Flynn ran, clutching his satchel with one hand, the other swinging back and forth. Behind him, the thundering of hooves, hoarse screaming of guards and clanking of metal grew louder. My hands are full. Hah! You still got it Flynn, he grinned to himself. The Stabbingtons would gut him if they ever escaped, but right now he still had to deal with those guards. His boots pounded across the dirt and grass as he hopped over rocks and roots, dappled sunlight streaming through the thin veil of leaves. Oh this was glorious, running from guards after a successful heist. A thief living his life to the fullest. He ducked and weaved through branches and twigs, yet it wasn't enough. They closed on him, their golden armor glinting amidst the sunlight. They lowered their weapons. They fired.
One second he was jumping, the next he was sliding to a halt on his knees, ripping his already tattered trousers to shreds at his knees. A crossbow bolt had punched its way clean through his chest, tearing a gaping hole through his dark blue vest, already bearing a ragged circle of crimson. He grabbed the tip, but only succeeded in painting his hands with red. The pain. It didn't come. Only silent resignation.
"Damn" he coughed, as the snorting and panting of horses overshadowed him. He groped for his satchel, pulling out the crown with a huge effort.
"Good shot captain" he heard someone say.
The man on the white horse smirked. And with the last ounce of his strength Flynn tossed the piece of metal over the cliff. If he couldn't have it, they wouldn't either.
"Find that crown!" the captain bellowed to his men. Yet it only seemed like a whisper to Flynn
He felt the ground lurch once more as they galloped off. And Flynn Rider just lay there, drowning in a pool of his own blood, which had already begun to soak into the copper brown earth.
The crown tumbled down the cliff side, dancing in its free fall. It hit the ground and bounced once, as if happy to be free then rolled through a patch of vines, into a hidden clearing.