He didn't know how they'd found him. But they had. He'd seen something from the bus, some glimpse of buildings, some streets that for a moment, just for a moment, looked familiar; and overwhelmed with anxiety and the need to know, he'd stumbled to the front of the bus, incoherently demanded that the driver stop, and he'd leapt off and found himself standing in the middle of an intersection, voices yelling at him, cars honking, and he was whirling round, staring, studying every inch, and he knew none of it anymore.

Eventually, coming to his senses, he'd staggered over to the safety of the sidewalk and he'd stood for a long moment, the balls of his fists pressed against his eyes. What was he supposed to do now? He'd ran from Rusty and that had been the right thing to do, because he didn't know what that relationship was, and he wasn't going to let someone else tell him what he wanted. But he didn't know what he did want right then.

And then they found him. Just like that. Four men, leaping out of the car parked on the other side of the street, and their guns were drawn and they charged towards him.

Oh, at last. Something that looked absolutely and unquestionably familiar.

He ran and he could hear them behind him, heading towards him, heard the bystanders screaming, heard the bullet fly past his head, saw the moment when the corner of the building he was running towards exploded outwards in a shower of stone chips.

He ran, feeling like his legs were made of rubber, feeling like he was going to choke on the taste of adrenaline at the back of his throat. Terrified. Desperate.

He ran because he had no real choice. He was never going to give up.

He ran, zig-zagging down unknown streets, dodging through alleys, always, always avoiding people as much as he could. He wasn't going to try and lose himself in a crowd. Not when they were already shooting.

He ran, and he didn't lose them, not once, and in the end he stood in the middle of an alley, and there was a wall ten feet ahead of him, stretching ten feet above him, and there were running footsteps behind him, and he was sure that this was it, that this was the end.

The only thing he was really aware of was the shout, angry and sharp and terrified, and the sudden painful impact, a body crashing into him at top speed, being thrown back across the alley.

Rusty glared, scrambled off him and dragged him to his feet. "Run," he snapped.

Before he could even start to obey, Rusty shoved him up a broken fire escape to his left, and the bullet that thudded into the metal staircase shook the whole structure alarmingly.

"Jump," Rusty added tersely, pointing down at the other side of the wall that blocked the alley. "Now."

He did, and he twisted round in time to see Rusty kicking the stairs down behind them. They wouldn't be followed. That way, away.

With a pained grunt, Rusty landed beside him. "Running is good," he said, pushing him forwards, not exactly gently.

"How did you find me?" he asked as they ran, and he had to glance backwards, because his tone hadn't exactly been grateful.

Rusty's face was blank. But there was something in his eyes. Hurt. A lot of hurt. "You got on a bus, Danny," he explained wearily. "I know you're not exactly familiar with them, but they follow predetermined routes. You might as well have been leaving breadcrumbs."

He bit his lip, angry now, and embarrassed. "That's how they found me?"

"No!" Rusty snapped, and there was a sharp edge to his voice, and apparently he wasn't the only one feeling frustrated. "You got off the bus in front of Mackenzie's fucking office. They must have thought it was Christmas!"

Fuck. For a few steps he just ran. "It looked familiar," he admitted quietly, and he resisted the urge to apologise. He didn't owe it. If he was going to be stupid it was his business. Not like he'd asked Rusty to follow him. "And those were Dawson's people," he pointed out.

"The door there," Rusty told him abruptly. "On the right. Should be open."

He tried it and it opened easily. He scrambled inside and Rusty followed him, closing it tight behind them. They were in some sort of storage room, cluttered with piles of boxes.

"How did you - " he wondered.

" - basement links on to Mackenzie's building," Rusty explained. "We were considering using it. Didn't."

"We're going to Mackenzie's office?" he asked blankly. That didn't sound like such a good idea.

Rusty flashed him a brief smile. "It also has a back door. Well, actually, this is the back door. It also has a front door." He pushed open the door on the far side and they stepped out into what appeared to be a small Chinese supermarket.

The guy behind the counter looked astonished. Rusty smiled at him, said a couple of words, and passed over a few bills.

He blinked as they stepped back on to the street. "You speak Chinese?"

"Uh huh," Rusty agreed, looking left and right before dragging him across the street and disappearing into a new warren of alleys.

For a moment they rested, and he needed it, and they were leaning against opposite walls of the alley, and he didn't look at Rusty. "Why do you speak Chinese?" he wondered.

"Why not?" Rusty answered tightly.

He shrugged. "You think we lost them?" he asked hopefully.

In the distance there was the sound of angry voices.

Rusty sighed wearily. "No," he said, motioning for him to go first, and they were running again.

"They are Dawson's people," he told Rusty again. "I recognise them from the hospital."

"No shit." Rusty sounded angry. Exasperated. "Dawson's been staking out Mackenzie's office for months now. But I'm sure Mackenzie's people will be along any moment now, if that'll make you happier."

Oh, that was it. That was enough. There was no way he could have been expected to know that. No way in the world. "You know, I didn't ask you to follow me! I didn't ask you to chase after me like a little lost sheep! I don't need you, okay? Why don't you just get lost!"

For a couple of heartbeats, there was silence. "As you wish," Rusty said at last and he felt the echo, even as he realised that Rusty had stopped running. He turned round slowly, feeling wrong and feeling guilty.

Rusty was facing the wall, his head down low, one hand pressed against the brickwork, the other pressed into his side.

Hesitantly, he took a couple of steps closer. "Come on," he said slowly. "We've got to get . . . fuck." For the first time he saw the blood. There was blood splashed on the ground behind Rusty. Blood spreading slowly through his fingers, staining his shirt.

"I'm sorry, Danny," Rusty said quietly. "You're right. I was just scared. I thought . . . I thought I'd lost you." His breathing was ragged and there was a crack in his voice, a note of pain that was hardly there and almost too much to bear.

"You were shot?" he asked stupidly, frozen in the middle of the alley.

Rusty looked up at him sharply. "You didn't know?"

He stared. "No I didn't . . . you thought I'd . . .? You thought." He clenched his jaw and stepped forwards, reaching out a hand. "Let me see."

Rusty evaded him easily. "No, you need to get going. Run. I just need a moment. I'll catch up."

"This is no time to be a hero," he said angrily.

There was an open smile and Rusty's eyes, when they met his, were amused. "It has nothing to do with being a hero. This is the way it works. This is the way we work. Every man for himself."

Danny suddenly knew he'd never been that kind of man.

He stared. "You're lying to me?"

In the distance, sirens sounded.

"Should have known it wouldn't work," Rusty muttered.

"Can you run?" he asked quietly.

Rusty staggered away from the wall, staggered upright and his arms were tight around his body. He nodded tightly and didn't say anything. Probably couldn't say anything.

They ran.

Their pursuers were close behind them, too close, and just because the guns were nowhere in evidence now that the police were on the scene, didn't mean he was any more anxious to meet them. True to Rusty's word, he recognised Bill and Harry, chasing towards them from half a block away. Mackenzie's people. Dawson's people. They were everywhere.

The first moment there was no-one actually in view, Rusty dragged him down a set of stairs into a public restroom.

"What?" he frowned.

"Need to stop this bleeding," Rusty explained, jamming the door. "Leaving a trail. Breadcrumbs again." He walked down the stairs, leaning heavily on the wall all the way, and he was broadcasting 'keep-back' signals that could probably be read from space. And that hurt a little, somehow. He wanted to help Rusty. Wanted to be able to do something.

"You know some gruesome fairy tales," he pointed out, and Rusty smiled a little and pulled his shirt up, revealing a massive bloody gash. "Fuck," he swore and automatically he stepped forwards.

Rusty stopped him with a look. "Had worse," he claimed simply and then he stuffed the corner of his shirt into his mouth, holding it up, out of his way.

"Is it bad?" he demanded.

"Nah," Rusty shook his head, momentarily spitting the shirt out of his mouth. "It's nothing."

He frowned. There was something . . . "How do you know?"

Rusty shrugged painfully. "Guess that I'd have fallen down by now if it was serious."

Closing his eyes, he took a deep breath. "What can I do?" he asked helplessly. However much he thought, there was no mysterious and helpful knowledge popping into his mind.

Pausing in the act of removing his belt, shirt stuffed back in his mouth, Rusty glanced at him, and pointed to the pile of paper towels behind him. Frowning, he passed a couple of them over, and Rusty pressed them into his side.

"Do you know what you're doing?" he asked and the impatient nod he got by way of an answer was almost reassuring.

He watched, uncomprehending, as Rusty pulled the belt around himself, over the paper towels, over the injuries. He got it, just as Rusty clenched his fists tightly, and pulled the belt tight. He got it as he saw the moment when Rusty's legs gave out, when Rusty dropped to his knees in a huddle of shock and agony and he winced, a mixture of sympathy and helplessness and frustration and other things that hovered, just past his comprehension.

"You are an idiot," he said wonderingly. It was only a fragment of what he wanted to say.

Rusty looked up at him, eyes clouded. "You remember?"

Almost smiling at that, he reached forwards, to help Rusty up, to offer any help, comfort, he could.

There was a thudding against the door at the top of the stairs. Angry, raised voices.

He glanced back to the stairs. "Maybe someone really needs to go?" he suggested lightly, but he recognised Willy's voice. God. He hid the shudder, the fear.

Rusty was still kneeling on the floor and the sense of pain was ebbing out of him, but he reached out and grabbed the sink, hauling himself to his feet. "We need to get out of here," he said, looking up at the windows.

Maybe. Maybe, but the windows were small and high up, and they were both hurting. He stared quickly round the room. Storage closet. Storage closet built into the side of the wall. And, if he remembered rightly (Please let him remember rightly) the ladies restroom was right next door.

The door was locked, but he managed to break the lock open with a quick twist, and found himself in a closet full of mops and toilet roll. And there was a door in the far side.

Rusty stumbled up behind him and secured the door behind him. "This is going to be awkward," he commented.

He looked back over his shoulder. "Yeah. You - "

" - with you," Rusty answered simply, and that might or might not have answered his question.

The second door was just as easy as the first and they stepped out into the ladies restroom and they were greeted by a chorus of screams from the three women standing at the mirror.

"Sorry," he yelled, as they bolted for the stairs.

"We just came out of the closet," Rusty explained further, and he had to resist the urge to turn round and glare. Or laugh.

They ran, and he was tiring, weakening, and Rusty was silently struggling, and when he came to understand that they seemed to have lost everyone for the time being, it seemed like a minor miracle.

"In here," Rusty panted, pointing at a multi-story carpark. "We need to get out of this neighbourhood."

He frowned. "We have a car in here?" he asked.

Rusty looked uncomfortable. "Sorry . . . but we're in real trouble. We need to - "

" - it's okay," he cut in. He got it. He understood, and right there and then, someone's stolen car seemed less important than their lives.

He watched as Rusty picked the lock of the nearest car, sat in the driver's seat and reach under the dashboard. Two seconds later the engine purred into life.

"Huh," he said slowly. Rusty looked at him and shrugged. "You up for driving?" he asked hesitantly. "I could - " He thought he was up to it. Probably. He was still slightly dizzy, but it was nothing he wasn't prepared to try and cope with.

" - no," Rusty said firmly. "You're staying out of sight."

He nodded. "They've see you too," he pointed out.

"Hoping to not be memorable," Rusty said lightly.

With a roll of his eyes, he curled down at the foot of the front passenger seat and did his best to be invisible.

He looked up, watching Rusty as they drove off. There was no sign of pain on Rusty's face, but his fingers were clenched white around the steering wheel and there was a light sheen of sweat on his forehead.

"You okay?" he asked carefully.

Rusty didn't look at him. "Are you?"

He sighed. "When did you get shot?"

"Couple of Dawson's men there," Rusty told him. "Keep your head down."

He was. And he wasn't going to be distracted that easily. "When did you get shot?" he persisted.

"On the fire escape," Rusty answered immediately, his eyes firmly on the road.

"When you knocked me down," he corrected and Rusty didn't reply. "But you didn't know you were going to get shot, right?" You weren't deliberately throwing yourself in front of a bullet for me, right? There was hope in his voice. And somehow, he thought that it was a stupid hope.

"Of course not," Rusty said with an audible laugh. His fingers gripped the steering wheel a little tighter.

He closed his eyes. "At least tell me that you knew you weren't going to get killed?" he whispered.

"I knew what I was doing," Rusty assured him, and that was the truth and it wasn't the truth he wanted.

"Fuck." He leaned his head back against the glove box and wondered if he'd ever understand this life he'd forgotten.

After twenty minutes, Rusty pulled the car into a motel parking lot.

"What's the plan?" he asked, pulling himself up onto the seat.

Rusty reached past him and started investigating the glove box. "Need somewhere to rest up for a little while. Just an hour or so. Figure out what we do next. Dawson and Mackenzie know you're still in town, and now they've seen how eager the other is to get hold of you, they're only going to try harder. Whatever this list you mentioned is, they want it back."

"So we're going in here, and we're going to call Stan, right?" he checked.

"No," Rusty said firmly. "We're not calling anyone."

"You've been shot," he pointed out uncertainly.

Rusty shrugged. "It's really not that bad. Just looks like a deep cut. I can take care of it myself. No point in dragging Stan back into this, particularly when we're still being chased by, well, everyone." With a look of triumph, he pulled a silk scarf, a Hershey bar and a tube of superglue out of the glove box. "This'll do."

Somehow, he didn't think he wanted to ask.

"Come on," Rusty said, heading towards the front desk. He stopped just outside the door and looked back. "You need to act as though you want me."

He blinked. "What?"

Rusty grinned. "Two men booking into a motel for a couple of hours of casual sex? Not going to get much attention. Two men booking in to fix up a bullet wound - "

" - I get it," he cut in.

They got inside. Rusty did the talking and he restricted himself to standing a little closer than he should be comfortable with, leaning in with pseudo-discreet little looks and glances and smiles. The woman behind the desk managed to look bored and sniggery all at the same time and she eyed them with delight and contempt. He was surprised to realise he didn't care.

"Room Four," Rusty said as they walked away, and his voice was quiet and exhausted, and it seemed as though willpower was the only thing keeping him on his feet.

Hurting in sympathy, he took the key out of Rusty's hands and led him into the room. "Call Stan," he said firmly, and Rusty shook his head with painful stubbornness.

"I'll be fine," he said. "Just need to get this sorted. Something that'll hold for a few days, until things have calmed down."

Oh, that was just ridiculous. "You took me to a doctor," he pointed out.

"You don't remember your own name," Rusty answered. "I've just got a graze."

He watched as Rusty struggled out of his shirt and stumbled through to the bathroom swearing and, grimacing, he followed. "That graze looks bad," he commented, tight-lipped, as Rusty gingerly removed the belt and peeled back the sodden wad of paper towels, revealing a mass of blood, swelling and frayed flesh.

"It's fine," Rusty insisted, glaring at him, but his teeth were gritted and the pain was visible in his eyes.

He sighed, and, with an effort, restricted himself to watching, as Rusty cleaned the wound out with cold water, and took a bite of Hershey bar. When Rusty reached for the superglue though, he felt compelled to intervene.

Stepping forwards quickly, he grabbed Rusty's wrist. "What the fuck?" he asked calmly.

"It works," Rusty told him, in a tone that suggested that Rusty thought this was perfectly reasonable. "They used it in Vietnam to hold injuries together. It's perfectly safe."

"You're going to superglue your side together," he stated, hoping that somehow there'd be another explanation.

"Yeah," Rusty agreed. "I know what I'm doing." Gently, Rusty prised the hand off his wrist, and all he could do was stand back and watch helplessly as Rusty slathered superglue onto his side and then held the edges of the wound together. "Fuck," he swore with feeling through clenched teeth. "Hurts worse than the fucking bullet."

He followed Rusty as he staggered out of the bathroom and sat down heavily on the edge of the bed, his head in his hands. "Danny?"

For once, he didn't object to the name. "Yeah?" he asked gently.

"I'm gonna pass out in a minute," Rusty said, not lifting his head. "Sorry. Nothing I can do about that. And I can't stop you walking out that door. But listen. Be careful. Stay as inconspicuous as possible. You should leave town. Head to the airport. Head to Chicago. There's a man there. Bobby Caldwell. Works for the FBI."

"An FBI agent?" he asked, heart hammering in his chest.

"Among other things. He's a good guy. He'll help you. Well. Once you've convinced him you're not joking around, he'll help you. Bobby Caldwell, Chicago FBI office, you got that?"

"Rusty . . . " he began, shaking his head, because this wasn't right, this wasn't . . .

"Have you got that?" Rusty demanded.

"Yeah," he said in a low voice. "Yeah, I've got it."

"Good," Rusty lifted his head and smiled at him, then he lay down, or fell down, and his eyes fluttered shut, and he lay there, still and deathly pale.

Danny found himself looking between Rusty and the door.