Chapter Text
oOo
Raylan had been baking in his Lincoln for a while now. He was parked around the corner of Johnny’s bar and watched the last of the midday patrons shuffle out into the stifling Kentucky summer heat.
Cally Jack Maynard’s file lay open on the passenger seat, the picture showing a heavyset guy with cold green eyes and a nasty half-smile who was well past his prime. While age might mellow some men, this one merely got more vicious after spending most of his life in the cooler. He had killed two guards in his strife for freedom last week and was considered armed and dangerous.
It was still a mystery to the U.S. Marshal Service what Cally might be looking for in Harlan of all places. Tim’s background check at least didn’t unearth any connections to Kentucky whatsoever. That’s why Raylan’s first stop here was the redecorated bar Boyd and Johnny had reclaimed for their purposes. With stiff drinks, people talked, and maybe either of them had heard something or other about this guy over the grapevine. Usually they might not be too forthcoming with tips about other criminals but this particular fugitive with his rep for shooting his way out was bad news all around. Certainly not anyone Boyd or Johnny would want to associate themselves with while maintaining this mostly legal bar business as cover for whatever else Boyd might have up his sleeve these days.
Raylan picked the photo up and shoved it into his Jeans pocket before exiting his car with a heavy sigh. The moment he had crossed the street, he kept to the shadows of the bar’s adjacent buildings to shield him a little from the burning sun. The bell above the door heralded his entrance and a quick look around the interior confirmed there were no more patrons whiling their time away for now.
“Johnny, you seen Boyd around?” he called across the empty room, already striding toward the back room like he owned the place.
Behind the closed wooden door, Raylan could hear the tell-tale squeaking of Johnny’s wheelchair as the other man answered. “Raylan, that you? Boyd’s out gettin’ supplies.”
“Maybe you can help me then.”
“I’ll be right–” Before Johnny could finish his sentence, Raylan already turned the knob.
“Stay put, I’m comin’. Ain’t no bother,” the marshal assured entirely too enthusiastically and yanked the door open. He concluded Johnny must be hiding something interesting if he didn’t want anyone snooping around in there. Raylan didn’t even hide his curious gaze as he took in the back room with the flustered man in question sitting in front of his cluttered desk, wheelchair half turned toward the entrance.
“Raylan...”
Movement in the periphery of his right eye was the only warning Johnny might not be alone. Pain exploded in his temple a heartbeat later, his head bounced off the door jamb, and everything went black even before he hit the tiled floor.
~o~
“The fuck was that for?!” Johnny exclaimed, trying to cover his own uncertainty in the face of this unprovoked violence with exasperation.
The stranger standing next to the door remained unfazed though. He wiped the barrel of his gun on his pants leg where a small spatter of blood stained the polished steel and regarded the felled man suspiciously. He pushed the tip of his dirty shoe against Raylan’s hip, where the marshal star, attached to the belt, reflected the light of the overhead lamp, and nodded to himself. The weapon lifted in Johnny’s direction, followed by a distrustful glare, while he bent down and pulled Raylan’s holster free, disarming him.
“Thought I saw government plates out front. You cozying up with them feds?” The sturdy man cocked his gun. “Maybe you even working for them.”
“No, ‘course not.” Johnny raised his hands in a placating gesture but the other looked unconvinced.
Clearly dismissing the wheelchair-bound man as a threat for now, the man pointed his weapon back at the unconscious marshal on the floor.
“Only one way to deal with this,” he murmured. But just as he steadied his grip and was about to pull the trigger, the bell chimed once more and Boyd walked up to the back room.
“Whoa, hold on there,” the dark-haired man had his sig out in no time flat, aiming at the stocky stranger. “You fixin’ to make a mess in my cousin’s bar?”
“Don’t know who you are but he’s got feds running in and out of this place unchecked.”
“The name’s Boyd Crowder, and this ain’t no cops or the like spyin’ around.”
“Cal Maynard,” the stranger returned the introduction without lowering his weapon. “Seemed awful familiar, these two.” He glanced warily at Johnny for a second.
Boyd gave the supine man a non too gentle nudge with his boot. “Raylan here’s been playing ball with cousin Johnny since they were tads.”
“Don’t care if they were playing hooky. The fed goes; end of story.”
“Fair. Just allow me to propose how we’re doin’ things a little different down here.” Boyd offered his most winning smile. “Got some nice, deep mine shafts not far out. I’ll show you where and help you get rid of him. Nobody’s gonna find no body, and ain’t nobody scrubbin’ blood off the tiles for hours.”
Maynard contemplated the suggestion for a moment that seemed endless. Boyd’s heart was racing a mile a minute but he had to keep a cool exterior, lest he doom them all. Nothing beat the horror he had felt when he came back from his supply run, only to find Raylan about to be shot like a dog by some fucking stranger.
At last Maynard gave what passed for a unanimous expression and clapped the other’s shoulder in an altogether too familiar manner, and Boyd felt he could breathe again.
“Been told you’re the man to talk to around here to get things done... or in my case, disappear for good.”
“Disappear you say. That we can do, don’t you worry.” Boyd’s toothy grin was just this side of too bright.
To be continued