Thunder clapped loudly outside of the imposing looking manor house, set at the rainy curb side. Inside, the mood was ever as turbulent as the weather.

"How could this of happened!?" Jim Harper's gravelly and infuriated tones bashed the otherwise silent air around him, aggressively tossing the copy of the Saint Denis Times he had hold of down onto his oak wood varnished desk.

The wad of paper landed with a papery thud, the final abrasive noise to fill the air whilst Tommy St Kilroy and Dean Hawthorne stood there in front of the desk, like scolded school children sent to see the headmaster. Suddenly Harper's office was beginning to feel like a court room, deciding the two men's fates.

"She was taken right from under our fucking noses, you rejects." Harper spat, bracing his hands on the desk top, a seriously piercing look of dagger's coming from his black holes of eyes.

"Security were dead on arrival, sir..." Hawthorne mumbled meekly, a man from northern England (specially Sheffield) – Dean Hawthorne had come over to America looking for work and gathered more than he was bargaining for. He was a slender built man, large brown eyes and a rather slim face. He usually had this typically unbothered look about him, dark brunette hair slicked back smartly – but in that very moment – he appeared terrified.

"I know the security were dead." Harper snarled, lowly and darkly – his voice a perfectly morbid blend with the thrashing of the battering rain on the windows, "I saw the scene."

Peeling away from his desk, wandering about the office in his fitted dark jacket, Harper had a concentrated look of contempt on his rugged, but chiselled features. The man glanced upwards sparingly, at his two wing men.

"The state of the place... There's only one idiot I know who's capable of such an abysmally messy crime scene such as that." Harper sounded smug almost in his delivery, scoffing a little as he prepared to spit out a name that soured so often on his tongue. "Dutch Van Der Linde and his troupe of yankee idiots."

Hawthorne and St Kilroy dawdled wordlessly on the spot, either one of them wanting to say anything lest it get them more tied up than they already were.

"Now, I have no idea what he wants with my girl." Harper added, treading the short path back to his desk, and taking a seat in the smart dark wood and red leather chair, "But when I find him... He's gonna wish he never took her."

For a moment, one might mistake there was some compassion from Jim Harper. A man, perhaps – who had previously  been omitting his real feelings and emotions...

Wrong.

"They take my trophy? My one symbol of power?" he added bitterly, eyes now aimlessly staring at the floor, "Without Grant, what makes me different from the other men? Nothing. I'm just another of them." He seemed to be aimlessly blabbering on to himself, going around the maze of power crazed worry in his mind. All James Harper was worried about from losing Lana.... Was the fact he could lose his feeling of complete control.

"We can find her, sir." Hawthorne said, "Them Van Der Linde boys come into Saint Denis way too often to be discreet. We can track them back to their camp-" the northern man's Yorkshire tones were broad, growing louder with hope he was providing the right answer to his leader.

"No." Harper snapped, raising his hand, "We focus here first. Keep the city under lock down, trap them here." Jim instructed, cracking his knuckles passively, "We stay here where we have our men. Where we are strong-" his deep tones went on, as the man's eyes flashed down momentarily to the cover of the magazine again – noting the large front cover image of his songstress.

"-And they are weak." Harper tailed off, eyes lifting to settle on the figure of his two men.

"Get to work." Was finally added, and like meek mice the two of them scarpered, the office was once again basked in solitude, dull grey light – and one very angry gang leader.

-

The afternoon spent in a perfect peaceful plod with his horse, Arthur was admittedly rather worried when he started on the straight forest track, light peeking between the leaves and dappling beautifully in vivid specks upon the grass. The way the branches hooked over one another provided the perfect tunnelled view of the old plantation house set a way down the track, tucked secretively between two ivy covered and weathered grey walls.

Rubbing his temples softly Arthur let out a deep sigh whilst he listened to the heavy breathing and thudding steps of his Belgian Draft mare, Juniper.  He hadn't been wanting to return to Shady Belle, leaving in such a bad way this morning had just angered him about coming back. Dutch was falling apart at the seams, Micah was leeching off the man and taking advantage of this – and to top it off Lana – a seemingly innocent, harmless young girl was caught up in a crossfire that didn't  concern her.

"Afternoon, Arthur." Tilly called out as the gunslinger ambled down the grassy path, tipping her head to Arthur due to the large basket of wet washing in her arms. Wordlessly, he had replied with a small smile and tried to make himself seem not so troubled by the current situation as he was.

Besides, as Arthur had dismounted the mealy chestnut coated mare, and tethered her in the rich green grass by the swamp's edge, - he could not show signs of contempt or worry – the rest of the camp were not to know about this occurrence. It would both infuriate them and worry them. It would look awful, Dutch kidnapping a famous local singer – all whilst pissing off her extremely violent partner and potentially putting all of the gang's life in danger.

Shaking his head, Mr Morgan knew he had to bury these feelings under a lot of layers of emotions so as not to indicate anything strange to the others.

Only it seemed, he was far too late.

"DUTCH."

Those tones were immediately recognisable, and prevalently angry. Sadie.

Darting his stormy blue eyes up to the stony steps, Arthur watched from afar as the rickety, distained old wooden doors flung open, and suddenly Mrs Adler and Dutch appeared on the steps.

"I'll spare you your goddamn decency – and we'll talk out here-" Sadie growled initially, really lashing out as she balled her fists angrily. The well dressed gang leader stood just opposite, looking rather dumfounded.

"Wanna explain to me why the Lana Grant is tied up in that back room!?" her southern tones rang with pure disbelief and outrage. She had posed Dutch a question but clearly was not going to let him answer it.

"That's Jim Harper's girl, of the Cobalt Jackals!?" Her tones were bitterly sarcastic, "Remember him? We had a few scuffles with him – Christ, Dutch – his men blew a hole straight through John's arm!" her teeth were gritted, brown eyes blazing and her entire posture radiated fury.

However, Dutch seemed lacking in almost everything he used to stand for. He did not challenge her actions or her words for a good few moments, if anything his wondering silence just pissed Sadie off even more.

"Well!? What's she doin' here Dutch!?" Sadie called again, this time, it initiated a reaction from the gang leader.

Dutch's manners seemed very placid – but placid in a way that it was like a blanket trying to badly cover a torrent of raging fires underneath. It was clear to see he was a different person – unhinged, the cogs weren't ticking as they once had done.

"Just need to ask her some questions, is all, Mrs Adler." Dutch responded, his tones far too airy and sugar coated to be believable. "She knows things about Harper." Dutch still sounded so convinced.

"I seen her tied up in a chair, tears on her face!" Sadie bit back, shaking her head, "She's a singer – Dutch. She ain't one of his men."

Sadie then turned her back and walked away – clearly the singer's situation hit hard with her. She too had been tied up, tortured by those O Driscolls' who took away her home, her life... her husband. It was evident as she crossed the grassy terrain to the front of the house, that she had decided to walk away before her emotions got the better of her.

By now, Dutch had clocked onto the fact Arthur had seen the whole thing – and there was a moment of recognised tension in the air before Dutch disappeared back inside the house. It was so strange, Arthur felt he hardly knew the man anymore – it seemed as the months were going on, his acts were getting crazier and crazier. Not to mention his ways drove Molly to the bottom of several bottles every single day.

-

Exhaustion was a complete understatement for the way Lana had been feeling – the singer had been crying and feeling rather sorry for herself for hours now, feeling a pit of total despair recognising that she barely had anything to live for, trapped here in this house with violent fools – or the threat of being returned to another violent fool. Lana was the poor creature trapped in this finicky web of lies, money and notoriety.

Earlier Lana had been walked in on, after what appeared to be an argument in the hallway. A lady dressed very much like an outlaw had taken one look at her, and the colour instantly had drained from her face. Other than that, she had been completely left alone.

How her stomach rumbled and ached in hunger, every now and again one of the pigs, (be that Micah or that Bill feller),guarding the door came in to give her sips of water, teasing with the glass before letting her sip. This experience was truly disheartening – for a girl who already had been hating her life, despite the freedom to sing – Lana now loathed it even more.

The sun was going down now, although this room had no windows, she could see the golden bar of fading sunlight poking in an angular slant under the gap in the door. Out of hope and energy, she had closed her eyes and listening for a few moments to the sounds of nothingness that surrounded her.

Then, after a few seconds, there were footsteps. Low chatter in the corridor. By now her hazel eyes were open, flighty and ready for anything. Shadows moved under the door, the floorboards creaked in protest to the movement of scuffling footsteps – when the door finally opened.

It was not Micah or Bill, thank god. No, it was Dutch. Not that Lana was elated to see him either. Her heart braced tightly in her chest in a feeling of angry detest. He was clearly back for more questioning.

There was this strange air of difference in the way he walked, stood tall and with a slow imposing wager of a stance that set him out to be this mysterious, egotistical figure he projected so well. Grabbing the chair opposite the imprisoned singer, he turned it around, and sat himself down – forearms rested comfortably on the top of the back of the chair.

Silence pursued the following moments like a fox tracking a rabbit – before a cool glance from his umber brown eyes set onto Lana, and for once his demeanour didn't seem hellbent of grilling her an hour or two.

"You been fed today?"

What? This man threatened her a night ago, had been snarling and snapping for answers ever since... and now his focus was hospitality?

"No." Miss Grant answered stoutly, an unimpressed look on her face. Was this his attempt at charm?

It seemed her cold manner did not go unnoticed, and sighing gently, he stood from his chair and circled around the girl, causing the slightest cold draught to nip at her skin.

"Look," his textured and low tones rumbled, "I appreciate I ain't been the nicest since you've been here."

Now she really was confused... an apology?

"No, Mr Van Der Linde. You ain't been nice." Lana reaffirmed, not even daring to look at him as he circled around her in his thoughtful manner.

He chuckled at this, clearly finding it slightly amusing. Did he really think this was all some quick fix? He could earn her trust somehow by some sweet words from his silver tongue, and a dashing smile?

"I ain't nice, Miss." He stopped behind Lana, and she felt fingertips grazing just over the top of her wrist where the cutting, rough rope was boring into her skin, "But I appreciate your situation... and you ain't deservin' of being treated like some kinda animal."

Staring dead straight ahead of herself, Lana was very aware of the fact he was now – finally – untying the rope that had been hogtying her sorry form to that god awful chair.

She assumed she knew his game.

"I'm not dumb, mister." Lana retorted in a strong willed fashion, long dark curls half falling into her face, "This still ain't gonna change the fact I know nothing about Harper," the singer reminded him, "Even though you think I do. Just because you're treatin' me half decent, it don't mean suddenly I'm gonna know the ins and outs of the man's operations."

Bones aching and muscles feeling strained, she rose to stand the moment she heard the thud of the ropes meeting the boards below. Lana rubbed her wrists sheepishly – skin blistered and red raw from the binds.

"It ain't about wantin' answers." He shrugged, and she read his face upon this statement – and could not fault she felt some truth in those words somehow. Had he finally changed his mind?

"It's about makin' a young lady comfortable."

This felt delusional – maybe he was playing good cop bad cop and Lana was just some gullible child who believed it all? He hadn't seem bothered about making her comfortable before now. It was so tiring for her already mushed and exhausted brain... she didn't know what to trust or believe in.

She decided to test this.

"If you wanna make me comfortable, why don't you just let me go?" Miss Grant put to him, very grateful in that moment for the chair settled between the pair of them. It was something hard to pin down, she could not work out which senses to trust – whether to even believe him at all.

"Now that would be silly." He started to chuckle, such a casual and relaxed laugh. "Why'd I wanna go and put you in danger like that? Young thing like you wanderin' round in the wild."

His dark eyed gaze settled on her again, a quirk of a grin teasing at the corner of his lips.

"There's some nasty folk out there, Miss Grant." His low voice remarked, and the smirk shone through like the moon's pale light through a veil of cloud as he said so.

Nasty folk? Lana thought she had yet to meet anyone that could get nastier than Harper – or the experience she'd gotten here so far.

-

A/N: OOF this chapter was choppy and shitty and a little bit all over the place – I need to try and get my shit together I'm sorry lmao.