---
As soon as they were out of the ventilation shaft, Murphy was calling ahead for back-up. "Steve, we're on our way out, one short, so keep your eyes open."
The reply was quick. "I'll inform 'Nita. Who'd we lose?"
"Fawkes," Murphy responded, urging Hobbes to increase his pace.
Speaking of whom... "Fawkes, do you copy?"
Murphy grunted. "Don't bother. They're offline."
Hobbes snarled softly, once again wishing they had never let O'Neill get involved with this. There musta been some other way to buy her off. "And why would they do that?" he asked through painfully clenched teeth.
They turned the final corner, daylight oozing in from the doorway above them. Murphy gave Hobbes a sharp look. "You tell me."
'Damn it.' He hated the answer a question with a question routine. Fawkes did it too, far too often; he didn't need strangers doing it as well. But it forced him to think. The headsets were good quality with a decent range, though minimal frequency choices: a trade-off with the miniaturized gear. That range was reduced in the mine simply due to all the rock, but once outside they coulda used the signal to track... "Crap. So how're we gonna find 'em without the radio? Smoke signals?"
Stevie was waiting above them to assist. Hobbes tossed the briefcase up, and it was caught deftly and set aside. "We've got it covered, Agent Hobbes," he said as Murphy gave Hobbes a boost up. Stevie grasped Hobbes' hands firmly and practically lifted him out.
Gunfire from several weapons could be heard in the distance, the shots echoing hollowly off the canyon walls.
"Hobbes," Higgins acknowledged, his gun drawn as a precaution. "Had some problems?"
"Don't we always?" Hobbes snarked.
The sound of the helicopter drowned out the gunfire, and Hobbes swung about to see Stevie and Murphy shut the access door with a loud bang that kicked up dust. The metal briefcase sat on the ground where it had been placed. The canister was still stuffed into Hobbes' vest, the only available place to stick it while climbing up the shaft. Stevie picked up the case. "She's coming in fast. Be ready."
Seconds later the chopper popped up from the canyon and did the flying equivalent of screeching to a halt, practically standing on its nose for an instant before settling atop the hillside a good 20 feet away.
The four men rushed the copter, the Agency men diving in first, followed by Stevie and then Murphy. "Go, 'Nita," Murphy ordered even before the door had been shut. With a quick move, the pilot had the copter in the air and turned about, heading back the way it had come.
"Turn around," Hobbes shouted over the sound of the rotors.
"Agent Hobbes, my orders..."
Hobbes pulled his gun and aimed it at Murphy's head. "Turn us around now."
"I can't do that." Murphy remained stoically calm.
Hobbes growled, "My partner is back there getting shot at, and I am not leaving him behind."
Stevie snorted. "Fallon'll take care of him."
"That's what I'm afraid of," Hobbes snapped.
"Agent Hobbes, do you think we're flying away because we want to?" Stevie asked.
"Sure looks that way t'me." But the gun wavered ever so slightly. "Orders?"
Murphy nodded. "You and the package are to be delivered to your Agency safe and sound ASAP."
The gun lowered. "This was part of the plan?" Hobbes shook his head, not understanding any of this. "Y'know if you'd let us in on this plan maybe Fawkes wouldn't have made such a bonehead move."
Murphy and Stevie exchanged a look.
"Your boss knew about it," Murphy told Hobbes.
Hobbes sat down heavily and ran a hand over his face. "Perfect. Just frickin' perfect."
The helicopter completed its long banking turn and headed due west.
---
They didn't have to wait long for someone to open the door and, sweet as you please, they slipped out with little trouble. Darien swallowed hard as they moved off to the right towards the slope of the hillside. There were a dozen men, all of them armed and looking pissed off, and half that many vehicles. There was nowhere to go but up. Thankfully, the slope wasn't too steep here or they'd be scrambling on hands and knees.
"Fawkes," Fallon hissed. "Remember, shoot, then move. Can't let 'em find our position."
"Got it." He pressed up against her back and found her hand by feel. He supported her arm, his hand curled about her wrist as she took her first shot and missed; the bullet impacting the dirt about a foot short of her target.
"Bloody hell," she swore as they shifted, moving uphill and to the right as the men down below all dove for cover and readied their weapons.
"Problem?" Darien asked as she raised her arm again.
"Can't see the gun so me aim's off," she explained as she squeezed off another round, this one hitting the left rear tire of the vehicle furthest from them. She got off two more rounds, taking out another tire on the first vehicle and the windshield of a second before they moved straight to the left. This time there was return fire, but at their former position. More men poured out of the mine entrance so she changed her target to them. Two shots had them dropping to the ground and Darien pulling her uphill just in time to avoid the spray of bullets aimed in their general vicinity.
"Fallon, our luck is gonna run out," he warned, knowing someone would get impatient and just pepper the entire hillside with automatic weapons fire.
"Aye, you keep us moving, I'll keep 'em down."
He didn't argue, and with one arm firmly about her waist the other supporting her wrist, he chose a zigzag path that constantly moved them uphill while she kept up a slow but steady pattern of fire, alternating between disabling the vehicles and potshots to keep the bad guys in hiding instead of shooting. Within minutes, the transportation was toast and at least two of them hit; one screaming in a high-pitched voice that made Darien's teeth ache.
Then they were at the crest of the hill, and, after one last shot that hit a gas tank of one of the trucks, causing it to explode in a fireball of flames and smoke, they turned and ran.
---
The helicopter hovered for a moment before dropping smoothly to the tarmac below, the wind-whipped rain not affecting the pilot at all. Hobbes waited impatiently for Murphy to open the door so he could deliver the goods to the 'Fish and then get back into the air. The door slid open finally and their little group bolted for the hangar to get under cover. Even in that short distance, they were drenched. Not that Hobbes cared in the least; he just wanted to get back and find his partner before Westgaard and his goons did.
"How soon can we get back in the air?" he asked of Murphy. Stevie... Steve - apparently, only Fallon called him Stevie - was on the phone already.
Murphy was looking over some data on a computer. "Dawn, if we're lucky."
"Dawn!" Hobbes shouted. "We need to get back there now!" Oh man, this was so frickin' screwed up.
"Agent Hobbes, I would love to accommodate you, but I can do nothing about the weather." Murphy waved at the monitor. "The storm system should be gone by 0600, but for now we're grounded." He looked over at Steve, who was frowning and raking his fingers through his hair, the phone still up against his ear.
"The GPS has them on the move as planned," Steve informed them. "Nikki'll set-up the data link and relay the GPS signal here."
Hobbes sighed, unable to hide the relief. Admittedly, there was no guarantee Fawkes was with O'Neill, but for now he'd assume he was, 'cause freaking out at these people wouldn't change a damn thing. "What're Westgaard's men doing?"
"Cloud cover is too thick. We can't see anything. Plan was to disable the vehicles, lose them and head to the rendezvous point," Steve outlined, snapping the phone shut.
"You call that a plan?" Hobbes sniped. "More like suicide by proxy."
Steve shrugged, clearly unconcerned. "It's worked before." He stripped off his wet clothing, revealing some impressive scars on his back and chest as he walked through a previously unnoticed door.
Outside there was a bright flash, swiftly followed by the low rumble of thunder. "Madre de dios," was the reaction of the pilot, Juanita, as she entered and removed her helmet. "We're not going anywhere till this clears," she stated unequivocally.
"What about ground vehicles? Jeeps, Humvees," Hobbes suggested, not yet ready to throw in the towel, though with the way his shirt and vest were dripping he could use one about now.
Murphy looked from Hobbes to Higgins and back again. "Aye, I suppose we could, but..."
Hobbes groaned.
"... the front is gonna hit their position within the hour. It's gonna be a washout, and if we're unlucky and hit a... a..." He turned to 'Nita for help.
"Arroyo," she supplied.
"We'll be in more trouble than them," he finished.
"Shit," Hobbes groused, knowing Murphy was right.
"You have a package to deliver. Do that, change into dry clothes, and meet us back here. We'll prep and be ready to move as soon as we can," Steve suggested as he came back into the main hangar area, pulling a dry shirt over his head.
It made sense, a lot of sense, in fact. Plus, Hobbes wanted to have a chat with the Official about O'Neill's plan and the creative interpretation of need to know in this situation. But his worry, his fear, wouldn't let go. "Not good enough. My partner is out there alone..."
"Fallon's with him," Steve said, the irritation seeping into his words making it plain that he was getting tired of repeating himself.
"I don't trust her!" Hobbes shouted, which was effective in making everyone go breathlessly silent.
Finally, Murphy broke it with, "She knows that."
Higgins cleared his throat, and Hobbes turned away from what he'd thought was O'Neill's yes-man. "What?"
"It's going to take at least an hour for them to refuel. Let's hand off the package. If the Official wants us to go after Fawkes, he'll tell us," Higgins said, sounding like the voice of reason.
Hobbes wondered whose payroll the mook was on for one instant, before conceding he was right. "All right. If anything changes..."
"We'll keep you apprised of the situation," Murphy assured him.
And with that tacit agreement made, Hobbes walked out into the rain-filled night.
---
The far side of the hill was much steeper, and negotiating it was made trickier by being unable to see their feet. They were traveling at an angle, heading southeast and away from the mine. Away from civilization too, which Darien didn't much care for, but now wasn't really the time to question her about it. They needed to put some serious distance between themselves and the goons who would do their best to increase the number of orifices in their bodies by a factor of five. They stumbled their way down until finally on the comparably flat surface of the ground, but she didn't even pause to catch her breath, before continuing on in the same direction for about a mile.
Darien wished he was psychic or something because he had no clue what they were doing or where they were going, and it was obvious she had no plans to discuss it with him... every time he tried to ask she'd unceremoniously shush him. Of course, she was just as informative when she suddenly decided to stop. She pulled out of his grip and quickly moved out of reach.
"Crap. Fallon...," he tried to warn just as the Quicksilver fell away from her.
She moved to stand with a large scraggly bush that was pretty much the only cover nearby between her and those following them. The fact that it would do very little to actually hide her seemed unimportant as she pulled a spare clip from the holder under her right arm and exchanged it for the one in the Glock. She slammed it home with a solid thunk that made her wince. "I need to orient and I doubt I can see the map through the... Quicksilver is it?"
Darien sighed and sidled up next to her, the Quicksilver cascading away from his body like spilled glitter. "Yeah, Quicksilver." As if she didn't remember the name, it was far more likely she was fishing for more info. He made a point to give her none. "What's this about a map?"
Out of another pocket, she produced one of those fancy hand-held GPS things, complete with built in monitor for showing maps and weather and who knew what else. On the top was a little monkey, which meant it was one of her modified models, and probably did a hell of a lot more than the standard ones you could buy at Camping World. "Oh, so your guys know where we are and can find us."
"Aye, but we need to make some distance first." She turned it on, clicked the buttons mounted on either side and rotated in an arc until facing the right direction. Due east of where they were. There wasn't much to see; a few miles of desert and another one'a those mini-mountains, bigger than the one they'd just climbed, is all. "This way." She waved at those distant hills.
"Uh, isn't that the wrong way?" he asked, figuring they'd head for civilization.
"Nay. We want to go east." She turned about, looking as irritated as her voice sounded.
"But Dulzura's back thataway." He waved vaguely towards the northwest. "It's only -what? - five, six miles, we can do that easy."
She closed her eyes, her right hand coming up to pinch the bridge of her nose as if she were working on a headache of monstrous proportions. "'Ow 'ave you managed to survive as an agent?"
"Huh?" was Darien's semi-intelligent response. Okay, what'd he done wrong now?
She sighed heavily. "Fawkes, don't you think that'd be the first place they'd look for us?"
Darien groaned at himself. Apparently, he'd switched his brain off at some point, and now is when he really needed to be paying attention. They were still in the midst of a life and death situation. Theirs. "Uh, yeah. Sorry. We'll stick with your plan for now."
She dimpled at him, somehow making it appear completely sarcastic, which was a nifty trick. "'Ow nice of ye." Then she was suddenly on alert, and a second later Darien knew why. Voices, raised voices coming in their direction. He squinted through the bush and spotted two goons, wearing familiar outfits heading in their direction at a fast walk.
Staying in line with the bush, she headed due east. "Time to go."
"Hell yes." He caught up with her and let the Quicksilver flow yet again. Thank god Claire had given him the cure else he'd've been doing the red-eyed mambo long ago. "We still leave footprints, y'know."
"I know. Don' worry 'bout it," she responded, staying within arm's reach and allowing Darien to maintain contact with a hand on her shoulder.
'But they'll be able to follow us,' he wanted to say, yet refrained. 'Plan. She keeps saying she has a plan.' All right, so, supposing Westgaard splits his forces: some heading to Dulzura to cut them off and some following their trail. Or what they'll assume is a trail since they couldn't actually be seen. How did that help? Well, fewer men actually following them wasn't a bad thing. Maybe once it got dark she was going to try and lose their tail and call for a taxi ride home. Made sense, some sense anyway. Didn't want to call for the helicopter and end up with an ambush situation with the good guys on the wrong end of it.
So, he had a choice: trust that she knew what she was doing even if she wasn't big on sharing or... or... he doubted he could force her to do anything she didn't want to, but he could strike off on his own. Make a try for Dulzura and call Bobby once there.
'But she's hurt.' That little voice in the back of his head, that blasted conscience that had prevented him from being anything more than a mediocre thief, reminded him. And seeing as he was now 'one of the good guys,' least according to Bobby, he couldn't in good conscience abandon her.
He could only hope he wouldn't regret his choice. Or have to hold the Quicksilver for too much longer, 'cause doing it took effort and concentration and he was already getting tired.
---
When Hobbes burst into the Official's office just after six p.m., it was with O'Neill's guard-dog right on his heels. Murphy hadn't given Hobbes any choice in the matter, only repeating that he was under orders to make sure Bobby and the package were delivered safely to the Agency. Hobbes' efforts to lose Murphy on the rainy traffic-clogged streets had been fruitless, which only fueled Hobbes' anger and frustration. Trouble was, taking it out on his boss would be far more likely to get him fired than anything else, even if the Fatman was as much to blame for the screw-up and the temporary loss of Fawkes as any of O'Neill's people.
Holding his temper as best he could, Hobbes strode over to the Official's desk, placed the canister and briefcase atop it and then stood there... waiting.
It was Eberts who spoke first. "Robert, you're dripping on the... Where is Darien?"
The Official's head snapped up from the ledger he'd been perusing. "Bobby." The single word made it clear he wanted answers and right now.
So did Bobby. "Why weren't me an' Fawkes in on the entire plan?" He wasn't about to give any answers without getting some in return.
The Official made an end run around Bobby instead. "Mr. Murphy?"
"He's with Fallon. Several miles southeast of the mine entrance," Murphy answered calmly, as Hobbes twisted about to glare at the larger man.
"And how is it Fawkes ended up with Ms. O'Neill?" the Official asked with an audible sigh.
"Fallon was shot while confronting Westgaard - as planned - and Agent Fawkes took it upon himself to attempt a rescue, after delivery of the package to Agent Hobbes." Murphy seemed to radiate a sense of irony over the entire thing. "I escorted Agent Hobbes out of the mine and back to your Agency."
"I see," the Official stated, not appearing overly concerned that Fawkes had gone missing. "Did she succeed?"
Murphy smiled broadly. "Yes. You'll receive copies once we've uploaded the images to our system."
Hobbes was officially confused. "Images? What images?"
After a glance at the Official, Eberts responded, "Part of our agreement with Ms. O'Neill was photographs of Mr. Westgaard, if at all possible."
It wasn't difficult for Hobbes to figure out that pics of Mister Invisible Terrorist would be a major coup for the Agency. And it also explained why no one had come after him and Murphy when they made their escape. O'Neill and Fawkes were now a major threat to Westgaard's anonymity, and when he caught up with them... "Crap," Hobbes muttered. Fawkes was in no more or less trouble than before. The bad guys wanting to kill the good guys was part of the business. The photojournalist routine by O'Neill, however, didn't explain why he and Fawkes were left out of the loop on the second objective of the mission.
"How come you're not asking about Papadopoulos?"
The Official gazed blandly back, but Eberts' shifty eyes twitched just enough.
"You never expected us to arrest any of them, did you?" Hobbes' tone could be nothing but accusatory.
The Official chuckled dryly. "Let's just say the odds were against it from the start."
Hobbes shook his head, confused as much as anything else. "The odds weren't great, but there weren't..." he trailed off. "She lied, didn't she? To sell the plan. That little bitch."
Wrong word. Murphy snapped to his full height and suddenly appeared exactly as dangerous as Hobbes suspected him of being. He wondered what branch of service he'd been in. Not RAF, that's for sure. Royal Marines maybe - the badasses of the British military. How the hell did a Marine end up working for a merc?
"Fallon did not lie," Murphy stated; an open challenge that gave Hobbes the opportunity to get beaten to a bloody pulp.
"That is correct," Eberts was quick to agree and forestall an incident that could ruin any potential relationship between the two groups. "Her people retrieved more intel after the meeting and brought it to our attention."
"And you... modified the plan and just forgot to fill in me and Fawkes," Hobbes summed up in irritation.
"No, I didn't change a thing," the Official said.
Hobbes felt and fought the sudden urge to throttle his boss, and only the fact that he wasn't currently suffering from a touch of the madness held him back. "That wasn't the plan me and Fawkes were in on," he shouted, slamming his hands onto the desktop.
The Official gave him a baleful stare. "You didn't need to know," was the icy cold response, and Hobbes swallowed hard in reaction, but didn't back down.
"Well maybe if we had, Westgaard wouldn't be on a Fawkes hunt right now," Hobbes snarled, his voice low and threatening.
The response came from behind him.
"Fallon does know what she's doing, Agent Hobbes." Murphy's reminder only upped the heat of Hobbes' anger. He turned about and went after Murphy, who didn't so much as flinch.
"Why?" Hobbes asked, voice rising to a bellow. "Why'd she deal to be there?"
"Ms. O'Neill had her reasons, Robert, and the Official did not feel it conflicted with our goals," Eberts explained. Not that the answer really explained anything.
"Not good enough," Hobbes snapped while Murphy remained stoically silent.
"Bobby," the Official barked.
"No. I wanna know what stupidity my partner is gonna get killed over." Hobbes was gonna get his answers one way or another.
"Ask him, he figured it out," Murphy replied, his voice a low burr.
That made Hobbes take a virtual step back. He knew it. Fawkes had... wait a second, maybe Fawkes hadn't been making time with O'Neill. Maybe he'd done a little invisible recon and got them the info they needed to break the case. Hobbes' anger evaporated in an instant. He wasn't sure which was worse; his sudden distrust of Fawkes or the scene he'd just made. It wasn't O'Neill or her peoples' fault that he and Fawkes weren't aware of the entire plan. The deal for photos and O'Neill playing bait musta been made after he and Fawkes had been dismissed from the room.
With a sigh, he turned away from Murphy and back towards the pair at the far end of the room. "Chief, can I go find Fawkes... and O'Neill," he added hastily. "It don't matter how good O'Neill is, Fawkes is a trouble magnet."
The Official chuckled. "True, very true. Mr. Murphy, any chance you can assist?"
"Not till the weather clears."
Which was the same answer Murphy'd given Hobbes not so long ago.
"Chief..."
"Hobbes, I'm not going to waste favors or the budget on a no-win situation."
Hobbes opened his mouth to speak, but the Official interrupted him. "If his people won't fly, few others will."
"The Coast Guard is trained for this," Bobby reminded his boss.
"Robert, don't you think their time is better spent rescuing any boaters who may run into trouble?" Eberts' question was spoken in perfect schoolmarm, and was an effective admonishment.
"But..."
"Bobby," the Official began, sounding very tired of the discussion, "Darien has managed to learn some survival skills during his time here. Trust him to use them."
Hobbes nodded, realizing that arguing would get him nothing else right now.
"Yes, sir."
---
A day in which you learn something is never wasted, and today Darien was learning that holding the Quicksilver nonstop for well over an hour, while alternating between a fast walk and an all out run, was tiring. Very tiring. He'd suggested they stop a few times, check their bearings, sit for just five frickin' minutes, but she was insistent and so they kept moving. Those mountains slowly growing larger, proving, at least, that they were making progress. The few times Darien had spared a second to look over his shoulder there had always been figures following them, and encouraging Darien to agree with her wish to keep going, if only temporarily.
But now... now the world was twisting violently about him. He stumbled, slamming hard into Fallon, caught himself, legs spread wide as his head swung down to dangle about his knees. The Quicksilver fell away as he braced his hands on his thighs, gulped for air, and tried to keep his lunch in his stomach.
No longer having to hold the Quicksilver seemed to ease the worst of the dizziness. "Crap," he muttered as he straightened. His head still throbbed, like he'd bruised it on the inside.
Just then something cold swept his feet out from under him, sending him to the ground; his ass, then the back of his already aching head making a solid impact with the hard-packed dirt. For the longest time the world went dark and he was unable to focus on anything. Then he blinked and the stars came out, wheeling and spinning against the velvet gray clouds above.
'Wait. That doesn't make any sense. You can't see stars in clouds.' He levered himself up onto his elbows and the stars faded from his sight. He was just in time to see the Quicksilver drop from Fallon, who was crouched awkwardly, her gun pointed at him. Even he could read her well enough to know that it was anger burning in the depths of those green eyes.
This was awfully familiar. Fallon seemed to have this fondness for pointing loaded weapons at him. "What?" he whined; his stomach churning unhappily.
She slowly stood upright, her left arm hanging uselessly at her side. "I've killed men for less, ya bleedin' gobshite." She took two menacing steps in his direction.
'Killed? What the hell did I do to her?' "C'mon, you used hypos on the guards. You ain't likely to shoot me now," he pointed out, pushing himself to a sitting position a hand going to the back of his head to find there was already a fair-sized goose egg forming.
"For ye, I'll gladly make an exception," she snarled, clearly beyond pissed. It was also clear she was in a great deal of pain.
"Are you all right?"
She gave a harsh bark of laughter. "I've been shot, we're in the desert with no food and limited water and being followed by some wankers that'll kill us if they catch us. Care to rephrase the question?"
Okay, so, she had a point, but with his head ringing thanks to his recent assisted fall, his stomach still arguing with him over just where its contents should be, and his coccyx hurting from the less than cushioned landing zone, he wasn't in much of a forgiving mood. "Thought you had a plan," he sneered, rubbing the back of his head as he stood up. Her gun tracked his movement, her arm wavering only the slightest bit.
"Aye, I do, and ye best be hoping I'm in a mood to let ye tag along," she growled, fumbling with her left hand in one of the many pockets. She came up with the GPS handheld, which looked worse for wear. "Bleedin' hell." She managed to get the gun back into the holster with her right hand, and then used both to examine the device closely.
"Fallon?" He stepped towards her; a sudden sinking feeling in the pit of his stomach that he really hoped wasn't the return of the nausea.
"I bloody well landed on it," she groused, then lashed out with her right hand, nailing him solidly on the shoulder.
He stumbled back a couple steps, his hand going to the spot in an effort to ease the bright burst of pain. "Ouch," he grouched, rubbing the shoulder. "What was that for?"
"'Ow do you think I broke it ye banjaxed bouzzie?" She lifted it up for him to see. The LCD screen had a series cracks running across it. The screen was attempting to show something, but it was scrambled beyond comprehension.
Uh... he had to rewind the mental video tape of the last few minutes to figure out what she was referring to, and when he did he cringed. He vaguely remembered stumbling into her when the world had decided to do its tilt-a-whirl routine on him. It must have been hard enough to send her to the ground where she landed on the piece of gear, smashing it. He rubbed his eyes, trying to get them to focus better with his head still ringing like a chime.
"Oh crap. Is the GPS still working?" he asked. It was one thing to be out here, knowing Big Brother was keeping an eye on them; it was another entirely to realize they were completely alone and on their own.
"I can't be sure without looking inside, but I'm guessing not." Her arm dropped back to her side, her grip on the GPS loosening, but she was quick to prevent it from falling to the ground and stuffed it back into the pocket. This time he noticed the blood on her wrist when the jacket shifted.
"Damn it, you're bleeding again." He closed the distance between them to help, but she backed away, preventing him from coming more than a step or two away from her.
"I'm fine," she said, focusing past him and off into the distance.
Darien spun about, the three mooks who had been on their tail all afternoon easy to see. Too far away to do anything right now, but closing the distance swiftly. "Oh man, we are so dead." He turned back to face Fallon. "I... I don't think I can Quicksilver any more. It... I'm just not used to doing it for long periods of time," he admitted with great reluctance. He needed her to understand that he wasn't being stubborn, that physically he and the gland were tapped out for now. Of course, if hurling all over her shoes were the only way to make his point, he'd Quicksilver and aim for the toes.
"Don' matter," she informed him as she spun about to face the not so distant mountains, attempting to orient without the map or sun to aid her.
"'Don't matter'?" Darien echoed, as the wind suddenly gusted, kicking up dust and grit which peppered his exposed skin like sandpaper. He wondered how long the wind had been blowing or when the clouds had turned that ominous near-black color. "Your plan just fell apart."
She glanced back over her shoulder at him. "Nay, we're right on schedule."
The flash of lighting was brilliant, turning the darkening skies white for an instant. It was quickly followed by rumble of thunder that he felt in his bones, the vibration was so low, and a second after that the heavens opened up, the deluge flattening his hair to his head instantly.
"You factored the weather into your plan?" He had to shout to be heard over the roar of the torrential downpour.
"Aye, I did," she confirmed, ignoring the water plastering her clothes to her body. "Come on."
"But what about our friends?" He waved back in the direction of the trio, which he could no longer see through the sheeting rain.
"What 'bout 'em? Not like there's a trail any more." She strode away, not caring that the visibility had been reduced to mere feet.
She was right, the footprints they'd left were being pounded out of existence by the falling rain. Well, yay for their team. Of course, the trade-off was being drenched. Hunted versus soaked. He pondered his choices and decided that he'd take soaked any day of the week. He jogged to catch up with Fallon, who seemed to be doing her damnedest to ignore him. He waggled a finger at her. "You're good."
She tilted her head slightly. "Don't act so surprised."
'Oof, where'd I hear that line before? Oh yeah, Monroe.' That so did not bode well for any future working relationship. 'Screw it. I'll worry about bruising her ego tomorrow; there are other things to deal with now.' Now, he wanted her to hold up so he could stop the bleeding, though Quicksilver and rain probably wouldn't get along very well. He also wanted to rest, really rest for just a few minutes, but knew they didn't dare. They had to take advantage of the cover provided by the weather change and hopefully make it to wherever it was she had planned to go. They'd been lucky that it'd been a cloudy and relatively warm day; it would have been very different had the sun been baking them in their decidedly dark outfits. Thirst would have been the least of their worries. Heat stroke was a serious threat out here anytime of the year. Speaking of thirst... he could use a nice cold beer right about now. He tried to peer through the gloom the rain had created... Rain. 'Duh.'
Darien stopped, tipped his head back, and opened his mouth to let Mother Nature take care of his dry palate and scratchy throat. Once he had his fill, he flung his hair out of his eyes, noting absently he was in need of a haircut, and focused on Fallon who had stopped to wait for him.
"Ye done?"
'Okay, she's still ticked off.' Darien couldn't help but notice, but this was probably not the best time to ask her about it. "Uh, yes? Look, I'm sor..."
She spun about on her heel and walked away, ignoring his feeble attempt at an apology. 'Shutting up, sir!' With a put-upon sigh, Darien trudged along behind.