a/n: I know this isn't a hugely followed movie fandom, but hopefully there's more interest in this story to come. Reviews are greatly appreciated!

Chapter 2

-0-0-0-0-

The coat was a little excessive at the moment as Ben ran through the forest, but he needed his hands free. Winter was coming soon; the air was cool enough to hint at it. Ben worried about the night though. He didn't hold any delusions that he would be to safety by night fall.

Shouts were coming from his path behind him. They were far enough away that Ben knew he wasn't going to be seen yet, so long as he stayed ahead. And that meant moving.

Each step jostled the aches and bruises he had. He had allowed himself fifteen seconds to look over himself to ensure he wasn't bleeding, other than a cut to his temple where he'd hit it in the explosion. That was no big deal. But the bruises were starting to bother him more. The adrenaline was wearing off.

The forest's trees were tall. They blocked out the light so much that Ben had to check what time it was. Nearing 2 pm, local time, he saw as he checked his watch. But the sunlight was hard-pressed to break through the branches.

Ben's foot caught on a tree root, and he pitched forward. The gun fell from his hand as he tried to brace his fall. He cried out as his body hit the ground, including some rocks.

Ben heaved on the ground, trying to catch his breath. He rotated his ankle—tender, but it was fine otherwise. He started to roll to his side but the movement created a flare of agony. His hand went to the spot on his ribcage, above his left hip. The pressure resulted in a stinging pain as well. He snaked his hand under his coat and suit jacket. His fingertips felt something warm and slick—his own blood. The rocks had gashed his side.

"Get up," he whispered to himself. He bit down on his tongue as he forced himself to his knees. His eyes searched the ground for the gun.

"This way!" someone shouted. It was far too close for Ben's liking, so much so that he almost didn't register that it was Russian the person spoke. He'd been taking up basics in the language lately. Frantically, he ran his fingers over the leaf-covered ground, feeling for the gun.

"Come on, come on!" he hissed to himself. He risked a look in the direction of the shouts, and saw a flash of movement.

Just then his hand hit the solid grip of the gun. Ben grabbed it, forced himself to his feet, and took off. He angled sharply to the left, hoping the sudden shift in direction would throw off his pursuers.

-0-0-0-

Mike Banning sat by the hospital bed of his daughter. Her breathing was improving now after a cough turned to RSV, but the lack of control in the situation made Mike crazy. Leah hid it well, perhaps because her nursing background let her know this was potentially serious, but they had caught it in time and were treating the illness. How she could be calm while he was playing the part of the paranoid parent….

His phone rang. He frowned at the caller ID. It was the director of the Secret Service. Mike stepped out into the hallway.

"Director Clemmens," he greeted.

"Agent Banning. There's been an attack on the President's convoy in Russia."

Leah assured him their daughter Lynne would be well taken care of, especially considering Mike was just going into town. Leah kissed him. Mike gently touched Lynne's face as she slept.

He hurried out of the hospital, fearing for Ben Asher and feeling guilty for not being with him at this moment.

-0-0-0-

Okhotnik. That's what they called him. It meant "Hunter," more a title but it had grown from his purpose to encompass his character. Hunter was fine with that.

His prey was running more efficiently than he expected, although he suspected he was wounded to some degree, based on the tracks through the forest. He expected the American President to be panicked, sloppy. There were no survivors of his or the Russian security team, so the man was alone.

Hunter stood and gestured to the north. Quietly—he finally got the team to stop shouting stupidly and giving away their position—the men dispersed in that direction. But he did not follow.

Where are you going, Asher?

Did the American even know? No. He was confident in that. So where would he think it wise to go?

"He doesn't know the land," Hunter whispered aloud. "He doesn't know what is safe and what is not."

Hunter pulled up a map on his GPS. He zoomed in the area, searched for possibilities….

Where would he go?

Hunter smiled thoughtfully at a few options.

-0-0-0-

Mike stared at the satellite image that was displayed on the wall before him and many people well above his pay grade. The entire convoy … all dead.

Except one.

"How do we know they – whoever they are – don't have the President?" someone said.

"Because we'd know by now," Vice President Trumbull said as he entered the room. Everyone stood out of respect. He noticed Mike and nodded in his direction.

Mike had never felt so out of place in his life. He shouldn't be here, in this room, hearing what was going on through outdated information. He should be on the ground, the last line of defense for the President.

"How soon until we get a drone in the sky?" Trumbull asked.

"Russia is pushing back about drones in their airspace—"

"I don't care," Trumbull interrupted. "We don't know if they're involved or not; if there's a rebel element in their government or not. Our priority now is our Commander-in-Chief."

Mike appreciated the man's take-charge attitude.

His eyes went to the screen.

"Agent Banning," he heard by him. Mike snapped his attention to Trumbull.

"Mr. Vice President," he responded.

"Your analysis?"

Mike looked back to the display on the wall.

"Can we zoom out and see what's around the area?" he asked. Trumbull nodded to a 3-star general, who snapped his fingers at an aide. Within moments, the image zoomed out and showed a satellite image of the area on a wider scale.

Mike's eyes took in every detail he could. To the east was the nuclear site; the south was a city, but the road to it and the towns to the west were blocked by the carnage and the enemy's attack.

"The forest—that's where he is."

"If he's alive," a general commented.

Mike smirked. "He's alive."

Without any judgment, Trumbull asked, "How do you know?"

Banning smiled and pointed to the intact vehicles boxing the convoy in. "Because their vehicles are still there." The smile dropped. "They're looking for him on foot."

Trumbull frowned. "Any idea of his odds against the attackers?"

Mike thought about the will to survive he'd seen from the President firsthand; the extra mile or ten he'd go; the man's sense of honor and duty….

Agent Danforth, on the President's normal routine night detail, came to Banning's side. Mike could see he had something to say, but he waited.

"Just a moment, sir," Mike said to Trumbull. Mike followed Danforth to the hallway outside the secure briefing room.

"What is it, Danforth?"

"You should know what the President has been up to lately. It might help anticipate his movements," Danforth said. "And improve his odds."

-0-0-0-0-

The sky was overcast. Rain started to fall, but it was filtered through the trees and fell in lighter spats. Ben shook his coat, sending a spray off him. His hand was pressed against his side as he walked.

Walked. Occasionally it was a half-jog.

The longer he went without hearing the men chasing him, the more nervous he got. His bizarre life-and-death experiences taught him that. Quiet didn't equal safe. Noise didn't equal safe either. Nothing was safe.

Maybe he was cursed. What other president went through this, this many times?!

Had he cheated death that first time? Was his time more than up, and some cosmic scale was trying to rebalance? Death was inevitable; maybe fudging the timing wasn't allowed.

Ben's fingers regripped the handle of the gun. His hand was achy—he was gripping it too hard, but he feared losing his hold on the weapon.

Something whistled through the air. It was quiet enough, but Ben froze. He knew that sound, but what—

A bullet sank into a tree near Ben. Silenced gunfire whistled through the air.

Ben ran. The bullets hit around him, to his left, and also behind him. Ben cut to the right. The bullets followed, chasing him, driving him—

They're not trying to kill me yet, he thought. Where are they trying to get me to go?

Suddenly he had his answer. Four men came out from behind cover of rocks and trees, in his path. Ben skid to a stop. Shoot!

The word came to mind as naturally as the voice of his Secret Service instructor who'd taught him once a week what to do when a target presented itself.

Target. That's all they were….

Almost as soon as his body stopped moving forward, Ben's right arm came up, the gun aimed at the first of the four men. Ben squeezed the trigger twice.

Chest first. Though the Secret Service would aim to kill, Ben's trainer taught him to just get the target down. Head shots would take too long to master. For now, it was more important to eliminate the immediate threat.

Two more shots, and the four men before him were suddenly just two. Ben saw the two left standing fire at him. Ben went to his knees. His left hand came up to support his right, and he fired twice more—one shot per man this time. He couldn't risk getting shot.

He blinked.

The four men were down.

He couldn't marvel for too long at the fruits of his training. He granted a half second to smirk, pushed away the knowledge he had killed them, and turned for cover behind a tree. Pursuing him were six men—no, eight. They were concealed and leap-frogging from cover to cover. Ben thought about his ammunition.

Six shots. That left six bullets in his current clip, and he had two more clips of 12 each, so 30 bullets left. From this distance and with the cover they had, Ben wasn't delusional enough to think he could push his chances. He had to run again.

His side was throbbing. Adrenaline was doing nothing to help mask it anymore. Ben figured he just might be out of adrenaline for the rest of the week anyway. The bullets being fired from the men behind him stopped, but he could hear the rustle of damp leaves as booted feet pursued him. Each time he glanced over his shoulder, they were getting closer.

Ben needed a miracle.

It came disguised as the ground suddenly ended before him. His path came to a modest cliff's edge, overlooking the forested valley below. Ben dug his heels in, trying to stop. The slippery leaves foiled his efforts.

Ben fell over the edge.