Steve had lost track of how long they'd wandered through the woods, unconditionally trusting Mike's sense of orientation when it came to getting them to a safe destination, while keeping an eye out for any movements in the vicinity, any signs of Chong or his goons catching up with them.
Despite the Lieutenant's reasonably hasty pace, they had to keep stopping here and there, double checking a tree trunk or bush to ensure they wouldn't walk into a trap.
Each time it happened, Steve held his breath, knowing that their advantage over the enemy was waning with every minute lost, making a confrontation with Chong painfully inevitable.
Add into the fact that they were all slowly getting tired, their muscles sore and their faces scratched up from conquering unknown territory in near complete darkness.
A mile or so back, one of Steve's expensive boots started to give out, the thin leather soles no match for the rocks and damp ground, causing it to slowly come apart along his right toe. As a result, he forced himself to step higher and longer, hoping to avoid tripping over his own feet and adding to their ever-growing list of problems.
After his brief conversation with Gifford, Mike had fallen completely quiet again, focusing all his energy on leading them to safety that seemed so utterly out of their reach at this point.
Suddenly, a branch snapping nearby made all of them freeze in their respective spots, Mike instantly raising the .38 and training the barrel of the revolver in the general direction of the noise, Steve doing the same with the scalpel.
Some rustling ensued, its pace changing to a slower cadence, the direction moving southeast, as if trying to get ahead of them.
It could have been a deer for all they knew, or one of Chong's men. Possibly even a startled raccoon. But without any sort of visual, they had to expect the worst.
It was enough to cause a chain reaction of events, starting with Mike beginning to pick up his pace, eventually falling into a hasty jog, followed by Gifford. After all this time, Steve wasn't sure just how much more the reporter could handle and when they'd finally be forced to take a break, likely at the most inconvenient time of all.
He gave those two a couple seconds to get ahead, once again turning around to ensure nobody was behind them, then sped up as well, his ankles growing sore from the continuous strain against the uneven terrain.
And so they ran for many long minutes, dodging low hanging branches and zig zagging their way through the forest while staying remarkably close on track with the nearby ravine.
A few feet ahead of him, Gifford's breaths had turned into painful bouts of wheezing, as the reporter struggled to keep up the pace as best as possible, neither dressed for the environment, nor prepared for the strain their escape would have on her body.
Mike's head reappeared periodically, bopping back and forth between tree trunks and shadows, the moon illuminating the area just enough to highlight any blunt objects sticking out of the ground and possibly disrupting their escape.
What it failed to reveal was the small root sticking out a few inches, before disappearing beneath the safety of a small tree again, the snare enough to catch his foot and sending Steve crashing violently to the ground.