"There he is!"

Skidding to a stop on gravel as a rush of adrenaline flashed through him. Throwing a lighting swift glance around, seeking an escape. Eyes falling on a shadowed door leading into a nearby warehouse.

"Roberts! Powell! This way!"

Crashing splinter of shattered wood. Searing agony jolting through him, gut and leg as he slammed his foot into the door. Ignoring the pain, darting forward, out of the betraying moonlight. Into the black depths of the warehouse. Moving with furtive, fugitive instinct towards where the darkest shadows promised concealment.

Crunching footsteps on gravel behind him. Shouts from his pursuers, almost as loud as his own ragged breathing and pounding pulse. Turning at bay, ready to ambush from the darkness.

"C'mon…he went this way…"

Watching two shadows as they paused in the moonlit rectangle of the doorway. One shadow raising an arm, blocking the other. "No…"

Eyes watching, body tensing in readiness, slipping back further into the darkness.

"What? C'mon, Keane…we got him now!"

"No. Wait." The bigger shadow pulling something from his pocket. Gun? No, cell phone. Musical chirps of a number being dialed, sounding too cheery in the blackness.

Sidling around a crate, scanning his surroundings with a calculating glance. Windows. Too high. Back door. None. Only exit. Blocked.

"Hey, Cap. He went to ground."

Gaze going again to the blocked doorway, watching one shadow step to the edge and glance at the shattered door's sign. "Warehouse. Alveriz Freight and Shipping. Yessir." 'Snick'. The cell phone snapping shut.

"We wait here."

Eyes adjusting to the gloom, scanning for an escape, or anything to use as a weapon. There. Slipping sideways between crates, eyes falling on the top of one, doing a quick inventory. Nail gun. Crowbar. Rags. Wire. Pliers.

Reaching and lifting, and pain flared. Quickly switching hands, adjusting grip. Feeling a surge of renewed optimism with weapon in hand.

Edging back closer to the door, weighing the chance of an enraged rush. Stopping with a growl of frustration as new silhouettes join the first two.

"But…we got him pinned! Roberts and Powell can watch the door and we go in and…"

"No way, kid… Cap'n said to lock it down…we lock it down…all we gotta do is keep him contained until Sarge and his team get here."

"But…"

A new voice speaking. "Hey, Kid…did you see what he did to Vargas?"

"Yeah." Anger in the voice. "He fucked him up real bad, man…"

"Right… and he did it with his hands cuffed, kid… Behind his back…"

Baring teeth in a feral smile even as he slips back away from the door again, listening as they continue to speak.

"Holy shit…" Now a twinge of fear mingling with the anger.

"Yeah. So…when Cap says to wait…we wait. Roberts, you and Powell stay out front. Me an' Tom'll wait just inside the door here. Ain't no way he's going anywhere now. Sarge's on his way…he'll get'em."

"You know…I wouldn't wanna be that bastard when Sarge and Cap get their hands on him…"

Grin fading into a determined scowl, eyes weighing his choices again, calculating. Trading nail gun for the crowbar, grabbing some of the rags. Fading into the depths of the building, searching for an escape.

Sliding from shadow to shadow, cursing the occasional sound that breaks the silence. One futile, stealthy circuit of the building taking him back to the moonlit doorway to pause and assess the situation, listening to his captors as their voices drift to him on the night.

"Hey, Keane…Cap just called. Sarge'll be here in five minutes. Any sign of him?"

"Heard some noise a little while back, but nothing else,"

"Hey, you know…Vargas worked him over pretty good before the bastard got loose…ya think maybe he went and died on us already?" A low chuckle.

A challenging snort. "You wanna go in an' take a look?"

"Um…nah…"

"Didn't think so…"

"Hell, ain't nowhere he can go, anyways. They won't be shipping anything out of here 'til Monday…so there's time. We get more men in here…we'll find him."

Moving with swift purpose, back to the crate with the tools. Juggling crowbar, nail gun, wire, pliers and rags. A low moan breaking from him as his injuries scream a protest. Ignoring the pain. Moving deeper into the center of the room, searching for a defendable position.

There. Moving to where a tall crate stands next to a stack of smaller ones, creating a dark cave. Recessed, defensible, his own personal Alamo.

Stumbling to a stop next to the large crate. Leaning in exhaustion against it, mind racing, staring blindly, the letters stenciled on the crate swimming woozily before him before he regains focus.

Eyes widening in surprise before glancing upwards at the top of the crate then around its side in measured re-assessment. Hesitating slightly before setting his tools on a smaller crate. A smile widening before he grabs the crowbar again, plan in motion.

Cringing as a loud crash resounds throughout the building. Pausing, listening for sounds of renewed pursuit and then sagging in relief at faint words carrying on the night, still distant.

"What was that?"

"Dunno, but keep an eye on those windows…he might be trying to climb out'em."

Scoffing scorn floating with an echo through the building. "Yeah, like he's what, Batman or something? Aint no way."

Silence returning to the building, broken only by the soft sounds that travel no farther than his own ears. Working quickly, each move carefully planned and executed.

Smaller container, moved quietly aside. Wire, 'snip', cut, twisted in place. Nail gun, placed 'just so'. Scrape of wood on wood, squeaking in protest, and a pained grunt, escaping involuntarily and sounding loud in the now close confines.

Pop. Pop. Pop.

"What the hell was that?" Words floating out of the darkness.

Grinning in the darkness at the bewildered question. Smile slanting with pain as he braced himself, twisting, stretching, and ignoring his body's screaming protests.

Pop, pop, pop.

Clattering thud of a dropped tool. Vision dimming as liquid fire raced up his arm. Panting, gasping, pulling it upwards protectively, grey vision darkening to black.