raymond and Dembe's malaria scare had allowed them a much-needed restart. Over the following months, their camaraderie slowly flourished into a genuine bond. Kate was growing to consider Rosalie a cherished friend.

"Raymond."

He didn't answer.

Kate stepped forward, placing a comforting hand to Red's shoulder. The muscles beneath his shirt contracted, tensing at the contact.

"I can't lose her too, Kate."

The whispered statement bore the weight of a lifetime's worth of despair, leaving Raymond's darkest fear exposed in the space between them.

For once, he'd begun to feel like everyone else.

For once, he'd had someone to call his own.

And now, someone had succeeded in taking her from him.

Their world was a cold, cruel place, and his was growing colder with every hour Rosalie remained missing.

Kate could hear the woman's voice clear as day, repeating her wish from months prior.

'If something were to happen to me and Raymond were left without...I would hope someone would step up and make him feel cared for.'

She gave Red's shoulder a consoling squeeze, lowering her voice to a more soothing timbre. "Take a moment. Breathe. Read a book. We will find her, Raymond."

Raymond complied mechanically, taking a deep, steadying breath in through his nose and exhaling through his mouth. One hand left the stone arch to grasp Kate's, giving it a grateful pat before he turned to face the room once more. Another calming breath forced its way into his lungs, then he began to lay out a plan for the next forty-eight hours.

"Call in every associate we can get in Colombia, call in favors to Ecuador and Venezuela as well. Reach out to our compatriots and competition in the underground transportation game, give them Rosalie's description and let slip they can name their price if they provide actionable intel on her whereabouts or whispers relating to an abduction of an American woman in the area. Dole out bribes to every airstrip in 500 miles, I want the manifests of every bird landing or taking off within this country's boarders."

Kate noted his demands as Ted and Dembe stepped into the room with a tentative knock.

Red waved them in, pinching the bridge of his nose between his thumb and index while sifting through what little information they had. "Whoever took Rosalie knows our syndicates are intertwined and will expect me to go looking for her. As such, they'll likely try to lay low for a few days. We need to find out where she's being held before they try to move again."

"Ray, there's something we need to discuss," Ted took a cautious step forward, "It's about Rosalie's syndicate."

Raymond considered him with a cold, stoic stare, his hands silently gesturing that he should continue.

Ted exhaled a weary breath, "Rosalie has protocols in place, the first of which is less than four hours out. Regardless of my involvement, regardless of your syndicate's involvement, these protocols will enact themselves. I can't contain it once it's out. You should be aware of what's coming our way."

"What's the first protocol?" Red asked, resting his back against the nearest wall.

Kate and Dembe settled in as well, each taking the nearest available seat. Ted was the only one who remained standing in the center of the room. "Ten hours after Rosalie has disappeared from radar, her extraction team will be dispatched to her last known location, which will be this safehouse. I called it in moments after we discovered she was missing. They're already en route."

Raymond blanched, "Who is on her extraction team? Florian? Cedric?" The last thing he needed was the hot-headed leader of the Corsicans bringing in a battalion of Frenchman to tear apart every Colombian town between Palmira and Bogota. This extraction required finesse and a precision approach so as not to spook the abductors.

Ted shook his head, "Florian isn't brought in until she's been completely offline for two weeks. She mentioned it once a while back...joked that she finally had to bump him down the line because every time she ventured a little too deep into the Amazon and lost satellite service, the whole of Corsica would come looking for her. We have time before we have to deal with Monsieur Armel or Cedric."

"So who is her extraction team?" Red pressed with a scowl, his ire rising when Ted shrugged.

"I don't know, Ray. This is a part of the empire Rosalie built before she had any security, and she's kept its mechanisms very quiet."

Raymond stepped toe-to-toe with Ted, his features darkening by the second. "You're telling me we have no idea who's going to be beating down our door?"

Ted nodded, "All I know is she trusts this person implicitly and without question, so I think we should, too."


Flashback - Leslie County, Kentucky - July 1993

"I'm still amazed at how you managed to keep this place afloat these past three months."

Francis leaned against one of the Haywood home's porch pillars, looking down at Georgiana with obviously piqued curiosity. They had been dating since that fateful week back in March, and it seemed things were going very, very well.

She smiled coyly back at him, "A bit of luck, a good friend, and a lot of hard work does wonders."

Her answer was always the same.

After Rosalie took Richard up on his offer, criminals came rolling in the back door by the half dozen. It turned out the Haywood family home was a perfect halfway point between Chicago, Cleveland, Indianapolis, and various destinations in the southern United States. She had been making money hand over fist, amassing more than enough to cover not only the cost of maintaining the home, but of completing all of the necessary repairs as well.

Rosalie had grown rather fond of Richard. For a crime boss, she found him surprisingly gentlemanly and well-read. He had a strict code of ethics he lived by, and took great care to only send her runaways and fugitives whom he believed would abide by her rules and maintain a respectful distance. By the time his two weeks in hiding with her were over, she all but begged him to stay.

He'd been hesitant at first, insisting she could easily run the safehouse herself and he would pass through a few times a month at least. The house marked the perfect halfway point between his businesses in Cleveland and Baton Rouge.

It took only one crazed client attempting to breaking down Rosalie's bedroom door in the dead of night for him to reconsider.

In truth, Richard had grown to like Rosalie. She was clever and intuitive, especially for a cosseted southern belle. The more time he spent around her the closer friends they became, and the more Richard realized he wouldn't be able to forgive himself if something happened to Rosalie. She needed guidance until she felt comfortable standing up to her clientele.

A few days after Richard decided to stay a while longer, his wife Calixte came to join them.

Rosalie was nervous at first, having heard a great deal about the love of Richard's life. In the early days of their acquaintance, she found it reassuring that the felon she had welcomed into her home was in a committed romantic relationship. It only took a week for Rosalie and Calixte to become fast friends.

"Earth to Georgie, come in, Georgie?"

Her mind had wandered. Francis's voice flitted into her consciousness, alerting her that he had noticed her distraction.

"You're such a space cadet," he teased, obviously pleased her attention was back on him.

"Don't call me that." She snapped back, "It's condescending and rude."

Francis rolled his eyes, "Oh, don't be so sensitive. I was only teasing you."

Georgiana crossed her arms, taking a step away from him."Well, I don't appreciate it."

"Why do you always do this?" He sighed, giving her the look of a wounded puppy. "I try to have fun with you, I try to be nice and funny, and you get madder'n a hornet. It's not like you."

"I'm allowed to get annoyed when you say things which make me feel poorly about myself, Francis."

Frank shrugged and pushed off of the pillar,"Maybe your lack of self confidence has nothing to do with what I say and everything to do with how you feel about yourself. That's on you, baby cakes. Don't go making me feel like the heel for trying to have a little fun."

"I'm sorry," Georgiana replied mechanically, preferring to feign an apology rather than continuing the argument. "I just...there's a lot going on, and I-"

"You're not yourself, I get it," Frank bent and chastely kissed her lips, "I'm sure you'll be back to your happy, cheerful self in no time."

Georgie fought back a groan and an eye roll, choosing to bite her tongue and smile.

"See!" he grinned, "Better already. How are things going with that new estate manager of yours, what's his name...Roy?"

"Richard," Georgiana corrected, defaulting to the Anglo-Saxon pronunciation of the name rather than the French 'Ree-shard'. It provided a small modicum of separation between 'Shard and the occasional news bulletin which popped up on the tv. It also helped that he had grown his hair and beard out a fair amount, helping to obscure his features from the locals. "He's excellent, I wouldn't be able to run the place without him."

"Well," Francis laughed, "Hopefully you won't need his help too much longer."

Her brows furrowed in confusion, "What do you mean?"

"The ranchers are preparing to submit another offer for the property."

"Everything they are offering is far below market value." She complained, she had turned them down thrice before and she wasn't about to change her tune now.

Francis chuckled, "Well, what do you expect, Georgie? You're in the middle of a fire sale and everyone knows it. You do know what a fire sale is, don't you?"

Georgiana narrowed her eyes at him, "Of course I-"

"A fire sale is when a person or corporation sells off goods or assets at a steep discount because they must, typically because they are facing bankruptcy, which you are, in fact, facing."

This set the air between them crackling.

"I know what a fire sale is, and I am not on the cusp of bankruptcy, Francis. I don't know where you heard that, but it's not true, not yet anyway."

Francis held his hands up, "Listen, I'm not trying to upset you or change your mind. I don't appreciate being made to feel like the bad guy."

"I'm sorry," Georgiana immediately apologized, "That's not what I was insinuating, I just don't believe your father and the rest have the best intentions, that's all."

She watched him shrug his shoulders, refusing to argue with her further. The silence stretched for several long minutes, serving to make Georgie feel as though she was somehow in the wrong.

He finally turned, reaching to tuck a curl behind her ear, "I just thought maybe, down the road, you and I might want a place ourselves, just the two of us."

Georgie felt her cheeks burn with a pleasant flush. She couldn't deny there was a certain appeal to the idea, but it would most certainly be the end of her illegal extracurriculars. Would she even want to pursue that route? It was doubtful, but certainly worth a try if it meant she and Francis might have a real future together.

"I've gotta head inside," she diverted, raising up on her tiptoes to press her lips to his. "I'll see you tomorrow?"

Frank tipped his hat and gave a small smile, "Of course."

Georgiana watched as he meandered back to his truck, giving a shy wave before stepping into the house.

She made for the second floor, where she thought she might find Richard. He had graciously offered to help her replace the bathroom fixtures in the master suite, and as the woman rounded the corner, she could hear the steady clink of metal on metal denoting his whereabouts.

He must have heard her coming down the hall, because his voice echoed from the bathroom seconds before Rosalie crossed the threshold.

"How'd your date with pinstripes go, chèrie?"

Rosalie rolled her eyes in response, 'pinstripes' was Richard's not-so-affectionate nickname for Francis. The young man had arrived for their first date in a pair of pinstripe slacks, and Richard had never let her forget it.

"Your last client brought a lady of the night into my home." She retorted, ignoring his jab at her boyfriend and taking a seat on the vanity.

He momentarily halted is pursuits, "He brought a what into your home?"

A haughty scowl marred her features, "A hooker, 'Shard, that criminal you sent me from Chicago last week? He had a legitimate, no panties, $500/hour hooker in my house."

Richard burst out laughing, managing to carefully remove the shower head from its mount despite his amusement, "I see, so she was expensive and rude?"

"No," Rosalie sighed, "She was actually really, terribly sweet and polite. She makes great coffee and I...I may have hired her as a property manager."

He poked his head back out of the shower with an impish grin. "Wait...What?"

"Sara is delightful," Rosalie insisted, instantly vouching for her new employee, "She's got a great eye and wants to go to school for a business degree in hospitality. She mentioned she's been looking for a way out of her current lifestyle, so I hired her to help me run this place. However, in the future, please tell anyone you send my way, I'm not running a brothel."

"So..." he was shaking with mirth now, "No ladies of the night?"

"Correct."

Richard scowled at the shower head once he managed to remove it, hearing a distinct rattling noise within. "I bet this is what has been causing the lack of water pressure..." he murmured, proceeding to remove the screws which held it together.

Rosalie hopped up from the vanity, to go in search of Calixte. Finding her relaxing on the sofa in the lounge, she jumped and landed on cushion beside her with a thump and an elated sigh, "I've found the name, " she grinned, excitedly poking the couch's other occupant repeatedly in the ribs.

"I can't believe your real name is Georgie," Calixte teased, letting out a deep sultry laugh before snapping the newspaper open once more.

"You were listening?" Rosalie snapped, swatting her thigh with more strength than she had expected. "Sneak."

Calixte looked up from her paper, a sharp eyebrow lifting toward the heavens. "It's pronounced astute, doll. I also caught wind of young Mr. Higgs' intentions to abscond with you and sell off your property. Do you plan on telling him your home is now serving a dual purpose?"

"No," Rosalie let out a long exhale, settling further into the sofa's cushions. "I don't know what to tell him. It could be nice to settle down, with the house and the picket fence but...I don't know, Calixte, I just never saw that for myself. I can't say I truly want the life he's offering."

Calixte patted Rosalie's blonde locks soothingly, "Why don't you let us set you up? Richard and I have far more interesting prospects, individuals who could, you know...keep up with your criminal intellect."

Rosalie laughed merrily once more, "Thanks for the offer, but I'm content to see where things go with Frank." She stood to go change, but Calixte's voice stopped her in the archway leading to the staircase.

"What's the name?" She asked, curious about the bit of intel which had brought Rosalie downstairs in the first place.

Her smile was bright with excitement, "I've decided to call her Break Maiden." Her eyes lifted to gaze fondly at the wooden archway and its sturdy beams, patting the entry affectionately before giving Calixte a wink and heading off to her room.

Calixte smiled for Rosalie's excitement, but her expression fell once the younger woman was out of eyesight.

Richard passed her on the stairs, loping gracefully into the lounge where his wife sat. He leaned in and kissed Calixte's temple, noting the discontent furrowing her brow. "Qu'est-ce qui ne va pas, ma chère?"

She pulled him onto the sofa with her, kissing his lips then relaxing into his soothing embrace.

"I love Rosalie. You know that, don't you?"

Her husband chuckled, "I do, ma chère. I don't think she would be open to such advances from us, however. She seems adventurous, but I would bet a small fortune she's a one man kind of woman."

A firm hand swatted his chest when he laughed even harder. "That's not what I meant, 'Shard."

"No, but it's something you've been considering." Richard retorted, wholeheartedly delighted by his wife's sudden and mysterious descent into maiden modesty.

Unfortunately, Calixte's uncharacteristic tension caused his amusement to falter. "Really now, I thought it was all very sweet. Tell me, what has you so terribly morose, my prize?"

Calixte lifted a watery gaze to meet her husband's concerned features, "I can't explain why, but I would bet my soul that boy is using Rosalie. Something's not right with him, 'Shard. I feel like I should say something to her. She's our friend. I don't want her to get hurt."

"I quite agree, my dear. As a matter of fact-" He reached a glove-clad hand into his jacket pocket and pulled out the contraptions he had pulled from the master shower and its taps. "You and I are going to keep an eye on that boy and his family, because I refuse to believe this was Rosalie's doing."

"What in the-" Calixte gasped, seeing the bright silver liquid sloshing around in slender tubes made of metal and glass. "Are those mercury canisters?"

Richard's jaw clenched, "I think so, I just found them while replacing the fixtures in the master bath. I haven't told Rosalie yet, I want to be sure of what we have."

The Lilets shared a look, then moved for the first floor guest room, knocking stealthily on the door's face and waiting for the room's occupant to answer.

The door opened a couple inches. The room was dark, except for the green lettering of a computer screen casting its verdant hue along the pale walls. A short bald man with black coke-bottle glasses peered suspiciously up at them.

"What do you want?" He grumbled in a flat, unfriendly voice, wiping his hands on the dark blue apron adorning his chest.

The man was known only as The Metalist. He specialized in the use of illegal and classified metalloid and non-metalloid substances for a variety of nefarious purposes, and contracted Richard to find him safe harbor whilst on the run from some chaos he orchestrated up in Detroit. He'd been at the Haywood home for two weeks, laying low while a tidal wave of law enforcement attempted to hunt him down.

Richard held up the shower head in a gloved hand, "We could use someone of your particular expertise."

The Metalist's hand surged forward and snatched the trinket, his glassy eyes delighted by this new find. He attempted to slam the door closed, put Richard had wedged himself inside, knocking the entry open with his shoulder and striding forward to back the Metalist into a nearby chair.

"That thing isn't leaving our sight." He yanked the chain on the nearby lamp, sending the room into stark relief. "We need to know what it is and how it got here."

The Metalist cackled eerily, "This was not my doing, young man, I don't make it a habit to bite the hand that harbors me. Besides," another heinous titter escaped his lips, "This contraption looks like it's been here for years. The metal fastenings are already rusted, and nearly all the mercury is gone."

"So it is mercury," Calixte whispered, "Why would someone install mercury cylinders in a residential shower head?"

"My dear," the Metalist purred, holding the dismantled fixture to the light once more, "I believe you've found yourself a murder weapon."


Present Day - Unknown Location - February 14th, 2000

A small hand grasped Rosalie's shoulder, shaking her roughly into consciousness.

A chorus of voices hissed and clamored in feverish Spanish, bringing her hurtling back to her present situation.

"Dama...Dama!"

Rosalie was immediately and abundantly awake.

Women and children were scurrying frantically around her, a palpable panic lingering in the air.

A young girl with tousled black hair and a dirty pink t-shirt had been the one to wake her. Her dark eyes were wide with fear as she tried to push Rosalie to her feet.

A middle-aged woman in a tattered sundress joined her, stooping to hoist Rosalie up by her arms.

The action sent another small flare of pain through the limbs, encouraging her to stand as quickly as possible.

Once her feet were solidly under her, she was guided to the rear of the corral with the rest of the occupants.

Women and young girls of various ages huddled together against the mountainside, the older women creating a protective barrier around the youngest, sheltering them as far as possible from the entrance.

"What's going on?" Rosalie asked, stumbling forward. The little girl grasped her hand tightly and pulled her into the huddle, the middle-aged woman filling in the space behind her.

She tried again, rotating so she could see the woman's face, "¿Que esta pasando?"

"El cartel," the woman hissed, pushing her a little deeper into the group, "Los Reyes Sagrados."

The name was very familiar to Rosalie. In her time spent building out her empire in South America, she had heard of the cartel who called themselves The Sacred Kings. They were an uncivilized, brutal bunch responsible for the destruction of hundreds of villages in Colombia and Venezuela. Their primary export was cocaine, but the cartel as a whole dealt in all manner of illicit activity from murder to arson, kidnapping to racketeering.

For the life of her, Rosalie could not piece together what the cartel could possibly want with her. The only plausible explanation she could come up with was that Los Reyes Sagrados had been contracted by a third party to take her. If it were true, there was only one person Rosalie knew was out for her.

The German.

There was no other reasonable explanation for them to choose her, out of all the women in the bar that night.

"Why are we all in the corner?"

"Rojelio." She pointed at a tall man beyond the fence with a medium build and a dark mustache, "He is kind. He warns us ahead of time, so we can try to hide the young girls."

"Does it work?" Rosalie asked, her attention turning toward the gate.

The other woman's eyes followed, a sharp gasp leaving her lips as she saw the three men making their way toward them. Her pupils were only pin-pricks when she turned to face Rosalie once more.

"Not yet."

The three cartel members sidled up to the entrance, unlocking the padlock holding the wooden gate closed before stepping inside, a glint of malice lingering in their eyes.


Palmira, Colombia - February 14th, 2000

"You're a smuggler, Emiliano, one of the best in Colombia," Red stood over the shuddering form of Emiliano Caicedo, a well-known smuggler of both people and contraband throughout Colombia. The men had worked together in the past, and Raymond knew if anyone was trying to take Rosalie, Emiliano's operation was where they would have to start.

"One of my people was taken from me in your territory. I refuse to believe you don't have the slightest inkling of what's going on here."

Kate had directed the band of associates who tore Emiliano from his hideaway thirty minutes ago, depositing him in a wooden chair in the center of the cement basement.

Red proceeded to beat the necessary information out of him, his anger and guilt serving to fuel the barrage of hits he landed on the man he knew held the key to Rosalie's recovery.

They were moments away from her extraction team knocking down their door and he had no more answers than when they started. It had been nearly ten hours since she was taken and still he was empty handed.

Raymond refused to accept defeat, he would demolish every corner of the Colombian underground if that's what it took.

"There will be nothing left of you to bury if something happens to her." He threatened venomously, growling the statement so close to Emiliano's face, the man could feel the warmth of his own breath on his face.

"Raymond."

Dembe's smooth timbre gut the gruff sounds of the room, breaking the menacing haze which had overwhelmed the room.

"Kate needs to speak with you."

Red leveled their captive a deadly glare, "I'll be back shortly."

Emiliano merely coughed feebly in response, a small spatter of blood landing on the ground in front of him.

"Raymond needs answers, Emiliano." Dembe's voice was soft and deceivingly gentle as he held out a cold bottle of water for the bruised and beaten man before him. He and Raymond were playing old-fashioned good-cop, bad-cop. This served to get them the answers they wanted while also allowing the latter a much-needed vent for the anger which roiled furiously in his gut, threatening to cloud his judgement.

Emiliano took the bottle gingerly, not trusting himself to keep down much more than a few small sips.

"He'll kill me if he finds out."

The hoarse whisper was barely audible, even in the quiet of the safehouse basement where their captive was being held.

Dembe shook his head solemnly, "He will kill you slowly if you know the truth and say nothing."

This statement seemed to hit home. Dark, petrified eyes flitted up to Dembe's seeming to ask if he was being serious.

Dembe didn't blink. "Out of all the women who walk this earth, your client had to choose her. I don't think you could have found a more dangerous target if you tried. Raymond will burn your entire country down to its foundations before he allows her to be transported into enemy hands, and her own syndicate is coming to start the blaze. Tell me where she is, Emiliano, and we can avoid a great deal of bloodshed."

"I don't know where they've taken her. I swear."

A trickle of blood ran from Emiliano's hairline, following the lines of his face per gravity's dictates.

"Perhaps not," Dembe conceded, swiping the droplet away from the man's eyes with his thumb, "But you do know who took her, and who contracted them to do so."

Emiliano took several steady, calming breaths, refusing to look at the man across from him.

Dembe stood, bending so he was inches from his face. "This is a time sensitive matter, Emiliano. Rosalie Øllegaard is family to us, and Raymond is rapidly regaining his strength. I doubt you'll survive a second round."

At that moment, Red came barreling back through the door. He'd caught his breath and the anger which threatened to consume him was a roaring inferno once more. He was followed by Kate Kaplan, who quickly signaled that Dembe should step outside.

A pale hue swallowed Emiliano's features, turning his skin sallow in the low light of the basement.

"No, no, no!" He bellowed, scrambling into the far corner of the room, "A drug cartel, it was a drug cartel!"

This did nothing to halt Raymond's momentum. He cornered Emiliano against the wall and lifted him bodily into the air, "That's not good enough, Emiliano."

"Please!"

Red slammed him against the wall, "This is western Colombia," he snarled, "I can't swing a dead goddamn cat without hitting at least six cartels!"

Emiliano dropped, cowering into the floor and covering his head. He flinched and curled into the fetal position when Raymond's deep voice roared once more.

"Which. One."

"Los Reyes Sagrados!" Emiliano yelled, trying like hell to sink into the concrete floor, anything to get away from the man standing over him. "The men who are looking for her, they contracted Los Reyes Sagrados to take her."

Raymond quietened, his breathing still heavy and uneven. He flipped the abandoned wooden chair around so he could sit, his insides rapidly filling with what felt like ice water at the knowledge Rosalie had been taken by one of the most ruthless cartels in all of South America.

Kate stepped in to keep them on topic, "What do we know about Los Reyes Sagrados, Raymond?"

A shaky breath left Red's lungs and hid head fell into his upturned palms. "They're no better than the Taddiken brothers." His voice rumbled wearily from between his hands, "Cruel. Careless. They'll do just about anything for a payday, but they specialize in cocaine and human trafficking. Their contraband arrives alive and on time, but often..." his breath hitched at the very thought, "spoiled."

He allowed the implication to hang in the air, then turned his unfathomable fury back toward Emiliano. "Every moment she spends in the cartel's possession is another moment she could be beaten, tortured, or worse. You're going to tell me who hired them, and you're going to tell me now."

"Two men," Emiliano offered readily, terror evident on his face, "One was white, European, brown hair and a clipped mustache. The other man was Mediterranean, or perhaps Middle Eastern, I'm not sure-"

The explanation was cut off by a bullet tearing through the man's skull.

Red lowered his weapon, which he had drawn and fired the moment Emiliano gave him what he needed to hear.

"Raymond?" Kate questioned, following as he turned on his heel, making for the house's main level.

"He knew."

Kate hurried to keep up with him, taking the stairs two at a time so as not to be left behind.

"Who knew?"

Red threw the basement door open with much more force than strictly necessary, nearly taking the thing off its hinges. "The German and his associate. They knew exactly when and where...The son of a bitch knew we were going to be here."

"Ray."

Ted's voice echoed from the foyer, beckoning him to where a tall, suave-looking man stood flanked by a dozen mercenaries and one stunningly beautiful woman.

"Bon Jou, Monsieur Reddington," the man's voice purred in a smooth accent hinting at Louisiana Creole, "Ze cavalry has arrived."


Flashback - Leslie County, Kentucky - September 1993

"Marry me."

Georgiana and Francis were at a Labor Day barbecue at the Higgs estate when he suddenly and inexplicably knelt on one knee and popped the question.

The proposal had come so completely out of the blue, so entirely too early, that all Georgiana could do was stare in an abject panic.

Everyone was looking at her so expectantly...

Why didn't they look away? Why wouldn't they stop staring?

Francis cleared his throat meaningfully, drawing her attention back to the jewelry box in his hand. Admittedly, the ring was very, very beautiful, but Georgiana hadn't known for certain until that exact moment...

This was not what she wanted.

Absolutely and unequivocally, the house and the picket fence with Francis was the last thing she wanted in this world.

"Can we go somewhere and talk?" She whispered tentatively, reaching to take his wrist and guide him from the ground.

The silence which followed them from the garden and into the main house was so dense Georgiana could hardly breath. She could all but feel the dozens upon dozens of eyes following her as she and Francis retreated to somewhere more private.

Once they reached the lounge, the two sat on the loveseat, neither one speaking for several long minutes.

"I don't think I can do this, Francis," Georgiana began finally, turning to look her boyfriend in the eye.

"You're nervous," he nodded ruefully, "Hesitant. Because this is all going so fast, I get that...but Georgie, you and I have known each other since we were babes. You'll get used to it, I promise."

His response and the tone he used struck a nauseating nerve.

"I have no desire to live a life I have to 'get used to' in order to like. My answer is no. I don't know what I want, Francis, but I know it's not this. I'm sorry."

His features turned ominous, "Don't you think you're being a bit selfish?"

Rather than backing down, Georgiana felt a well of resentment burst inside her, spilling out before she could bite back the words. "Don't you think you're being a bit premature? My god, Frank, we've been dating for six months! I've got a jar of peanut butter that's been around longer than our relationship."

"I'm a catch, you know that, right?" Francis jabbed a thumb at his chest, "Any girl would be lucky to have me and my family."

A condescending brow arched its way to the heavens as Georgiana's mind readily supplied the necessary ammo. "Are you really giving yourself a pat on the back for how awesome you are? You feel the need to do that now, of all times? I know rejection stings, Frank, but Lord Jesus, get a grip."

He vaulted himself off of the couch, standing to tower over her. "I just think you could use a reminder that the sun doesn't rise and set wherever you lay your head, princess."

Georgiana raised herself slowly, gracefully out of her seat, straightening her spine so she was so close to Francis their noses could have touched. "Go to hell, you two-bit entitled caricature of a man's man, and take that dimestore diamond with you."

She held his gaze with her own defiant one as she stepped past him, heading directly for the front door.

"You're a bitch." He hissed, hurling the ring box at Georgiana and missing by several inches.

Her words were acid when she turned around, giving him a sly smile before cutting him off at the knees.

"Better a bitch than a rancher's wife trapped in a loveless marriage to an emasculated debutante constantly sniffing at daddy's heels for a drop of approval."

This silenced Francis like a slap to the face.

Georgiana left immediately, cutting through the lower forty of the Higgs ranch and running across the fields and paddocks of the Haywood property as fast as her feet could carry her.

Reaching the house, Rosalie hurtled through the door, slamming it shut and locking it firmly behind her.

Calixte came hurrying from the study, her face a mask of concern. "My doll, what's going on?"

Rosalie couldn't help the tears which burst from her eyes without warning, "He asked me to marry him. Francis, he asked me to marry him and I- Oh, Calixte, I do not want to marry that man..."

Richard appeared from around the corner, sharing a meaningful look with his wife, "Well, this makes this next conversation much, much easier."

He held up the old shower head from the master suite for Rosalie to see.

"We need to tell you something, chèrie."

"We thought it best to wait until The Metalist was back in town," Calixte explained, taking the item from Richard and placing it in Rosalie's upturned palms. "Richard found it when he was replacing the fixtures upstairs."

"What is it?" Rosalie asked, "That was months ago, 'Shard, why didn't you tell me?"

"I wanted to be certain of what we had before worrying you, Rosalie. I'm sorry." Richard looked it, too. His head was bowed and his eyes fought to remain on the floor, away from his friend's imploring gaze.

"What is this?" She repeated, needing to know the significance of what she held in her hand.

A pair of heavy boots thumped up the hallway, bringing the stout, glassy-eyed figure of the Metalist into full view. "That, my dear girl, is the answer to a great many questions."


The Metalist made a pot of tea and sat at the kitchen table with Rosalie, Richard, and Calixte, slowly explaining the implications of what they had found in the master suite.

"They tested the water."

Rosalie was shaking her head, riddled with disbelief that her parents had been slowly poisoned by these contraptions. "When Daddy fell ill, we had the well examined for contaminants and pollutants. I would have gotten sick-"

"The inspector would only test the source," the Metalist informed her, "Not what came from the taps. Your home runs on its own well water with sewage running to meet up with the public system. The mercury would not show in a test of the wells."

"Surely the hospital would have tested for heavy metals poisoning?" She tried again, looking for anything which could prove this wasn't what happened, that her father wasn't murdered in cold blood.

"Not if they had no reason to assume he'd been exposed." Calixte placed a comforting hand on Rosalies shoulder, "I'm sorry, Rosalie, but from what you mentioned of your parents' health, it sounds just like mercury poisoning."

Richard refilled her teacup, his expression somber. "We wouldn't bring this up unless absolutely necessary, chèrie. From what Calixte and I have heard, the only people who would stand to benefit from your family's downfall are the ranchers around you...Do you think they could have had a hand in this?"

"Tiberius." Rosalie whispered, "Tiberius Welch. His estate borders ours on the northernmost edge. He helped my dad remodel the master suite after my junior year of college, I remember him working on the shower."

The table's occupants turned at the sound of the house phone ringing. Nervous glances were exchanged between them, then Rosalie stood and picked up the phone. "Hello?"

A thick, somber voice echoed through the line, "Georgie?"

Rosalie's eyes fell to the floor, "What do you want, Frank?"

"I just want to talk, please Georgie."

She didn't feel much like talking, there was little left to say between them.

But then her eyes fell on the poisonous contraption sitting in the center of the kitchen table.

"Yeah, okay."

"Really?"

He sounded relieved.

"Yeah, where do you want to meet?"

Calixte and Richard shook their heads, signaling she should hang up immediately.

"What about that hill we went to that night when you came home, where we drank that bottle of strawberry wine?"

Rosalie let out a steadying breath, "Yeah, I'll be there in ten minutes."

"What are you thinking?" Richard growled once she hung up the phone, "For all we know, Francis could be in on it."

"I'm almost sure of it," murmured Rosalie, "This might be my only chance to confront him. I've got to go meet him."

Calixte stood, blocking the doorway to the hallway. "Rosalie, I don't think this is a good idea."

Rosalie reached out and hugged her friend, "I'll be careful, I promise, but I have to do this. I can't spend my life not knowing the truth about what happened."

She released her, snatched up the shower head and jogged from the room, heading out the front door and taking one of the four-runners.

Richard stood solemnly, slipping his firearm from his jacket and checking the clip. "I'm not letting her go alone. Stay here, my prize."

Calixte nodded, stopping her husband with a hand to his chest, pressing her lips passionately to his before shooing him after Rosalie. "Bring her home, mon coeur."


A/N: **Trigger Warning**

The Concierge and the Citadel deals regularly with canon-typical violence.

The end of this chapter contains scenes of such nature. Individuals who are easily triggered by such content are encouraged to skip this section. - xo, Author


Present Day - Unknown Location - February 14th, 2000

The three cartel members closed the gate behind them, two remaining to guard the gate while the largest of the three moved toward the gaggle of women and young girls.

The huddle gave a collective shiver and pressed tightly together.

Rosalie watched as the man thrust out his arms and began tearing women from the group. He grabbed them by their arms, their hair, anything he could grasp.

Her breath caught when his cold, dark eyes swiveled in her direction.

He prowled around the group, then grabbed the woman directly behind Rosalie.

She screeched as she was flung to the ground.

Rosalie tried to cling tightly to the rest of the group, but a rough hand quickly fisted her hair, ripping her from the others.

"Hola, princesa," he grunted, signaling for the other men to open the gate, "We are going to have some fun, you and I."

Rosalie stumbled backward into his chest, her mind speeding through every possible escape scenario. She realized even if she managed to get away from the hulking figure holding her, there was a small gathering of Cartel members waiting outside the cage.

She was trapped, and they knew it.

These men wouldn't leave her be without just cause. They would heckle and taunt, they would beat her and attempt unspeakable violations, Rosalie could tell as much by their demeanor.

The criminal harbored in the darkest recesses of her soul raised her head in disgust. The demons within the young woman roared to the surface, utterly refusing the fate which loomed before her.

Gray eyes turned dark and sharp as razor blades as Rosalie took in the full breadth of the situation.

She couldn't take on the whole cartel, but she was confident she could win in an altercation with the bumbling beast dragging her toward the gate. She needed to ensure she had him alone.

Alone, he could be taken down.

Rosalie allowed several fat tears to fall from her eyes, forcing a drop of the fear she felt to the surface. Just enough to make the man before her feel at ease. She was small, she was vulnerable, she was a woman alone in an impossible situation.

She certainly couldn't be viewed as a threat.

Rosalie saw him take the bait, the most minute drop of his massive shoulders gave him away. "Now, now, princesa. Try to be brave, you have to survive a few more days in our care."

With a burst of speed, she twisted and slid between the man's legs, breaking his hold on her hair. She stood and sprinted, reaching the open gate and praying her plan would work, then she grabbed the padlock and closed the door, locking them both securely within the corral.

The other cartel members peered confusedly at her. A few had risen to block what they thought was an attempted escape, but now stood baffled as Rosalie and their comrade were now locked in the corral together.

The behemoth of a man whipped around, seeing the woman still in the cage with him. A foul, yellow-toothed grin cracked his features. Again, he underestimated the creature he had awoken in Rosalie, a creature she worked day and night to subdue.

Now, that creature, that criminal, was the only thing keeping her alive.

He took one step in her direction, and she was off again. Rosalie leapt up, grabbing the bars making up the top of the corral's cage and swung her legs. With an almighty force, she managed to kick the man across the face as he tried to get closer. He stumbled to the side, letting out a pained snarl.

She dropped from the bars, landing on her feet just in time to take off again.

He pursued her, only to slam himself into the corral's wall, making the wood and metal shudder with the impact.

Women were screeching and shouting all around them, the men outside the cage were yelling to their comrade, demanding he throw them the keys so they could assist.

The man didn't listen, and as Rosalie went to hit him, he backhanded her with a large fist.

The blow sent her sprawling, a spot high on her cheekbone aching as though it had split.

Before Rosalie could gather herself, he was on top of her.

A particular alarm bell began to ring inside Rosalie's head when she heard the sound of his belt buckle disengaging.

A rough, masculine hand slapped her hard across the face, "Just remember, princesa, you brought this on yourself."

A small but heavy boulder the size of a softball rolled into her periphery, and she instinctively closed her fingers around it.

Her pulse was pounding in terror, but her mind had gone blissfully blank.

Rosalie knew her subconscious was trying to dissociate from the trauma which was unfolding, but she couldn't allow it, she pushed against the protective fog which attempted to envelop her mind and forced herself to stay present.

The man on top of her pulled roughly at her belt, and Rosalie lost herself to the darkness unfurling inside her.

All she could see was red.

All she could feel was a white-hot, searing anger in the very depths of her soul.

He would not defile her, of that much, she was absolutely certain.

Swinging her arm as hard as she could, she brought the boulder forcefully into contact with the man's skull.

He leapt back, holding the side of his head where blood was beginning to trickle down. Roaring his fury, he stood to tower over once more, but Rosalie leapt up as well, letting loose a ferocious barrage of hits, repeatedly sending the man stumbling.

The white boulder became stained red with blood, but Rosalie didn't stop. She grasped the collar of his shirt in a tight fist, bringing him down to her level and throwing her arm as hard as she possibly could.

With a sickening crack! she felt his neck give way, and the man went limp. His massive body toppled with Rosalie in tow, falling almost in slow-motion to the center of the dirt.

A deafening silence echoed along the mountainside as Rosalie rose from the crimson-stained dirt, the bloody boulder still clutched tightly in her once neatly manicured fingertips.

Her head lifted slowly, her blonde locks wild and streaked with red, and bestowed a hate-filled scowl upon the remaining cartel members, all of whom were staring, completely horrified, at the mangled face of their compatriot.