Slingin' from the hip, never the heart. | Open Post

[tinstar]

Raylan's job took him everywhere, from Harlan to Los Angeles to Paris. The Marshals service was demanding but Raylan leaned into the work, traveling as needed to get to get his man.

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Some Action and Reveal (their continued little timeline)

[onlyhearmusic]

He loved it when they ran. Not always so much when it was in a sheer panic and they had not thought to their actions. But, ohhh, when they had half a plan in mind or were good at quick-thinking, clever maneuvers, boy did that get his blood pumping. Collins loved it when they ran like that.

This one had decided to run. Collins didn't blame him, the man was intended to be locked up for a very long time and likely didn't stand a chance to getting out early for good behavior or any other redemptive qualities. And Collins did know that aching, painful feeling of being trapped. He remembered how much it rankled and rubbed, how much it hurt, how much it tortured. Some days it felt like he was still there. That he had never left. He was still being tortured. It was just someone else doing the torturing.

(Himself. It was himself. Playing by new rules. It still hurt. He still missed his old life. Craved it. Longed for it. Ached to return to it. His control on that was strenuous at best most days. Some days he wondered why he bothered.)

The man wasn't the most intelligent one out there but he didn't run in a mere panic. The fugitive was spontaneous but there was a fluidity to his actions that was appealing, that and the chaos, the lack of predictability. Collins had had to track the man down twice now on account of losing him and somehow rather than be upset the Irishman was excited.

Collins knew where the man was headed. The area was area was surrounded by wilderness out here, all green and wet, a Florida swamp at its finest. It was not pleasant. Collins knew there was a small business down this line somewhere, a tiny shack really, where a boat or two waited in the water. With the right kinds of contacts and a chunk of money or something sweet enough to barter, the person that owned said shack and boats would help people disappear. Dead or alive.

It was the kind of place the Butcher wouldn't have used--he did his own disposal--but would have had ties to nonetheless. It didn't hurt to have contacts for all sorts of illicit things back when he was just as unlawful. Now it was smart to know about them but steer clear. Except when he knew where a person would run to on their way out. This quarry was not going to make it out.

Collins saw the signs of his prey just before he heard the man struggling through the brush. It was treacherous out here, and no true roads led to the water bogged area for a myriad of reasons, so they were both on foot. Collins thought he might make it there before his prey but catching up to him before the man got there worked all right for him. He was eager to catch the illusive man.

He must have made too much noise though because a few seconds later the sounds he heard coming from ahead suddenly shifted and he knew the prey was running, literally now, towards his last chance at freedom. Collins heard the music pick up its pace and his feet followed suit as he pursued his prey with renewed vigor.