Those first daring steps onto an empty stage were a feeling that one could not quite describe, or forget.

It was if Lana was walking on a rather ill-promised, rickety old bridge over a deep canyon – never quite knowing whether this experience could be an encapsulating, adrenaline frenzying rush or be the thing to knock her down to nothing.

Most of the time it was the latter, and the doubts always niggled away right in the back of her head until the very moment her hands were wrapped tightly around the microphone stand, long cherry red nails glistening in the dreamy lights and her hazel eyes gazed out across a sea of faces that seemed to change every Saturday night.

A lush company of full flushed strings began to fill the echoing structure of the concert hall, a graceful, enchanting and entirely beautiful piece of music that was made even better the moment Lana's red lips parted and she crooned those first few romantic lyrics.

Four rows from the front, and very much feeling like a fish out of water, a certain gunslinger was watching her every movements and softly sang words, finding himself rather guilty for paying more attention that he should've done to those lyrics.

'It isn't that hard boy, to like you – or love you.'

For a man who was about to be involved in the songstress' kidnapping, Arthur was thinking a lot about this rather sultry composition's content. Glancing cautiously to the side of the stage, Arthur caught sight of Harper's personal viewing box – a posh perch for the old crow. Morgan wondered about this soft song, with it's starry eyed lyrics of some love struck darling. Had she written such a meaningful and deeply romantic song like this... about a man like Harper?

The outlaw was consciously making an effort to make himself not look like he was pondering over every lyric, or watching the way she swayed softly by the microphone, hands caressing against the thin stem like some lover.

Unlike his mentor, who was staring away like a child in a sweet shop. Lana was a rather spectacular view, there was no denying that – but it seemed Dutch would gladly veer dangerously between the lines of playing the role of a volatile kidnapper and some kind of saviour to try to win her favour. Arthur could see how Dutch was going to play this out before it even happened.

Up on that stage however, Lana found herself in another world. A world that offered safety and sanctuary from the cruel reality of her star studded but tear stained life. These songs that won her fans and fame, they weren't written from the heart like she wished they were. Such dreamy, love struck lyrics could not bloom from this weathered, shrivelled weed of a relationship. To draw such inspiration, the singer had resorted to romance novels, plays – anything she could get her hands on that filled her head with happy things of what love really should be like....

The thoughts she tried so hard to fight off from invading her brain at each show, had now infected her.

Spiralling back down to Earth, as her ears listened to the violins play their closing notes, hazel eyes opened and she was very much aware of the warm glistening sensation that washed about her eyeline. Tears... again. Lana wondered whether there would come a day she would not have to cry anymore.

-

Her show continued on, singing to her audience with a variety of gorgeous cinematic songs, and trying to forget Harper was there in that top box.  The man was busy watching Lana like some object, a gleaming gold trophy on the stage –  his little possession that signified his power and importance. Harper thrived in these moments watching his woman performing, secretly smug about everything he had and the unshakeable feeling that nothing was ever going to take that away.

The strong opposition to that idea however, were in the same room – and getting ready to make their move as the show was closing.

"Let's go boys," Dutch whispered, leaning across to Javier who had to have his attention pulled from your enthralling performance, "You got them floor plans?"

"In here." Javier replied with a smooth whisper, reaching into his jacket to pull out the carefully mapped birdseye view of the concert hall's many back stage rooms. The people sitting either side of the Van Der Linde Gang looked mightily irritated as the men got up and shuffled awkwardly out of their seats.

"Sorry." Arthur whispered rather curtly to a woman who made some noise of pure disgust. By the way she'd sounded you might've assumed one of the men had spat at her feet rather than moved in front of her view of the stage for a few seconds.

Men very much of a mission, well dressed and walking tall – the four men headed around the sharp corner of the edge of the seating blocks, following the trodden red carpet out into the lobby. This is where Javier swooped in front, taking a short and subtle read at the plans and then making a set course for one of the doors beside the set of the stairs in the lobby that led to the upper tier seating.

It was clear as they passed through that door that this part of the building was not meant to be seen by the guests; it was a stark contrast to the splendid grandeur of the theatre, with it's grey walls and equally as bleak boarded wood floors.

Halfway down the corridor, as the blueprints promised, was a small alcove with a heavy steel door. The thing screeched and whined in a metallic, warn resistance before it prised open. Tucked quietly outside under the feeble lamplight, drenched in rain – was poor Lenny, with the bags of weapons and bandanas.

"Warm enough there, boy?" Bill remarked snarkily, reaching into the bag to begin dishing out everyone's respective guns. Wet droplets dripping from his nose and trickling down his face, Lenny shot Bill an unamused and cold glare.

"Not as warm as you'll be with all that fat, Williamson." He replied in an equally as taunting tone. Force of habit, Arthur stepped in before Bill could even think to swing his fist at young Lenny.

"Not now," Arthur sighed, snatching the bag and handing over the remaning guns a hell of a lot faster than poky old Bill. "We just need to get this done... and get out of here." Morgan swallowed a lump in his throat and tried to forget about what they were about to do. His reluctance to show any ounce of doubt earned him with a pleased smirk from the likes of Dutch. A soft pat fell to Arthur's shoulder, and Dutch was beaming away proudly.

"You're right son." Van Der Linde said in that voice Arthur heard often, a voice that was once so collected and now seemed so insanely scattered. "You're very right." The gang's leader's cat-like smile disappeared behind that red and white chequered bandana.

"Ready?" his muffled voice then affirmed, as the boys all nodded in turn – some more enthusiastically than others. Dutch then quickly instructed Lenny to get the carriage waiting out front, whilst they finally made their move.

Marching, each stride composed with purpose and vigour – the boys headed down the remaining length of boring corridor and approached a sharp right.

"Wait up-" Javier hissed, peeking around the corner at the end of the seemingly never ending corridor. The Mexican had spotted two burly looking security guards stood either side of Lana's dressing room door.

The two seemed to be lingering nonchalantly for a few moments, but then stood tall to attention at the sound of high heels echoing from the stage-entry end of the corridor.

"It's Harper's girl." Javier whispered aloud, and narrowed his eyes to study the figure of the sad singer making her way back to your dressing room.

By now she found herself irritable, tired and rather angry – the end of the shows meant back to the reality of Harper's harsh words and his world of violence and authority. Every Saturday night she exited the stage in a thunderous mood.

"A fantastic performance tonight, Miss Grant." One of the guards said bleakly with courteous politeness, as he usually did. Lana huffed in response, her hands busying with taking the glimmering diamond earrings from her ears.

"Goddamnit, Dutch – those men are built like brick shithouses." Arthur expelled in confused frustration, "How the hell we meant to take them down without makin' a sound!?"

It wasn't a rarity anymore that Dutch did not have the answers – or a plan. The man stood there for a few seconds, dumbfounded. The cogs were turning, albeit slowly.

By this time, Javier had already made his move and thrown a knife down that long corridor – the thing clanging loudly down the other end. The guard immediately questioned the loud metallic clash, and went to seek answers. The other loitered, his back to the boys who now had the perfect opportunity to strike.

"You take that one, Morgan. I'll have this feller." Bill whispered. The man was built like a bull and rather had mannerisms just the same, he wasn't the most agile of creatures but Bill Williamson had some real brutal force which had him choking the life out of the first guard with simple ease and minimal noise.

Like two, cool, well dressed cats – Dutch and Javier waiting by the dressing room door for Arthur to finish draining the last ounces of consciousness out of the second guard. The security guard was much bigger built than Arthur and a hell of a lot taller, so it naturally took longer for the gunslinger to have the brute out for the count.

Understandably, Morgan was visibly out of breath after wrestling the final breaths out of the guard.

"Big bastard..." Arthur puffed as he finally managed to catch his breath, rolling his shoulders leisurely with a defined, weathered crack. Casting his stormy blue eyes over the four men who stood before him, guns bared, identities masked and apparently, decency vanished – they were ready to right royally ruin the night.

-

For the past ten minutes or so, Miss Grant had been sat moping at her vanity, glaring maliciously at her reflection again and hating her very guts for existing. She dreaded for the sound of Harper's footsteps in the corridor, as he always would make his way down to collect her after the show like she was some kid that needed picking up from school.

Hands looping behind her back, her fingers delicately unsecured the pretty necklace that adorned her chest area. Some distant part of Lana's brain was paying a small amount of attention to the light scuffling sound of footsteps outside of the thick, heavy wooden dressing room door. She did not know what footsteps these were, but they certainly weren't Harper's. A little smile of joy claimed her lips, it seemed she was safe from the man a few moments longer.

That feeling spent no amount of time in her system when the dressing room door flung open so violently that it clattered against the wall. Plaster cracked and dropped from the wall with the impact, and in blind panic Lana fumbled skittishly, pressing her backside right onto the vanity table and pushing herself as much against the piece of furniture as possible.

One by one, she saw four men stepping casually over the bodies of her security guards, who were strewn out in plain sight; limbs akimbo on the cold floor. A little yelp of fearful shock dared to escape her lungs, that was otherwise bolted in a shut down mode of pure, white panic.

"Miss Grant," the man who had first walked into the room called. The lower half of his face was masked with a red and white bandana, but the singer could clearly identify the cocky gleam in his deep brown eyes. "So nice to meet the talent behind the show."

A harrowing click was sounded, and she watched as he raised a shining metal pistol up – and aimed it straight at the centre of her head.

Her first reaction was to scream; scream for help. It was a screamed melded of various emotions, utter horror, extreme rage and feral panic. In her gut, she knew where this attack had stemmed. Something told Lana that this was something to do with fucking Harper and one of his bloody gang feuds... she knew one day it would come to this... She would be used in some scheme against Harper.

Suddenly the smartly dressed man in his otherwise bandit-style attire pulled Lana back against his chest, one arm looped tightly around her slender neck. She was so terrified by the fact she could feel the cold barrel of the gun shoved securely against the side of her temple.

"Screamin' aint the wisest thing to do now, sugar." The man's deep tones crooned sarcastically. The singer's kidnapper suddenly turned, and with fleeting eyes Lana could see the three other men around the room, watching on with weapon's raised. She gave them all such a fearful glance, hoping that maybe one might spare her – or empathise with her.

"If- If this is about Jim, I don't know anything about his plans, his money, or nothin'!" She pleaded, tears flowing down her pretty face as the man who had clearly been leading this assault so far pushed her against the wall chest-first with no regard, and roughly ragged her hands behind her back. Lana sobbed uncontrollably, eyes closing tightly in hopes it would somehow make this entire nightmare go away.

"I'm sure that's the case, darlin'." Deep tones crooned in her ear, whilst she felt her wrists being tightly bound by some rough rope that scorched her skin. "We'll talk more someplace else, hm? Get the ball rolling?" The man's voice seemed so casually unhinged, and before she could process it – she was pushed over in the direction of another masqueraded outlaw on the other side of the room.

Surprise evident in his stormy blue eyes, the masked outlaw caught Lana clumsily, holding her upright and taking ahold of her bound wrists and her back to his chest. She daren't really look at him, too afraid to.

"Mr Morgan, you handle her from here til we reach camp."

The leader had called, the two other's following obediently behind him out of the all but desecrated dressing room door.

Legs shaky and as unstable as a new born lamb, Lana trembled on the spot and refused to walk when the weight of the man behind her tried to force the girl to do so. Three gentle attempts the brute had made, before he apparently gave up a patient approach.

"Move it!" he bellowed loudly, low tones rather course sounding with his angered diction. Lana wailed loudly on the sound of his barking commands, trying to ground her heels into the floor as he physically walked her out of the dressing room. This couldn't be happening to her, not more misery in this already awful life.

"I ain't liking this as much as you are, so just comply – and no one will hurt ya'." The man's voice then sounded in her ears, sounding more levelled than before. However, Lana's eyes were so distantly fixed on the figure of the three others in front of her– her mind racing with panic, to really even notice. She was not sure of anything that was to happen to her, this thought alone would not let her other senses tune in as they should.

Arms swung out wide, the black haired leader of this kidnapping swung the stage door open and marched out with his men and tow – and very reluctantly, Lana.

At the curb side of a quiet, midnight rain drenched street corner, was a rather tarnished carriage waiting, pulled by two dapple grey horses. The horses pawed the cobbled street impatiently, as if they were as raring to get out of there as these men clearly were.

"Gentlemen!" that voice. It oozed ego, the man himself seemed to parade like a prized peacock – it made the singer hate him more for the fact he was doing this, and treating it like some achievement. "Let's get back to camp before good old Jim notices his birdie is missin'."

The carriage door was opened, and one by one the men filtered inside. Lana was certain in that moment, this feeling of dread and futility in her stomach was akin to the emotions those sentenced to death felt when they walked to the noose.

Inches away from the steps into the carriage, she ground your high heels into the pavement and took one glance back at the concert hall – glowing, opulent – the symbol of stardom.

"Stop that girl starin' so much, Arthur. Get in here now. We need to get out of here." Another previously unheard voice rang out from the carriage interior, and before she could take any more last looks at the building she had spent her last moments of freedom in, a blindfold was forced around her eyes, shrouding the singer in utter darkness.

It was then she felt her stomach lurch violently when she was ungracefully shoved head first into the carriage.

To where; she did not know.