by Anonymous

Disclaimer: Not mine, never were, never will be. Except for this particular 30 minutes or so.

Warnings, rating, etc: PG. Vin and Chris H/C. Big surprise there, I'm sure. By the way, I know nothing about weapons, so please let the gun parts flow past without too much scrutiny.

The trail was one used by half the state on weekends and during the summer, for afternoon hikes and as a staging point for back-packers. But on this Wednesday afternoon in February there had been no vehicles parked at the trailhead and no footprints in the sandy red gravel of the trail itself.

A snow-chilled wind from distant summits blew hollowly through pines and junipers scattered across massive outcrops of red stone. Jays called from the deeper valley bisecting the ridge, and smaller birds -- maybe siskins, Vin thought -- whistled softly in the denser stand of forest just upslope.

Denver was closer than Vin would've liked, but miles to the east anyway, a winding two-lane road its only connection to this wild area that still saw more than its share of traffic. Chris was maybe two yards behind him on the narrow trail, face pinched with thought as he replayed what he knew about the murder site they'd come to check out, and the evidence that might connect it to the gun runners they'd been trying to catch. Vin knew this because he'd just reflexively glanced over a shoulder to check their backtrail and Chris's gaze had shifted to meet his. With barely a perceptible tilt of his head, the older man had asked a wordless question about whether or not -- according to the description in the investigation report -- they were nearing the murder site. Vin nodded towards a rounded promontory that gnarled up out of the forest across a rugged ravine, and Chris's brows raised.

"We've come three miles?"

"'Bout that." Vin spoke softly. He pushed aside a pine bough that hung out over the trail and didn't let go until Chris took it from his hand so it wouldn't spring back as they passed. "Reckon that knob's another mile as th' crow flies. Fits."

"Lot farther than a mile as a man walks, though," observed Chris. Vin glanced back at Chris again, and flashed a grin. But before he could say anything, Chris scowled and beat him to it. "One comment about me being old and I'll make you write up the report on this."

"Ya' know, I *heard* a sense a' humor's the first thing t' go --"

Vin broke off mid-sentence, and faced into the wind with suddenly narrowed eyes and tight expression, every nerve in his body standing straight up for reasons he couldn't have explained if he had to. He started to raise his left hand, the one closest to Chris, to gesture him back and down into a more protected position, but at that exact instant he was slammed into a boulder so hard that it drove the air out of his lungs like a fist. The crack of a rifle echoed down the steep canyon to their left before he hit the ground, gasping for breath.

7*7*7*7*7*7*7

Chris was shaking his head to himself, smiling at Vin's laconic reply, when the sharpshooter stopped dead in his tracks and raised his head like a hound on a scent. The ATF leader's hand went to his weapon on the instant, knowing Vin's instincts were seldom wrong, but even then he was too late. His mind registered the fact of Vin being jerked like a marionette by some unseen hand, then he heard the report of the rifle. He ducked reflexively as splinters of rock from a second shot exploded off the granite inches from his head.

"He's up --" Vin was pointing, breathless and gasping, heels sliding against the rock as he struggled to get to his feet.

"I see him." Chris's face was grim, and his eyes caught the sun dangerously when he glanced up from beneath lowered brows at the 40-foot pine where he'd seen the muzzle flash of the last shot. Another shot spanged off the stone, six inches from Vin's knee, and whined away. "Let's get you outta' here first."

He wasn't even sure how he had hold of Vin, how he got the leverage to drag the man behind the boulder he'd been initially thrown against. All he knew was that there was more blood than he wanted to see, spreading all down Vin's left arm and the side of his chest, saturating the blue plaid flannel and turning it purple. The tracker was almost a dead weight in his grip, his efforts to help uncoordinated by shock. By the time Chris had them both out of the direct line of fire, he was panting heavily and Vin had gone a cold, pasty white.

"Where'd they *come* from," Vin growled crossly. "Fly in on a damn helicopter 'r somethin'?"

"Don't know," clipped the older man. He was watching the pine with a predator's focus now, gun steadied in the grip of both hands. He hazarded a lightning-quick glance at the man sprawled next to him, to see blue eyes looking back, a spatter of bright blood on the side of Vin's chin looking almost black against the sudden pallor. Chris smiled tightly. "And frankly," he added, "I don't give a damn right now. Later -- yes." The agent ducked as a ricochet whanged off the top of the boulder they crouched behind. "Now -- no." He turned his attention back to the pine, steadied his aim, and shot. A dark form plummeted to the ground through crashing, breaking branches, and Chris smiled grimly, angrily, slipping his gun back into its holster. He flipped out his cell phone the next instant and frowned as he snapped it off again just as quickly and tucked it back in his belt.

"Figures . . . 'd be no signal," panted Vin.

"Radio in the Ram'll work," Chris countered. "Let's get you out of here before the others show up." Left hand to Vin's right, he carefully pulled him up and away from the stone against which he was half-sprawled. He stooped to pull the injured man's arm over his shoulder.

"Damn." Vin's voice was tight, choked with pain. His left arm hung limply, blood saturating the sleeve and dripping from the tips of his fingers to the stone.

"Just hang on." Chris started pushing himself up from the crouching position he'd bent into, to get Vin's weight over his own legs. The younger man dragged so heavily against him that a shaft of deep alarm coursed like ice through Chris's gut. He could hear Vin's boots scrabbling against the gravely sand as the wounded man tried to get his feet under him.

"Chris . . . it's three miles t'--"

"We can get there." He tugged Vin's arm farther as both men struggled upright, wrapped his own left arm snugly around the injured man's waist, and was gratified to feel the weight shift as Vin found his feet again. He started down the trail immediately, Vin trying to walk but his knees buckling every few steps, his weight dragging heavily on Chris. Chris hazarded a look over his shoulder, behind them, as they broke cover lower on the trail than where they'd been ambushed.

"No sign of anyone yet," he said grimly.

"Pro'lly . . . 'cross th' . . ."

"Save your breath, Tanner. I know they're over on the knob where they killed the hiker. I saw 'em starting down the trail while their sentry was trying to shoot our heads off."

A sharp gasp broke from Vin's bloodless lips as he slid on a run of gravel funneled into a rut on the steep down-slope of the trail. Chris locked his knees and braced against the heavy tug, slid on the gravel himself, and then brought them both to an off-balance stop during which Vin fell to one knee and pulled them both nearly to the ground. A low cry of pain was jarred loose by the impact, and Chris looked back and up the slope behind them with foreboding. How long did they have before the group of men he'd seen crossed the ravine and topped the rise that protected them? He turned back to his friend with renewed strength and will.

"C'mon, Vin. It's all down hill. We can make it."

They struggled upright again, and this time Chris made sure Vin's weight was slightly behind his, so that his own body could serve as a brake if the smaller man started to slide or fall again. They traveled in rapid, breathless silence for maybe ten minutes then, the only sounds their own bootsteps on the gravely sand and Vin's labored breathing. The birds had stopped calling, Chris realized dimly. That had to mean something. A chill raced from the nape of his neck up his scalp, and he veered off the trail into a thick stand of juniper. The crack of gravel beneath their feet was replaced by the soft slapping of small branches as they forced their way into the dimmer light beneath the trees.

"Chris . . ." The drawl was unraveling and frayed. Chris shook his head without looking at Vin, afraid of what he'd see.

"We're about a third of the way there already. Just hang on. We'll make--"

"Dammit, Chris! Would ya' listen --"

"Just keep going."

But Vin dropped heavily to the ground instead. He sat on his heels, head bowed as he drew in great gulps of air. He waved his good hand around in a fairly unfocused way and managed to gasp, "Leavin' . . . a trail . . . even Ezra could follow." As his breathing steadied, he looked up at Chris and swallowed, then said more clearly, "They're travelin' . . . faster'n us, Cowboy. An' they're gonna' catch up long 'fore we get t' the truck."

Chris stared at the ground where Vin had gestured for a long moment, the shock of what he was seeing seeping into the marrow of his bones. Vin was right. Their trail was laid out with a red line of blood that wavered and spotted, but never failed. He looked back at Vin's shoulder and arm with a choking sense of despair, really understanding for the first time just how seriously the young agent was bleeding.

"Leave me," gasped Vin. "*Run*. Get to the Ram an'--"

"No." Chris shook his head and moved to pull Vin's arm up around his shoulder again, but the sharpshooter pulled loose of his grip. "Buck and the others could arrive any time now," growled Chris. "You know they're headed up. By the time we get another half-mile--"

"Aw hell, Chris. I'm already hurtin'. Don't piss me off on top a' that." Vin eyed Chris steadily. Beads of cold sweat glistened on the planes of his face, and his eyes were shadowed with pain. "Could be another hour 'fore they get here. Or two. We both know that."

Chris dropped to one knee, his face inches from Vin's. "I'm gonna' get you outta' here, you sorry son-of-a-bitch, whether you want to be rescued or not," he hissed. He could feel his heart pounding from something that wasn't exertion.

"I'll tuck myself into them rocks there." Vin inclined his head towards a clump of large boulders as if Chris hadn't said a word. "You stir up th' pine needles all 'round here, chance t' cover the sign. Reckon they'll give up lookin' for me but they'll nose around first. That'll give ya' a chance t' get t' the truck."

Chris set a hand to Vin's uninjured shoulder and their eyes locked for a long, silent moment. "And do what, when I get there?" Chris's voice was gentle.

"Survive." Vin's throat worked as he swallowed heavily, and Chris suddenly realized how much it was costing his friend even to sit on his knees here in the forest. He was bleeding too much, too quickly, his shoulder glossy-dark with the life pouring out of him. And he was right. They'd never beat their pursuers to the trailhead.

But to leave Vin behind . . .

As if he'd read that thought, Vin added softly, "You live, you can come back fer me. You die, we both die." He rubbed an unsteady hand across his face and sagged even more, but his eyes remained fixed on Chris's.

Chris nodded without saying a word, his heart sinking. Vin nodded with satisfaction and evident relief.

It took only two minutes to conceal the wounded man in a crevice between closely-opposed stones massive as stock trailers, and to pull pine boughs over the opening in a way that looked reasonably natural. Chris bit his lips as Vin's face disappeared from view behind the gray bark and rough fringe of needles, and hesitated with his hands still on the limb as if he might fling it aside and reconsider his decision. But instead he turned swiftly and kicked the area as clean of the blood sign as he could, doing the same along several hundred feet of their back trail to further confuse anyone following.

Then he broke into a loose-legged and graceful run across the slope -- not towards the truck, but on a path that would intercept the men following them. He'd damn well beat them to the trailhead and get help, Chris thought with grim determination -- but first he'd decoy them away from Vin's hiding place.

7*7*7*7*7*7*7

Vin closed his eyes, the shivering traveling deeper into his body. The stones to either side of him that pressed against his arms and legs were still cold with the deep chill of winter, as was the ground underneath. The sun didn't penetrate this niche to warm it, and snow had so recently melted out of the crevices that he could feel slick patches of ice under one hip and along the calf of his right leg.

At least their plan must be working, though, he thought. Several juncoes had returned to the forest floor to feed, close enough that he could hear their soft twittering as they poked through the litter of pine needles and juniper mattes. If the men chasing them *did* show up here, the buzz of little wings when the birds scattered would tell him where they were.

Instead, what told him where the men were was the distant rattle of sporadic gunfire.

Vin knit his brows in the darkness of concealment, and fear clutched the back of his neck. They sure as hell weren't shooting at *him*, that far away. And that left only--

"Chris." He said the word softly to himself, with anguish, and struggled to sit up. The niche was tight, so he tried twisting to get some leverage. That was a mistake. He'd been shutting his mind off to the pain in his shoulder as best he could, but trying to claw his way up to a sitting position made it explode like a skyrocket.

Vin drew in a sharp, hissing breath, and then lay still while he passed through a wave of darkness that wasn't from the lack of sunlight under the trees. When his head cleared, he rammed a hip against the stone on one side, braced a knee against the other side, and pushed. He felt his head and shoulders slide several inches in response, and repeated the actions with his teeth clenched, his right arm wrapped tight around his left to keep from jarring his shoulder.

Slowly, a little at a time, Vin pushed his way out of the niche between the boulders and far enough into the open that he was finally able to turn over and push himself off the ground with his good arm. He staggered to his feet, bent over and straightening slowly against dizziness that threatened to fell him again. Then he stood silently in the clearing, trying to hear over the sound of his own pulse pounding in his ears.

The gunfire had stopped after only a few rounds, and it didn't repeat. But now loud shouts peppered the air just to the east, sounding hollow on the cold wind. The men weren't very far away, and they were moving. Vin turned slightly, faced into the wind, and raised his chin.

They were heading for the knob of rock again, where they'd apparently been meeting when Vin and Chris had been spotted by a sentry. And from the sound of it, they were viciously jubilant about something. And taunting someone.

Vin glanced at what he could see of the sun through the trees overhead. It'd only been maybe 10 minutes since Chris had left him. No way he'd gotten to the Ram yet, which meant . . . Vin shook his head slowly. It meant they were in deep shit, both of them, and no help in sight. His gaze drifted only a moment down the slope towards the graveled parking area at the trailhead, wide and flat and empty save for the truck. At some point, and soon, these men would search Chris. When they did, they would discover his ATF identification. And that would be the end of it.

Vin swallowed against the deep, burning throb in his shoulder and set his jaws and neck against the sense that he was about to collapse. Slowly, one step at a time with shaking legs, he started walking back up the slope. As he did, he snaked a hand to the holster nestled against the small of his back, drew his gun, and somberly checked the clip.

7*7*7*7*7*7*7

The wind rising up the steep edge of the small canyon lifted a fringe of sweat-dampened hair from Vin's forehead. For a moment he leaned into the overwhelming desire to simply put his head down on his forearms, right where he was laying, and give in to the darkness and pain that were sucking the life out of him. But he couldn't. Not yet. Because when he lifted his head just the slightest bit, he could see Chris in a circle of men, atop the gnarled fist of stone just across the canyon.

Vin blinked against the spots that kept forming at the edge of his vision and then spinning slowly across his field of view. He couldn't see Chris very well, but what he could see didn't look good. The lithe figure was just a back-lit silhouette, but there was a stiffness and tilt to the posture that spoke of pain. Vin thought of the gunfire he'd heard, and winced as he stretched his arms out on the stone in front of him, pistol gripped in both hands.

His palms were slick with sweat and his arms were shaking like leaves in a high wind. But the stone would support his aim and he figured the distance was just this side of the limit to his pistol's range. If he focused.

Suddenly the group of men began to mill around with a pattern that suggested a purpose, and Vin frowned. They were moving to his right, and that would take them out of his line of sight. Two of them pushed Chris sharply in the back with rifle butts, and Vin saw his friend stagger and nearly fall, then slowly stagger in the direction he was being forced. Vin swore softly as the figures disappeared behind a ledge that blocked his view.

Vin tried to get up again and ground his teeth in pain and frustration. He'd dropped to the stone ledge barely a full minute ago, but now he could hardly feel his legs any more, the burning of his oxygen-starved muscles having long since faded into the dull roar of agony that seemed to be consuming him from the inside out. Getting up to move a few feet was going to be harder than struggling up the trail had been. He recognized the inevitable signs that his body was starting to shut down. He was running out of time to do anything to help Chris, and he had to act before he hit that wall.

Vin closed his eyes and willed strength into his back and legs, and slowly pushed himself up onto his knees and one hand. He reached sideways to the stone bluff that dropped in a series of short steps to the ledge he was on, forcing shaking fingers into the cracks where tiny plants had forced their roots into bare rock. Then he pulled himself up against the stone, leaning heavily on it for support, and started inching himself the few feet that loomed like impossible miles.

One shuffling, halting step, and then another -- shoulder and back pressed against the low, sloping bluff behind him, knees buckling but somehow holding as he wiped the sweat from his eyes with the back of his sleeve and looked, again and again, for his friend. He pushed on, jaws clenched, each step painfully small but sending bursts of agony through his shoulder and arm.

Finally, he saw the men, though with no sign yet of Chris. One of them had a weapon in his hands, arms extended full-length, somewhat downward, elbows locked.

Execution stance.

Vin's heart leaped as adrenaline surged like electricity through his body. Gravel rolled out from under his boot soles as he scrambled with new energy over a low trailing corner of the bluff to get a little higher. He knew what he'd see, but it still froze his gut.

Chris knelt, hands clasped behind his head and head bowed. The shooter was directly behind him with the barrel of his weapon only a few feet from Chris's neck. Chris was out of time. Now.

Vin felt himself shift into some other place, a different existence where time barely moved and his eyesight was sharper than an eagle's. Awareness of everything but the circle of men with his friend in the center dropped away like a shed skin.

He could see the shooter's finger tightening against the trigger -- impossible, but he could. He could feel the cold metal of that steel aimed for his friend's life. He saw Chris's face turn just the slightest fraction towards him, knew without doubt that green eyes were coming around to search the slope where he stood, feeling his presence, wanting to say a silent farewell.

Without further thought, Vin started shooting.

The executioner dropped like a slaughtered ox, a bullet through his forehead and his body a limp slither on the stone. A second man raised a pistol to Chris and Vin shot him through the heart.

Chris was on his feet now, hands bound but no longer behind him. The men were running, and there was confused fighting as Chris took the advantage Vin had given him.

The sharpshooter stood like a rock, arms straight out in front of him and elbows locked, systematically shooting down one target at a time with unblinking concentration. Any man who turned towards Chris and set his hand to a gun, died the next instant.

Vin ignored the men who raised weapons his direction, who watched to catch sight of his muzzle flare to return fire. He ignored the pain and exhaustion that he'd fought for too long now. None of that mattered. His world had shrunk to the radius of a man's safety, and he fought with single-minded purpose to clear a sphere of protection around Chris, no matter where he moved or how quickly.

A sharp smack to his right thigh drove Vin backwards a step, into the base of the bluff he'd edged his way over against. Somewhere he registered the fact of having been shot again, but dismissed the fact as irrelevant. He threw himself upright again, seeking and finding a new target, but realized he'd lost sight of Chris in the process. That was a problem, and Vin staggered a step forward, eyes squinting against the sunlight as he scanned the surface of the outcrop with rising dread.

A series of cries from farther to his right drew him several more steps, and Vin saw a knot of three or four men struggling, far too close to the edge of the promontory. He raised his gun again, and stepped farther into the clear to get a solid shot. It dropped one of the combatants, and another fled. One still fought with Chris. Vin took a deep, steadying breath . . .

And found himself sinking inexplicably to his knees.

His body slowly folded up on itself, pistol dropping from nerveless fingers to the stone in front of him. Vin looked across the narrow canyon-like valley, confusion and fear rising with a surge of something like nausea to choke his throat.

He could hear new shooting somewhere -- somewhere else, but not here. One man was running away from the edge of the promontory where they'd been fighting, and it wasn't Chris. He couldn't see Chris anywhere. Motion below the bluff caught Vin's eye then, and he saw with the aching clarity of a shattered life where Chris had gone.

The narrow form bounced off one rock and then another, turning end-over-end. Vin saw an arm flop unnaturally, its bones broken. Saw a hip impact with a sharp edge of rock in a way that snapped the back unmistakably. Saw the head jerk and then roll like a sack of grain on the neck when the body struck the wall and rebounded off it into freefall again.

It took forever. Chris's body fell for hours as Vin watched it, unable to look away, unable to move. He was dimly aware that he'd clamped a hand low to his abdomen, that something warm welled up there and ran out between his fingers. It seemed that ought to mean something. But it didn't.

Chris had fallen down the canyon. Chris was dead.

Oh God.

Vin choked on the pain of his grief as he fell helplessly to the stone, his whole body trembling with exhaustion and pain. He could hear voices calling, yelling, more shots. Chris was dead. Vin saw him falling again and struggled to sit up. Had Chris fallen yet? Could he stop it somehow? But he couldn't sit up, couldn't move, could only drop his head to the stone beneath him with an anguished groan.

A harsh grating of boots against gravel near his head -- someone was here.

"Chris?" He knew it couldn't be, but had to ask. Everything was so strange now, seemed so distant, maybe it could be, he thought. Maybe it could be Chris, coming to get him, flying up out of the canyon and soaring across it to Vin. To take Vin with him.

The injured man raised a hand weakly, searching for the grasp that always unfailingly folded his hand in its own when he needed it. But there was no returned grip there, no Chris, and his hand fluttered only a few inches above the ground before it fell back of its own accord.

Voices swirled more loudly, spinning around him like the sky was. They made no more sense than anything else. He twisted his head, trying to see what was nearing him, but the darkness didn't draw back this time when he blinked.

"Over here! I found Vin!"

Vin felt the life seeping out of him, running across the stone like a wide, slow creek dark with disaster, and found he didn't care any more. He didn't even care who was so excited to know where he was. Didn't they understand? Chris was dead, was dead, was--

"*Hold on*, Vin." Low and desperate, whoever it was. Vin blinked and tried to focus, but couldn't see anything other than shadows.

"Chris fell," he tried to say. They needed to know, whoever they were. They needed to know the world had changed forever, that life had come to a brick wall it couldn't ever go past. But the word came out like a small sound of choked desperation and Vin closed his eyes again, wearily. It was too hard to reach out, to communicate. Easier to fall faster instead, into the place he could feel himself spinning to.

"Don't let go on me now, Vin. Hold on. Hold on now."

But twin explosions of unbearable agony arched his back off the ground the next instant, and Vin couldn't help but let go. Consciousness was stripped away in a single, violent wrench, and he dropped backwards into the freefall of oblivion.

7*7*7*7*7*7*7

"I can't raise a signal, Nathan. All I can think of is to go back down to the trucks and use the radio." JD's face was drawn and white, his eyes on Vin's slack features. The healer's hands were red from the forearms down, his fingers slipping in the blood that saturated the wadded-up shirt he was holding pressed to Vin's belly.

Josiah, pressing likewise against the wound in Vin's shoulder, looked up with gentle but sorrowful eyes. He locked JD's gaze with his and said, urgently and powerfully, "*RUN*, Brother John."

The youth turned like an agile deer and sprinted down the trail, out of sight.

"Any sign a' Chris yet?" Nathan didn't raise his eyes, his face a mask of distress and helplessness. But Josiah didn't have to hear the words to know the healer was all too aware that they'd found only one man of two.

The preacher scanned the slope across the small canyon, watched Buck and Ezra climbing the last hundred feet of the trail beneath the summit. "Not yet," he rumbled softly. "They're just about to get up on the top, though."

"Damn fools! Couldn't wait just twenty minutes 'er so. No. Had t'--"

"Nathan?"

The healer looked up at Josiah, and the pain that glittered in his eyes like lance blades was at total odds with the sharp anger of the words he'd just said. He swallowed, eyes welling with emotion he couldn't afford to feel or express just now. He could feel the heat of Vin's blood cooling on his hands. He could count the respiration rate by the rise and fall of the abdomen beneath his fingers, and he knew what was happening. Josiah sighed deeply and looked down at Vin's bloodless face.

"Keep fighting, Nathan," he whispered steadily. "JD'll radio a medivac here in no time. That boy can really run." Pale blue eyes rose and met the liquid brown ones only a few feet away. "We can't lose this one."