I Knew A Guy - Chapter Nine

Raylan ends the call and stands up to lean over the barrier where Tim is staring at his computer screen.

"That was Boyd," he says.

Tim whips his head around. "And?"

"And he's arranged a meet with Mark and the gang for Saturday evening."

"After that move at the bar, I figured any negotiating between them was over," Tim says. "Especially with us there."

"You've got to know Boyd," Raylan remarks, "He'll probably work a deal with St. Peter to let him in the pearly gates when the time comes and he'll make arrangements at the other end for visiting rights."

"Where's the meeting?"

"The Cochrane house."

"What? That's insane. They must know we're watching it," Tim exclaims. "That's just plain stupid."

"Well, I think we've already determined that this isn't the brightest bunch. Presents us with a little problem though," Raylan says, looking meaningfully at Tim.

Tim is already thinking along the same lines. "I'll figure something out with Frisk," he says.

Raylan heads into Art's office to discuss the latest development.

The marshals gather in the parking lot Saturday afternoon and split up into different vehicles. Rachel, Tim and Art get into the same car with Raylan driving. As he turns out of the courthouse parking lot Raylan asks Tim about Frisk.

"I couldn't just tell him to stay away," says Tim. "He'd just be blabbing about it to his brother. Frisk can't help himself."

"What did you do, then?"

"Luckily, Gangstagrass is playing The Elephant Room in Louisville tonight. I got him two tickets and some spending money. He was wigging out," laughs Tim. "Called a school friend up to invite him. Frisk said the friend has a car. They were leaving today after lunch."

"What the hell is Gangstagrass?" asks Art.

"It's an inner city lawn care company," Tim replies, straight-faced.

"Bullshit."

"It's a band that does hillbilly rap," Rachel puts in, rescuing Art.

"I didn't think that was your kind of music," Raylan says to her, surprised. "I had you down as a Bessie Smith gal."

"As a matter of fact, I have her collection," Rachel replies. "But I'll listen to just about anything, as long as it's good. I guess you could say my taste is eclectic. I just like music. I don't do much rap, or bluegrass for that matter, but living with a 12-year-old keeps me current."

"Heard any Hayseed Dixie?" Tim asks her. "I had a friend come through town and drag me out to see them. I've never heard AC/DC done quite like that."

"Christ, you're making me feel old," grumbles Art.

As they're approaching Closplint, Art turns to Tim.

"I still think I'd like you on a rifle for this one," he says.

"I figured. I've been thinking about it," Tim responds. "Let me off early. There's a turn before you come up to the house. I can find a spot on the hill facing the front door without anyone seeing me. Give me 15 minutes to get set up."

Art nods and says to no one in particular, "I'm hoping this all goes down pretty quietly. I guess that goes without saying."

Rachel smiles at Art, appreciates that he's worrying about them. "They probably won't even be there," she says. "It wouldn't be the first time."

"Boyd's guy said he watched them pull in this morning," Raylan confirms.

"And you trust him?" Art peers at Raylan in disbelief. He knows how often these operations are a bust, and not the kind that ends up with someone in handcuffs.

"As far as I can."

At the turn, Raylan slows the car down and pulls over to the side of the road, the convoy behind him following. Tim climbs out and opens the back. He unzips the rifle case and assembles the weapon, stuffing extra clips in his pocket out of habit. Shutting the trunk he jogs across the road and heads up the hill into the woods. Raylan waits a bit longer than the 15 minutes and then pulls out.

He eases the car over to the side of the road, out of sight of the house before the lane way. The teams assemble, putting on vests and checking weapons, then move to cover their areas. Rachel and Raylan's team approaches from the front with a ram for the door. Guns drawn and ready, Rachel and Raylan take point, moving up the porch stairs and positioning themselves either side of the front door. Raylan takes a quick glance behind him at the hill where Tim should be set up. He was concerned that the angle wouldn't be good for a clear view of the porch, but the hill isn't as steep as he remembers. He nods at Rachel, then reaches over and pounds on the door.

"US Marshals. We have a federal warrant. Everyone, step outside with your hands in the air," Rachel yells.

She's got a good voice when she opens up – it carries well. There's no mistaking that the occupants of the house have heard her. There's sudden panicked movement inside.

"Don't shoot," a man's voice calls from inside. "We're coming out. We're not armed."

The door opens and Raylan stands ready, gun pointed at the chest of the first figure to appear. A man steps out timidly, hands straight up over his head. He gets passed down the stairs to the waiting marshals, checked for weapons and cuffed. Two more come out, then a fourth and a fifth in rapid succession. The porch is crowded now. When Mark Cochrane strides across the threshold and pulls a shotgun up at Raylan's head, Raylan can't get clear to shoot him. His only move is to throw himself backward over the railing.

Rachel fires two shots before Raylan even hits the ground. Mark's body lurches sideways from the impact of her bullets. Behind him, Stick, a snarling streak, leaps out of the door at Rachel and sinks his teeth into her arm. Another man, still inside, yells and opens fire, running out the door and pointing a gun at Rachel who's struggling with the dog. It all happens quickly. The first two shots go wide, but the shooter has moved into view with the gun right in Rachel's face for the third. Raylan is already up and running for the steps when he hears the rifle fire and he sees the shooter slump to the floor. A second crack and the dog drops.

Raylan takes the steps two at a time, gun ready. He checks first that there are no more threats, that Mark is dead, that the other shooter is dead. He stops beside the second shooter. He was taken down with a perfectly placed shot, there's an entry hole by the left ear and a pool of blood spreading out underneath – it's Frisk. He stares at the body for a moment then steps over him to Rachel.

"Jesus," she says softly. She's cradling her arm, shaking.

Raylan hears Art calling for a team to check the house.

In the pause, after the arrests, the ambulance sirens, after he's helped Rachel, still shaking, down from the porch and seated her on the step with a paramedic, Raylan looks around the scene for Tim. There's no mistaking the sound of a rifle shot, the shot that killed Frisk. Raylan starts to worry when he can't see him. He stops a fellow marshal – a shake of the head. He asks the next person – no, no Tim.

He locates Art.

"Art, have you seen Tim since…" he points vaguely toward the house where the coroner is zipping up another bag.

Art starts looking around, too. Starts looking concerned.

"Shit," Raylan curses and heads away from the house, up the hill where he imagines Tim would set up.

It doesn't take long to find him behind a small mound by a clump of oaks. He's lying on his back, his rifle across his chest, squinting up through the leaves of the trees to the darkening sky. He quickly wipes a hand across his face when he hears Raylan coming, but it doesn't work to hide anything. He's only made it worse by smearing dirt across his cheeks.

"Hey."

"Hey," Tim replies.

"It was good, Tim," he says quietly but insistently. "You had no choice. Rachel is some shook up."

Tim looks over. He's raw. Raylan sits down, leaning up against a tree. He starts picking at the leaves and twigs on the ground.

He thinks he gets it now; he understands the point of Tim's story.

a/n: Thanks to everyone for reading, reviewing and commenting.