When the racket starts in the distance, bouncing off the cinderblock walls of the holding area, Adelaide’s heart starts to hammer, and her eyes cut to the pair of guards who’ve been holding a semi-casual vigil over them. Charlie’s just been fed and he’s sleeping in her arms, and so she doesn’t rise but she sits up and listens, watches. Bowen is one of the guards and he draws his weapon, checks his side piece, pacing into place in front of her cell with skeptical wariness.
“What the fuck is this?” he hisses to the other guard, unable to believe that they can actually be infiltrated. There isn’t any doubt in Adelaide's mind that they are, though, and never, ever would Rodeo send a proxy for this. Jims is coming, and Adelaide’s heart is in her throat. Every gunshot that comes closer could be one that hits him, the one that ends him - and simultaneously, her. She starts putting things into the big backpack that Archer brought - Charlie’s baby book, his favorite blanket, the rather large array of clothes and toiletries that she was brought between Nina and Archer. For a prison cell, Adelaide has more than made herself at home.
And then he’s there, big and fast and unflinching, dropping guards left and right, and Adelaide loses her breath when she sees him coming. She’s never been involved in his business directly, but she’s seen this wrath-of-god version of him plenty of times that it’s not any kind of shock. It’s just as she’s known it would be - even the flare of his nostrils is as reliable as time itself. If he paused even a moment, had the slightest bit of mercy the side piece that Bowen goes for would have his name on it - but Rodeo isn’t playing that game, and it’s the difference between him and so many dead men. Adelaide is nothing but glad when the she barely has time to blink and the guards are puddles on the floor.
Charlie wails, shaken awake by the shots, and now Adelaide is up to stuff the rest of her things into the bursting-full backpack, all the while bouncing and shushing the startled baby. “Hey there Jims,” she returns, like they’re not standing over multiple bodies in ruins. “It’s the long silver one,” she adds, while Charlie hushes and buries a few last snuffles against her chest.
She’s already wearing Rodeo’s flannel, and she adds Charlie’s knitted sea monster to the top of the bag, swift enough that she’s done by the time the bars swing open. Time is likely of the essence, despite the fact that everyone here has been dispatched, but still Adelaide crushes herself against Rodeo’s chest, holding hard with the arm not supporting Charlie. “It’s about damn time you returned a visit,” she says, muffled in his kevlar.