The Good Life

Chapter 5: Stand and Deliver

The lights in the diner – the ones that still functioned – flickered overhead, casting just enough light for Albert to size up his captors. Raiders surrounded them on all sides, either standing or sitting in the booths, most with their weapons drawn, but all of them at least visibly carrying something. Malcolm Harlow stood the closest, casually leaning against a wall to Albert's left with his rifle over his shoulder.

His insufferable smile made Albert want to get up and punch him, but as it was, he and Shitboot couldn't safely move. Malcolm had taken their weapons, sat them down in chairs in the middle of the diner, and implied that very, very bad things would happen to them should they think of standing up.

Shitboot, sitting to Albert's right, glared daggers across at Malcolm.

"You fucking traitor," he growled.

Malcolm chuckled. "Y'can keep saying that all ya want. It ain't gonna help ya."

"But why?" Shitboot pressed. "We would've had these guys if not for you!"

Several of the raiders laughed.

"Now Shitboot, you told me you weren't high today," Malcolm said sardonically, no longer smiling as he gestured to the room with his free hand. "You really think the three of us could've taken all of these guys? By ourselves? Come on, now."

"Not if one of our number was as big a coward as you," Albert spat.

Malcolm frowned. "Now that ain't fair, Albert. I like you. I didn't want it to go like this. But you stirred up the hornet's nest good and proper here, and this was never gonna end any other way. I admire your guts, but come on. I gotta think of my health."

Albert laughed. It was a bitter and painful laugh.

"Your health, huh? You think betraying me was good for your health?" His eyes focused sharply on Malcolm. "You have no idea how wrong you are."

Malcolm tensed, and for a moment, Albert thought he felt just a little bit of fear from the man.

The silence between them was broken as the door to the diner opened, and another three raiders strode in, two of them shadowing a slim, dark-skinned man in front.

Turnpike George, I presume.

He was not particularly tall, but the raiders flanking him were short enough to give him the illusion of height. His face was clean-shaven and youthful, and his hair was short and tidy, not like a typical raider. He did wear studded black leather armour, and had an eyepatch over his right eye, but he lacked the spiky, greasy flair of the rest of the gang. The only distinctly raider-like thing about him was his choice of weapon; he carried a tyre iron on his belt, rather than anything more conventional like a knife or baton, and something told Albert that he had not chosen it for pragmatic reasons.

Without saying a word, the raider leader grabbed a nearby chair, just like the ones Albert and Shitboot were sitting in, and dragged it over. He turned it away from them and sat in it back to front, legs spread either side of the seat and hands clasped in front of him as he leaned over the back to stare them in the eyes.

Turnpike George looked at Shitboot first, and then Albert. He let out a long breath through his nose.

"You two have caused me so much fucking trouble," he said, his bluntness tinged with restrained but noticeable anger. "I never wanted any of this. Do you understand that? These stupid fucking games you're playing? I am not interested. We had a good thing going with Trespa, and I was happy to continue that. Battlemaster was happy to continue that. Trespa may not have been happy, but the old sheriff sure was, and the new sheriff at least listened to him."

The corner of Albert's mouth twitched. "So you guys paid that old bastard Sam to look the other way when your boys came to town?"

"What the hell do you think?" Turnpike George sighed, tilting his head.

Albert shrugged.

"It may not have been perfect, but it was civil," the raider continued. "It was easy, and it was stable, and that's how we all liked it. Nobody had to fight and kill each other over stupid shit. We didn't have to live like animals anymore. Then you come to town and fuck everything up, and Methuselah loses his fucking mind, and now I'm stuck with this shitshow."

"Boo fucking hoo," Albert said with a cold sneer. "So we fucked up your little extortion racket – so what? If you didn't want people resisting you, maybe you shouldn't have been a fucking raider."

Turnpike George sat up, glaring at Albert furiously.

"I am not a raider. I am a businessman, trying to keep this pack of mad dogs tame. Do you know what the Highwaymen used to be like when I was a kid? Savages. Fucking savages. Some of the shit I saw old guys do would chill you to the fucking bone. But when Kane finally bit the dust, and it was Battlemaster's turn to lead, I said to him, 'No. We can be better than this.' And he listened! We tried things my way, and it was better for everyone. We almost had it! Ten more years, and we could've turned this into something fucking legitimate!"

Albert rolled his eyes. "Yes, because Black Toe Joe had such a strong reputation as a legitimate businessman."

"Do not fucking talk to me about Joe!" Turnpike George jabbed a finger at him. "I never wanted that slimy fuck in the gang, and I would've dealt with him on my own if you hadn't made him a corpse first! What he did was exactly the kind of shit I was trying to steer us away from, until you two came along!"

"You still can," Shitboot said with a hopeful note. "There's no reason you can't keep trying to reform the Highwaymen. Battlemaster and Methuselah are dead, so it's all up to you now, isn't it?"

Albert stared at him, incredulous. He knew Shitboot was a soft touch for a bounty hunter, but this hurt almost as much as Malcolm's betrayal. These people were extortionists. They'd taken in a murdering rapist as a member. They'd killed his fucking dog.

"No." Turnpike George shook his head. "It's too late for that now. We killed their sheriff. You have no idea how much these people loved that fucking guy. And he and the old guy were the only ones keeping the town cooperating. Trespa's not gonna forgive this."

Well, that was bullshit. In Albert's experience, the people of Trespa were extremely complacent with the Highwaymen, even Tedd's own bodyguards. It sounded to him like he and Sam Miller had been exaggerating their own importance to the raiders.

"Not to mention we just lost nine good men to this fucking debacle," Turnpike George continued, oblivious to Albert's pondering. "Highwaymen are finished, 'less we stamp the boot down and stamp it hard."

"No!"

Shitboot tried to stand, only for Malcolm to jump in and quickly force him back down, jabbing him in the chest with his rifle.

"Sit the fuck down, Shitboot. You're embarrassing yourself."

"Fuck you, Malcolm!" Shitboot screamed. "You always call me that! That's not my fucking name!"

Malcolm laughed, but his laugh turned into an uncharacteristic sneer.

"Yes it is, because that's what you are. You're shit under my boot. A sad, pathetic fucking mess, and you always have been."

Shitboot glared at him.

"You know my name," he growled. "Fucking use it."

Malcolm rolled his eyes, took another step closer, and grabbed him by the hair. Careful to keep his rifle out of reach, he leaned down, looking the other man directly in the eyes while he smiled condescendingly at him.

"'Courier' is not a name, Shitboot," he said sweetly, as if explaining to a child. "It's a fucking occupation."

Albert raised an eyebrow, but his companion was unbowed, gritting his teeth and snarling in Malcolm's grasp.

"The. My name is the fucking Courier, and I'll make you choke on it with your last breath, you long streak of piss!"

"ENOUGH!" Turnpike George shouted, picking up his chair and slamming it into the ground. "I've had enough of your bullshit! All of you! Malcolm, take these two outside and put a bullet in their fucking skulls. I'm sick of listening to you arguing with them."

"With pleasure."

"Wait, wait, wait!" Shitboot - or the Courier, Albert supposed - protested as Malcolm dragged him up out of his seat. "You're just going to take us out and shoot us? Just like that? How is that civil?"

Another raider had just moved to grab Albert by the arm and haul him up when Turnpike George raised his hand.

"Hold up," he said, with pointed looks to Malcolm and the other raider. "Okay then, Shitboot, or Courier, or whatever the fuck you're called. What's the civil way to deal with this?"

Albert stared at the Courier, watching the sweat running down his forehead as his eyes alertly danced between every raider in the room. He recognised that look, even if it was the first time seeing it on his face. It was the look of a man calculating the odds.

He tried not to smile.

"If you gotta kill us, a last request at least is fair, right?" the Courier asked.

Turnpike George appeared to mull it over, settling back down in his chair.

"Fair... Alright. Fair. I can be fair. What do you want?"

The Courier, still in Malcolm's grasp, slowly opened up his coat and reached towards an inner pocket. Several guns raised to point at him, and he froze, before reaching in more slowly and pulling out a packet of cigarettes.

"One last smoke alright?" he asked, jiggling the packet.

The raiders relaxed, lowering their guns, and Malcolm rolled his eyes again as he let go.

"Fucking typical."

Turnpike George nodded solemnly. "Alright. I won't deny a man his last smoke."

"Thanks."

Placing the cigarette in his mouth, the Courier put the packet back in his inner pocket, and went to draw a lighter.

Except it wasn't a lighter he drew. It was a plasma grenade with its pin pulled, his hand closed tight around the safety lever.

Raiders scrambled back away from them, cursing and shouting, while Malcolm quickly raised his rifle, and Turnpike George stumbled as he jumped out of his chair.

"Don't fucking move or I blow us all away!" the Courier screamed, unlit cigarette dropping from his mouth.

A few other raiders joined Malcolm in pointing weapons their way, but it was already too late. They were in a stand-off.

A grin split Albert's face from ear to ear.

"Don't be a fucking moron, Shitboot!" said Malcolm, eyes wide as he aimed his rifle at him.

"Call me Shitboot one more time," the Courier said, raising the grenade higher.

Malcolm bit his lip and said nothing.

"How the fuck did he slip that by all of you?" Turnpike George shouted at the other raiders around him. "Do you fuckers not think it would be a good idea to check for these things?"

"I did check him!" the raider to Albert's right spluttered, backing up against the wall. "He didn't have that before! There was no place he could've hidden it! I would've felt!"

"You dumb fuck!" Turnpike George screamed.

"Don't blame him too harshly," the Courier said, casually walking a few steps forward, making all the raiders back away at once. "I have really deep pockets."

A raucous laugh broke through Albert's grin. He couldn't help it; this shit was just too funny.

"Hey, don't do anything crazy now." Turnpike George lifted a warning finger, backing away another step. "We can talk this out."

"I was done talking this out when you told Fuckstick over there to take us out back and shoot us. You act like you're some reasonable businessman, but you're just like all the rest. I didn't put up with this shit from my fucking brother, and I'm sure as shit not putting up with it from you! So back the fuck off and let us go, or I'm blowing this place sky-high!"

"Come on, now..." said Turnpike George, raising his hands. "You don't wanna do that. You might take a few of us out, but you'll die too."

"Like I give a shit," the Courier snarled.

"And the old man? You okay with blowing him away too?"

"Ha!" said Albert. "I'm eighty-six years old. I've been ready to die for a long time. Do it, son! Nuke these fuckers!"

The Courier looked back over his shoulder at Albert, incredulous, but his surprise soon turned into a grin of his own.

"Uh... sir?" Malcolm cleared his throat. "They're not bluffing. These guys are crazy enough to do it."

Turnpike George swallowed.

"Alright. Alright! Let them go. Everyone, guns down! Back up, slowly!"

As the raider stepped back and the Courier inched forward, Albert casually stretched in his seat and stood up, holding out a hand in Malcolm's direction.

"Oh, by the way, give me your fucking rifle."

The stalemate held long enough for Albert to retrieve the wagon. The main gate was open when he rode back into the compound, and the road outside was clear, so he turned the wagon around toward the exit, ready for a quick getaway. He parked with the diner to the wagon's right, close enough for his partner to board quickly. The entire two dozen or so remaining Highwaymen were all still trapped in the stand-off inside, and Albert could see Malcolm Harlow and Turnpike George looking at him through the windows.

He glared at them reproachfully, but he wasn't there for them. Not yet, anyway.

Climbing out the wagon with the hunting rifle he'd taken from Malcolm, he ignored the raiders, and instead hobbled past the diner and into the Red Rocket station, trying to ignore the still stinging pain in his ankle. There in the corridor beside the entrance to the garage, he found Max, still lying in a bloody heap, his eyes open, glassy, and lifeless. His pistol also lay beside him, thankfully still intact after Malcolm shot it out of his hand.

Albert sighed, first collecting the gun, and then grabbing a filthy, oil-stained towel from one of the nearby surfaces as he began bundling up Max's body.

How many dogs had he outlived now? Of course he'd never forget his first, could never forget Dogmeat, but there had been so many others over the years, especially in Arroyo. Sandy. Grognak. Chitsa. Ripper. Conventional wisdom said he'd forget about them, sooner or later, but he never did. And burying them never got any easier.

He soon emerged from the station again, carrying Max in his arms, now wrapped up in the dirty towels. He grimly loaded the dog onto the back of the cart, while the Courier slowly backed out of the diner, and the Highwaymen followed him outside at a careful distance.

Taking a breath and steeling himself, Albert turned around to face Malcolm again. He wasn't quite so smug anymore, instead regarding him with a wary look as Albert trained Malcolm's own rifle on him. The Courier still held his plasma grenade aloft as he boarded the back of the wagon as well.

"You know this isn't over, right?" Turnpike George called from the back of the group. "You might get away now, but after this, we're coming for you. Could've done it nice and clean, right here. Now Trespa will have to suffer for it."

"Big talk," said Albert, climbing into the driver's seat, and switching out the rifle for his own gun. "Coming from small men."

Turnpike George bristled. Albert took the reins in one hand, and held his pistol in the other, still pointed towards the crowd. Still pointed towards Malcolm Harlow.

...Fuck it.

He whipped the reins at the exact moment he fired.

Malcolm's eyes went wide with shock for the split second he still lived, just long enough for him to realise he'd just had a chunk of his neck blown out by a .223 full metal jacket. Then he crumpled, lifeless, to the dirt, one more bloody heap in the compound.

The horses whinnied. The wagon lurched forward. The Highwaymen shouted, and Albert felt the gunshots that followed whizzing over their heads.

"Fuck!" the Courier yelled.

He must've realised that there was no point hanging onto the grenade any longer, because his arm swung overhead. The next thing Albert knew, there was a huge green explosion behind them as they surged out of the service station and ahead into the ruined town. More screams and yells followed, fading slowly into the distance as the horses thundered onwards.

"Mother of fuck!" said the Courier, drawing his revolver. "You couldn't have given me a little warning you were going to do that?"

"You know how I operate, kid," said Albert, keeping his eyes on the road. "Shock and awe."

The ruined buildings passed them by in a blur, the thundering of hooves on concrete and the wind blowing by drowning out any clarity of sensation. Albert's blood was pumping like he was twenty-one again. The rage was gone, replaced by a sense of grim satisfaction, but the adrenaline was still there.

"Shit!"

The Courier suddenly fired three shots of his revolver behind them. Albert quickly twisted his neck around to see a shabby red-painted Chryslus just coming into view from around one of the buildings they'd passed.

"They're on us!" the Courier shouted.

"Got any more grenades, kid?"

"Not on me!"

"Can you hold 'em off?" asked Albert, holding out Malcolm's rifle.

The Courier fired another three shots from his revolver, and quickly began reloading.

"Gonna be honest with you, old man. I'm a passable shot with this thing, but I'm not great, and I'm even worse with a rifle!"

Albert silently cursed.

"Alright, take the reins then!"

The Chryslus was fast approaching, and coming up behind it was that blue Corvega with that stupid spear welded to the hood.

Wasting no time, the Courier jumped over into the front, and Albert handed him the reins, climbing over into the back as he dug around in his pouch.

He knew what he needed for this. More Mentats. It wouldn't do much for his reaction times, but it would help his focus and sharpen his thinking for a little bit longer, maybe just enough to give him the edge. He still would've killed for some Turbo or Steady at that moment, but this would have to do.

Downing the pills, Albert lay down on his stomach to minimise his exposure, lined up his first shot, and fired the rifle from the back of the wagon.

The red Chryslus swerved. He couldn't tell if he'd hit anybody inside, but he'd definitely hit the vehicle at least. Albert grinned, and aimed his next shots lower. He fired a few times without result, and the other vehicle responded by accelerating.

They were pretty much caught up now, and one of the raiders took the opportunity to lean out the window and spray them with submachine gun fire. Albert kept low, covering his head while he waited for the gunfire to pause, and then took careful aim. This close, it was much less of a crapshoot, and he struck the gunner directly in the bicep.

The man cried out, dropping his weapon, which bounced away behind them along the road. Albert's next shot hit him in the nipple, and he slipped back inside the vehicle, screaming, as it began to slow down and back off.

The blue Corvega was still coming, though. It thundered past, overtaking their wagon as another raider leaned out the side and fired rapid bursts of his combat shotgun. The Courier had to duck, but Albert wasted no time returning fire, causing him to retreat back inside.

The driver was not deterred. The blue Corvega pulled even further ahead, and with a screech of burning rubber, turned around a hundred and eighty degrees to face them head on.

"What the fuck!" the Courier shouted.

Albert stared on in shock as the Corvega accelerated towards them, and braced for impact. He'd always thought that the spear welded onto the front was a supremely dumb idea. A battering ram made sense, but a spear? Anything solid that it hit would probably just crumple it, or worse, tear the Corvega's hood off. But in a joust between a giant hunk of spiky metal and a pair of soft and squishy horses, the car would win.

The Courier clearly thought the same, screaming at the top of his lungs as the Corvega approached, before suddenly yanking the reins to the side.

The wagon lurched, the wheels on the right side briefly lifting up into the air. The car narrowly passed them by, but now they were off-road, the horses' hooves stamping across muddy grass rather than cracked concrete.

Albert looked behind. The Corvega was turning around, and the red Chryslus was still coming.

"Son, we need to get into the trees!" he shouted, firing at the cars again. "Gotta lose 'em!"

"Way ahead of you!"

They passed through a gap in a line of wire fencing surrounding one of the old pre-war properties as Albert reloaded. The wagon barely fit through; the cars, too wide, both simply crashed through it instead. The Corvega's spear snapped off, and the Chryslus uprooted the nearby fenceposts, dragging a reel of chickenwire with it, until the fencing finally snapped and was dragged under its wheels.

More submachine gun fire came from the red Chryslus as it approached again, leaving a line of tracks behind it in the mud. There was a different man in the passenger seat this time, a bald guy, who was taking better cover behind the car door as he fired.

Albert held his aim steady. He only needed one good shot.

Two more seconds, and he got it. The Chryslus' front tyre burst, and the effect was immediate. The car rapidly slid from side to side, spinning out until it came to a complete stop, facing directly away from them. The bald man in the passenger seat acted fast, jumping out to continue shooting at them on foot. He was too far to get a clear shot at Albert anymore, but by blind luck, a stray shot narrowly passed his head and clipped his shoulder.

Albert seethed for a second, but ignored it and continued returning fire as the Chryslus moved further and further behind them.

Meanwhile, the Corvega was still coming.

Albert grit his teeth as he reloaded again, ignoring the stinging pain in his shoulder. It wasn't serious enough to stop for.

I'm not equipped for this shit, he thought. I've never had to fight off enemies in cars before! I should've prepared better!

If only he'd been on Mentats when he'd been planning this operation. If only he'd been on them when they linked up with Malcolm. Maybe he could've anticipated all of this.

That was the trouble with getting old. It wasn't just his body that'd aged. Even his mind was slowing down.

Suddenly, the sky was blotted out by shadows, as they passed from the field into the trees. Albert briefly glanced behind him at the Courier, and then down over the edge of the wagon. They were following a narrow dirt road through the forest, a line of trees either side of them. The Corvega was still behind them, but now it was forced down the same narrow path as them. It was too fast to escape, but equally, it was too boxed in to outmanoeuvre them.

If only they'd had another grenade on them, Albert could've ended this chase right here and now. As it was, all he could do was ready his rifle and line up his shot.

A few bullets through the windscreen on the driver's side did it. The car swerved from side to side, either to avoid the shots or in reaction to the driver's pain. Albert couldn't tell which. But it didn't matter, because one of those swerves finally took the Corvega off-road.

Straight into a ditch.

"Yeah!" Albert shouted. "Get fucked!"

He extended a middle finger with his good arm until they disappeared from sight behind the trees and the curve of the road, and then finally slumped back against the back of the seats, groaning.

"Fucking Highwaymen," he spat, nursing his shoulder.

"Did they get ya?" asked the Courier, looking back in concern.

"I'll live," Albert grunted as he lifted himself over and into the front again. "Just put some distance between us and them. It ain't impossible they'll get out of there."

"Here." The Courier rummaged around inside his coat, pulling out a familiar syringe. "Got a stimpak I was saving."

"Thank fuck. Give it here."

Albert opened his coat, pulled down his undershirt, and carefully stabbed the stimpak into his shoulder, near the wound. It did nothing for the pain, but the effect was immediate, as the wound began very slowly closing right before his eyes.

He let out a long groan, leaning back in his seat.

"Fucking Highwaymen," he muttered.

"Yeah, you said that."

Albert dug around in his bag until he found his trusty Vault 13 canteen, and took a long sip of the last water he had left. Between the stimpak and all the chems, he was feeling pretty dried up.

"That was a close fucking call back there," he grumbled. "Too close."

"You shot at them when they were letting us go!" the Courier shouted. "What the fuck did you expect?"

Albert only laughed.

"You really believe they were letting us go? You saw how fast their cars were. There was no getting away from that on the open road, and no outfighting them there, either. What I did was a tactical choice."

The Courier snorted. "Yeah, I'm sure that's why you did it."

"And what the fuck was all that about him still being able to reform the gang, anyway? Was that just trying to talk your way out, or did you really believe that horseshit?"

"Until he tried to execute us, yes." The Courier grit his teeth, keeping his eyes on the road rather than on Albert. "I want to believe in second chances. I want to believe that people can change if they try. I thought you did too, but I guess that little motivational speech in Sadie's was horseshit too, huh?"

"That ain't the same!" Albert growled, massaging his shoulder. "You're a good kid who made a mistake and fell off the wagon. The Highwaymen are scum masquerading as civilized people."

"I know. But they all had to start somewhere, didn't they? You think I ever wanted to be a bounty hunter? You think I ever wanted to be this?" The Courier gestured up and down his body. "Life made me this way. A bad environment and shitty people. It's the same for raiders."

"Being a raider is a choice," said Albert. "I have no sympathy for them. I believe people reap what they sow. If what they sow is death and misery, then they have it coming."

The Courier huffed in undisguised annoyance, still not looking at Albert.

"I know. Trust me, I fucking know. I learned the hard way that not everyone is worth saving. But that doesn't mean we shouldn't try. If I see someone in a pit, I offer them a hand. Whether they take it is up to them, but either way's better than just leaving them there, or kicking them deeper down, otherwise they just end up like I was when you first found me."

"But why offer a hand to fucking raiders?"

"Because I wanted to believe him, alright?!" the Courier shouted, finally turning to him with a furious glare. "I wanted to believe that without Methuselah to worry about, a better solution was possible! That this was one of those wonderful rare times where nobody else needed to die! I'm sorry, okay? I'm sorry that for a fleeting fucking second, I had a little bit of hope. Fuck! It's like working with Malcolm all over again!"

Albert's face fell, and he slouched back in his seat and sighed, hand still at his shoulder as he stared up at the sky.

The Courier's look softened, and he turned away back to the road.

"...I'm sorry. That was unfair. Look, I understand, okay? I'm sorry about your dog. Malcolm was a bastard, no doubt about it. He got what he deserved, and I ain't sad to see him go. And maybe you're right about the rest of the Highwaymen, too. Maybe what you did to Malcolm and Battlemaster and the rest gave us the best fighting chance in the end. It's just... you're a little intense, y'know? I like to be methodical about this shit. Feel it out, see if there's any other way. And I like some forewarning before going in guns blazing."

Albert laughed. It was a painful, dry laugh, almost more of a wheeze.

"This coming from the man who pulled a plasma grenade out of his ass and threatened to blow up a whole room full of raiders. How the hell did you hide that from them, anyway?"

The Courier simply shrugged. "Told you, I got deep pockets."

Albert smiled and shook his head.

"Well, it worked out in our favour this time, so I won't question a good thing."

As he leaned back in his seat, he let out a short groan. His shoulder still ached, his foot still stung, and his vision seemed to blur for a second as a haze came over his mind.

The Courier glanced aside at him, brow furrowed in concern.

"...You okay?"

"Yeah... I think the chems are starting to wear off. They don't last long for me. I have a resistance to 'em."

The Courier considered him for a moment.

"Coming down from Mentats ain't fun," he said quietly. "Feel free to sleep it off. I'll wake you when we get back to Trespa."

Albert grunted, folding his arms as he slouched over and closed his eyes.

"Thanks, kid. I'll cya on the other side."

Author's notes:

Chapter theme:

The Highwaymen - The Highwayman

The Highwaymen are my favourite faction in this story (despite how little time we actually spend with them), and they're inspired by a few different sources.

Aesthetically, and in terms of their use of cars, they obviously draw primarily from the Mad Max series. Battlemaster in particular is mocked for his name because he's basically a Mad Max character in the Fallout universe. But as a group, they're also drawing from Fallout lore itself. The 80s tribe (conceived for Joshua Sawyer's unofficial Fallout tabletop game, and officially mentioned in canon in Honest Hearts), are also raiders who use vehicles, setting a precedent for groups like the Highwaymen to exist in this setting. And operational cars in this series in general of course originates with the Chosen One's Highwayman in Fallout 2, so working vehicles appearing in this story also thematically reinforces that this takes place between the first two games.

Speaking of which, the Highwaymen's name in-universe obviously comes from the Chryslus Highwayman model of cars (as well as them being literal highwaymen). But on a meta level, they're also named after the Highwaymen supergroup that Johnny Cash was a part of, and in particular the song for which the group was named, "The Highwayman," which is this chapter's theme (though ironically, in the context of this story, the song is more about the Courier than it is about the actual Highwaymen).

But when it comes to the plot, characters, and themes of this story (particularly as they concern the Highwaymen), I think that the most important specific inspiration I could name is True Grit. In particular, I would cite Lucky Ned Pepper as the inspiration behind Turnpike George, and Battlemaster and Black Toe Joe are my takes on Tom Chaney.

Spoilers for a fifty-year-old movie here, but one thing I always found interesting about True Grit is that while Ned may have been the leader of the outlaw gang that Mattie and Rooster Cogburn were hunting (and thus kind of the main villain by default), he really didn't want any part in it. He was dragged into being the antagonist of the story against his own will, because his underling, Tom Chaney, fucked everything up and brought all this trouble down on their heads by provoking Mattie's quest for vengeance. Ned himself was fairly pragmatic, reasonable, and easygoing, in his own way. For the antagonist, he didn't do much antagonising. It was all Chaney's fault. But he was the leader, so once the heroes were coming for him, he did what he had to do.

Turnpike George, in this story, is in a similar situation. As he says, he has no interest in having a huge fight for no good reason. And between him, Battlemaster, Methuselah, and the traitorous Malcolm, he was probably the least likely person to end up being the main villain of the story. He's a pretty understated personality in my opinion, and he doesn't even really want to do any of this, personally. But much like Ned Pepper, he feels like he doesn't have a choice anymore, since the protagonists forced his hand. He didn't want trouble, but thanks to Albert, trouble found him nonetheless.