Author note: Sequel to 'This isn't Revenge'. I couldn't stop myself from carrying on, lol. Sewell is a lot of fun to write, so... aye, I had to indulge my fangirl urges. Hope you enjoy, and apologies for any mistakes, I'll try to proof-read as thoroughly as I can. But I do sometimes miss stuff. Flashbacks are told in italics ^_^

It became apparent rather quickly that whatever Cunningham had in mind to do, it involved being in an area isolated enough that no-one would be around to hear them as she carried out her plans. The thing that confused Sewell was the fact that they had been driving for almost three hours now, during which they had exited the towns and the suburbs, and left all trace of civilisation far behind. Now, only wilderness reflected against the car windows. He had to wonder why she hadn't pulled over already and just gotten it over with.

The cuffs she had slapped on his wrists as soon as they were out of the penitentiary nicked at his skin when they passed over a road ditch, and he winced. He stole a quick glance across at her, saw the determined set to her hard features, and then turned to gaze out at the passing trees. His lip still stung like a bitch after his last attempt to make small-talk, he was in no mood to have the other side of it split too.

He thought about how she could have possibly found out that it wasn't Pendleton who was responsible for Frank's condition. Sewell knew for damn sure that he'd cleaned the mess up good enough to be certain that nothing would lead back to him; he'd been framing, bribing, offing, and beating enough during his time at the prison to know how to make a job convincing. So that just left Murphy himself as the leak. Sewell wasn't at all surprised that the man had blabbed that mouth of his, he had been claiming his innocence for a long time, but he was surprised that Cunningham believed him. She was as green as they came, the type of woman who saw no grey areas, no compromises, the world was black and white to her, and the justice system was never wrong. So how the fuck had Murphy convinced her otherwise?

"We're here."

Sewell glanced up from his hands and looked around, confused for a moment to find that they were no longer on the road, and parked instead within a clearing. The trees were so thick around them that it was almost impossible to spot the cabin nestled within their shadows, save for the single window shining light brightly upon the carpet of dead leaves and branches. Sewell swallowed hard; through the window he saw that the cabin was far from abandoned. Turning to face Cunningham, he sneered at the smirk she was fixing him with.

Any bitchy remarks he had planned died in his throat when she honked the horn.

"I've got some friends I'd like you to meet, George. You'll recognise them actually, they're simply dying to see you again."

Sewell watched, with a growing sense of dread, as the cabin door flew open. The lights from inside flooded the clearing, illuminating each of the three men as they stepped outside and made their way over to the car. Anne exited the vehicle with her gun raised, training it on the group of released cons. She was smart enough to know not to trust them.

Sewell took each of the men in, recognising them all. Over the years he had had various run-ins with the three of them, and whilst it was likely true that they were sore about what had happened to Frank, Sewell doubted very much that they had agreed to this with the same kind of vengeance in mind that Anne had. No, these men were looking for payback for themselves, for the 'wrongs' committed against them.

In the middle stood the largest. A broad, black man with a crew-cut and a distasteful gold tooth. His name was Jackson Hayes, and he was less dangerous than his appearance would have you believe. He had been placed behind bars for conspiring to murder, his sentence had been eighteen years, but he was released after twelve for 'good behaviour and a reformed attitude'.

On Jackson's left stood a short, fat man with a ridiculous moustache and a perpetual look of idiocy on his fat, flushed face. Thomas O'Malley had been an accountant before his stint in prison, the type of man with more money than sense and a greed bigger than his bank balance for even more. After stringing along a bunch of well-pampered whores, the women had eventually gotten tired of being 'the other woman' and aided the police in their investigation into the disappearance of rather a lot of money. In jail, he'd been an obvious target, a prison bitch if ever there was one. And Sewell, being the bitter type of man that he was around these dumb, middle class fucks who earned more than he did, had not made his stay at the penitentiary a pleasant one. Out of all of them, he was probably the one bearing the biggest grudge.

And then finally, there was 'Jack-Knife'. A man no-one forgets. Sewell felt himself shake just looking at the brute; his record read like an A-Z of crime, but so too did his connections. The man had only ever been in jail for short stretches at a time, there had always been someone out there, with the right friends, who could get him out early. Half the time he was found not guilty by a jury clearly compromised-and if there was one thing that pissed Sewell off more than rich little fat fucks, it was men with a reputation more intimidating than his own. Sewell was afraid of no-one, or at least that's what the little voice in the back of his head kept on insisting, even as his hands shook and his legs trembled.

If given the choice, he would probably take a bullet through the skull rather than face the night ahead with the three men leering at him from across the clearing.

A tapping against the driver's seat window tore his eyes away from the cons. He looked over at Anne, knocking her hand against the glass whilst her free hand trained the gun on the men. She wasn't about to fuck up around these guys, that was for sure, which Sewell thought was a damn shame.

"Get out of the car." she spat.

At this point, Sewell couldn't care less about his pride; he was far more concerned with his life. He shook his head. "Fuck you." was his retort. If Anne hadn't put the gun to his head and blown his brains out by now, it was pretty fucking obvious that she lacked the balls to do it. "You want me out of this car, you're gonna have to make me, Sweetheart."

Rage twisted her face into something frightening and ugly. She slammed her hand down on the bonnet and stormed around to his side of the car. Sewell jerked away when she pulled open the door and reached in to grab at his arm, her nails burrowing against his skin and tearing as she tried to pull him out. The cons started to laugh amongst themselves, Thomas looked set to burst as his face pooled red and blossomed with each mad guffaw.

"Fucking move!" Anne demanded.

Sewell didn't.

Anne turned to the cons, giggling like schoolgirls with one another. "Get him out of the fucking car!" she yelled.

The three of them grinned at one another before heading over. It was at this point that Sewell decided he'd rather emasculate himself and look like a pussy than stick around to find out what their plans for him entailed. Using the fact that Anne had her attention fixed on the approaching men and was currently distracted, he tore free of her talon-like grip and shoved by her. She fell hard on her back, her legs and arms flailing in surprise as he ran by her towards the thick lining of trees. By the time she had righted herself enough to aim, Sewell was was already darting and weaving behind each thick trunk of the woods.

The first discharge of the gun veered off far to his left, hitting nothing but air. The second hit bark and twigs to his right. He heard the third shot hit another nearby tree, but even over that he heard the thundering of chasing feet and knew that he wasn't going to get out of this.

A rough hand on his shirt and a fist against the back of his skull confirmed as such.

Sewell grunted and fell heavily upon the dead leaves at his feet. The taste of blood filled his mouth when his chin hit hard earth and his teeth caught tongue and lip, tearing both. That same hand that had knocked him down tugged and pulled until he was lying on his back and looking up towards what should have been the stars, but seeing the brutish face of Jack-Knife instead. Over the con's shoulder, Sewell saw the other two running over, and behind them there was Anne.

"I don't want you to kill him." she said, her voice firm.

Thomas looked over at her, bushy brows arched high towards what was left of his hair. Sewell might have laughed at the comical expression of incredulity he wore, but his mouth tasted too much of blood and all he could manage was a grimace.

"After what he's done to us," began Thomas with that stupid Souther drawl of his, "it's gonna be hard not to get carried away, you understand?"

Anne glared at him. "Don't kill him." she repeated.

Thomas puffed out his chest, trying to look hard and intimidating, despite the fact that Anne was the one with the gun pointed between his eyes. "What'll you do if we do kill the sonuvabitch?" he asked.

"Well, I guess I'll have to call this whole arrangement off and have you taken back to fucking jail. How does that sound?"

Jack-Knife pushed his hands against Sewell's shoulders, pushing him back into the damp, cold earth. Brittle leaves splintered and cracked under the pressure. He looked back over his shoulder at her. "Why do you want 'im alive?" he asked. There was no demand to his tone, no accusation, he simply sounded curious. Sewell was kind of wondering the same thing himself.

"I want him to suffer." was her immediate answer. "I want him to hurt every hour of every day for the rest of his life. I want him to be reminded every morning when he wakes up, and every night before he goes to bed. I want him to know how my dad felt."

Jack-knife smirked. "Oh, I'm sure we boys can manage that." he sneered. "We'll make sure he has a night he'll never forget."

Sewell didn't doubt it.

(George)

(Hey, hey, George)

"Wake up."

A hand shook his shoulder roughly, and George Sewell awoke with a start. The hand retracted and he looked up, blinking the remnants of sleep away. One of his co-workers, 'Richie' Gobson stood over him, an almost apprehensive look on his young, acne-scarred face. He took a step back, as though frightened that he was about to be mauled.

"... the fuck d'you want, kid?" asked Sewell once the room had stopped spinning and he remembered where he was.

"Uh, sorry to wake you, but, um, well, you fell asleep, and..."

Sewell stared at him. "And?" he prompted.

"Well... lunch is over... and... you were sleeping..."

Sewell stretched back, his shoulders creaking and popping with the strain. After a moment he got to his feet. Richie was still staring at him, eyes wide and terrified. It was just the boost to his ego that he needed, and he turned to face the kid fully. "I appreciate you waking me up an' all, Sugar," he said, "but if you do it again, I'll have your fuckin' balls. You got that?"

Richie nodded fervently, and then fled the room. He had been working at the penitentiary no more than two months, which was one month and two weeks longer than Sewell had figured he'd make. The kid was a pretentious little shit, and the sooner he figured out that same pay-rate didn't mean same rank, the better his life would be here.

Stretching again, Sewell brushed a hand through his hair, frowning when several strands fell before his eyes. He slicked them back into place and exited the staff-room. He'd be lying if he said he felt better after his snooze. Truth be told, he was more afraid of what his dreams brought these days than what he was of-well, of anything.

Down the hall, he saw Richie sprinting towards a couple of other officers who had taken him under their wing. No doubt the three of them would share stories about what a 'big, horrible bastard that Sewell was' after their shift was done and they were hitting it back in a local bar somewhere. Sewell smiled to himself; he may not be the man he was three years ago, but his reputation had never faltered; he was George Sewell, hardest fucking screw at Ryall State Penitentiary, and he was damned if he was going to let anyone forget that.