The safe house wasn't much to look it. He hadn't expected it to be. The basic log cabin wasn't furnished. It boasted a small kitchen area, with all the luxuries of modern life stripped from it, a fireplace that hadn't been cleaned since it's last use and a small area which was used for a bedding roll. For sanitation the building had an even more basic out house around the back of the building. Rambo opened the door after giving the safe house a quick look over, to rejoin Trautman on the porch. The house was surrounded by trees and undergrowth; it was totally secluded and in that sense it was perfect for his needs. Off to the side of the building there was a stack of chopped logs ready for use on the fire. He doubted they would be dry enough for good use in the fireplace right now, he would have to collect some more.

Without saying a word Rambo picked up some of the bags that he had brought with him and took them inside. It wasn't that he was feeling bitter about being taken away from what he'd been starting to think of a normal life; he couldn't place that grudge onto his father figure. It wasn't even the early morning that had put him in a sour mood; early mornings we're a part of the job. A job that he hadn't had for many years, old habits die hard.

Trautman followed into the room a few moments later, his look was apologetic and he was struggling with one of the larger bags. "Sorry it's so basic son." he told Rambo, he was being sincere. Rambo didn't know exactly how to take it, wasn't used to everyone being so nice. Or giving. No one had been all those years ago when it actually mattered, why should they change now? Why had they changed?

Maybe because the war had been out of the eyes of the public and mostly forgotten.

Maybe because no one gave a shit about it any more.

Yet someone clearly did.

Because someone was trying to kill him.

"It's fine." John told his father, the place wasn't as bad as Trautman was making out, he could work with the small place. It was a roof over his head that wasn't a cave, or a cell. That was something. He had had bad experiences with both; he'd not like to repeat either of them.

There was a lot to be done, but it wasn't anything he couldn't handle.

"Why don't you go one home." Rambo told Trautman, he wanted the older man out of the way. Mostly so that he didn't get hurt. Not that he didn't think the old Colonel couldn't handle himself still. He would be a fool to think otherwise. It was more the fact that there was nothing he could do here; Rambo wanted to do it all for himself.

"If you need anything, we packed a flare gun." Trautman said, looking over to one of the bags resting in the far corner of the room. John nodded as Trautman opened the door to the porch again and left the safe house. He closed the door behind him, knowing that Rambo wouldn't follow him to see him off. They didn't have that sort of a friendship. It didn't need to be done.

The moment that Sam Trautman had left the building Rambo lent against one of the walls and slumped down it, pulling one of the bags over and going through the kit that he had been left with. Keeping his mind on the job, just like he had been trained to do.