Sorry about that! Upload error, grr. Anyway, here is the much belated chapter five! Sorry this took me so long guys; between technical difficulties and school starting this chapter had to take a back burner for a few days. About that, I just want you all to know: since school has started, updates may become a little more intermittent. But even if I fall off the map for a little while, I promise I won't abandon this story. I feel like by this point I've made a commitment, and you guys care enough to read it, so I WILL keep going, even though it may take a little longer. I'll do my best, but please be patient with me. I just want to thank you all again for your feedback in reviews and PMing, it really means a lot and encourages me to keep going. Thanks so much!

Also, if you live in the UK, I am sincerely sorry about the badmouthing Ethan gives your country in this chapter. (Nothing personal, I swear. You guys are awesome!)

Enjoy!

Chapter Five

So it was gonna be one of those missions, was it?

Though, Ethan thought as he lay motionless on the ground, freezing and in pain and seconds away from being shot, this didn't really count as a mission, now did it? Normally he got paid to do shit like this. This time the only incentive in sight was preservation of life and limb, which, granted, was an effective incentive, but didn't do much for paying the bills.

Still, it seemed the planets had aligned to make his near future as deplorable as possible.

Ethan clung to the moor, the scent of turf rich in his nostrils. His eyes were closed but his ears, sensitive from years of being on guard, were on full alert. He heard the crunching footsteps of the gunmen drawing quickly nearer.

Ethan considered his options. There were only two ways out, one ending with certain death on the rocks below, the other with the slightly less certain death via bullet holes.

He breathed out, focusing. He tuned out the pain of his wounds, his shoulder and the burns on his back that were starting to sear again, channeling his power into mental stillness. He needed to be ready.

Crunch…crunch….

Five…four…one.

Benji. Jane. Brandt. Home.

Ethan exploded from the grass, silent as a pouncing cat.

He felt the cold of the gun barrel in his hands as his momentum bore his opponent down with a surprised shout.

Ethan punched him in the throat, sharp and harsh. He felt the man's windpipe collapse. He thrashed for a moment and then started to go still, the call dying.

"Hey, Ronson? You fallin' asleep on the job again, you lazy prat?" called out one of the gunmen to his left.

Good. They hadn't seen him yet.

The gunman on the ground was wearing a ski mask. Ethan tore it off his face, slipped it over his own, and grabbed the AK-47 out of the man's locked arms. He stood, stumbling slightly. "Oh, yeah, sorry," he replied, slipping into a British accent to match theirs. "I'm fine, boys. Tripped on a damn hillock." He fell into line with the others, slowly advancing toward the cliff. Luckily the man whose identity he'd assumed had been in toward the back of the jagged phalanx. They wouldn't find him until they circled back around, and Ethan would be long gone by then.

"Well, keep going toward the cliff," said the one who'd called out; likely the leader. "If he survived the swim, he hit the beach around here, if the current maps are anything to go by. Keep your eyes open and your yips shut. This bloke is dangerous, according to the bosses."

"What makes the bosses think he even made is this far?" piped up one of the others.

"Murphy, are selectively deaf or some shit? Did I not just say to shut it?" growled the leader.

"I just think it's fair to know who we're up against, Andrews," Murphy petulantly replied. "Is this guy an assassin, a merc or what?"

"It is not our job to know who he is," shot back Andrews. "Our job is to find the guy and get rid of him, no questions asked. That's what we're being paid for, you dense idiot. All I know is that he's dangerous and that we were told to take no chances. Shoot on sight, you got that?"

"Yeah, yeah, I got it," muttered Murphy. The group fell into silence again.

Ah. That answered a few questions. Unfortunately, not the necessary ones. These guys were hitmen, mercenaries. Ethan doubted they even knew who the "Bosses" really were.

There was one thing made clear here, though. Whoever was after him knew him. Knew him well enough to bomb the jet he was flying on and still send a group of guns-for-hire to finish the job.

This was no random hit from amateur terrorists or angry arms dealers. These guys were serious.

It was time to disappear.

Ethan slipped back further from the rest of the group, stepping lightly on the springy turf. He glanced at the sky and relief flooded him. It seemed that despite his problems with people this past week, nature was giving him a break.

He waited patiently, slowing down more and more.

He was running out of time. The head of the phalanx was almost to the cliff. They wouldn't freeclimb down in the dark unless they were extremely experienced, and he saw no grappling lines on them. Which meant he only had a few seconds before they turned around, started back and discovered the ruse.

C'mon….

Just as the head of the group stopped at the edge of the cliff, the dense clouds overhead, pushed coastward by the ocean breeze, rolled over the full moon and cast the moor into almost total shadow.

Without a sound, Ethan turned. And ran.

He held onto the gun. He would need it. Every other part of his body was a blur of motion. His stride stretched out, his arms pumped despite the pain. The ground seemed to push up beneath him, sending him flying forward.

He could still see the SUV, a blob of darker blackness in the washed-out shade over the moor. He made for it, bracing for the sound of shots and shouts behind him, for the bullets sure to come.

Five hundred yards…three hundred…

Ethan hurtled over the moor faster than he thought he could at this point. Adrenaline tuned out the pain and fatigue, reduced him to the animal impulse. Move.

A hundred yards…

Crack!

"No, don't just run after him, shoot at him, dammit!"

So they'd found the body of the unfortunate Ronson.

Ethan scraped for more speed as bullets bit into the ground around him. One came close enough to catch on the edge of his shirt, ripping it. He ducked and kept running. He didn't have time to try and evade. His only hope was the car.

He reached the SUV and whirled behind the back of it, taking cover on the other side. Bullets hammered into the far flank. Ethan crouched behind a wheel, catching his breath.

The forward door on his side opened and a black-masked man with a pistol leaned out to shoot. Ethan swung the AK-47 up and fired. The man was dead before he fell onto the ground.

Now. He had to go now.

He sprang up, still crouching, and clambered into the driver's seat. That's right, he was in the UK, so everything was backwards by American standards, including which side the damn steering wheel was on. God, he was so done with this place.

He checked the passenger side and backseat, but both were thankfully empty.

Glass shattered and metal pinged. Ethan snarled and hunkered down as reams of bullets continued to tear into the side of the car.

He risked a glance up and saw that the moon had come out again, drenching the moor with light. The mercenaries were less than a hundred yards away and closing fast. He had to get out of here.

Ethan fumbled for the key, found it, and turned. The engine thrummed to life.

The mercenaries shouted, not in anger now, but alarm.

Still ducking, Ethan grabbed the wheel and pressed the gas. The SUV surged forward. The mercenaries were still howling when he took off over the moor and let the shadows swallow him again.

()()()()

The sound of his heartbeat in his ears was back, keeping time with the throbbing of his shoulder and back. Ethan sat up carefully, pulling the mask off and tossing it in the front seat. He was out of immediate danger, but there was still a big problem he had to address:

Where in the hell was he?

The headlights were still on. He wanted to shut them off, but he didn't know this area, and he'd had enough of cliffs for one night. He'd rather take his chances with his pursuers than risk driving off an edge he could not see.

He was on a road; he knew that much. It was narrow and old and unmarked for all he could see, but it was a road, and right now that was enough for him.

A lunar glow caught Ethan's eye– the SUV's GPS system, showing his location. Well, at least now he knew where he was. Apparently even bands of mercenaries need directions to places as remote as this.

According to the console, he was near Exmoor National Park, and the road he was on eventually connected with a larger route called A39. He tapped the screen and it zoomed out. A39 led eventually to the town of Porlock.

Good. A town was what he needed. A place to hide, gather supplies, ditch the car, and maybe even sleep.

Ethan tapped the screen again. It zoomed out further, showing a thin black line that meandered along the road he was following and joined A39. From there it led through Porlock and northeast toward Minehead.

Ethan touched the line. A little bubble popped up, labeling it in neat bolt font: YOUR ROUTE.

Despite himself, Ethan laughed. Bless the arrogance of large groups mercenaries. They never considered he'd try to steal their car. Now they'd left a nice little breadcrumb trail to their point of origin, where, if Ethan was really lucky, their employers were waiting for them.

But first things first. He was injured, freezing, and adrenaline-exhausted. He gripped the wheel tighter, a lifeline. He had to stay awake until he found somewhere safe.

Actually, who was he kidding. He was never safe.

Ethan drove for what felt like hours. The unnamed road became A39, wider and better maintained. He went for miles without seeing another car. As he drove, he started to pick apart the events of the day.

Who were these guys? These mysterious "Bosses" who had taken such a liking to the concept of his death. Were they part of the crime ring that he, Berns and Harvey had finished off this week? He thought back to the briefing the Secretary had given them. She'd told them to go in, join their collaborators in MI6, glean as much information they could, then hunt down everyone involved and hand them over to the British government. Ethan scowled. They'd done just that. The organization had been nuclear and small, a tight-knit group of budding terrorists with a vendetta against both America and the UK. Hence the joint mission with MI6. As far as they had all been able to find, the group hadn't had any outside affiliation, and they'd arrested or killed everyone involved.

Unless they missed a big piece, it wasn't the terrorist group coming after him. So whom did that leave? Ethan smirked despite himself. With his history, plenty.

He doubted it was someone who'd been connected with Hendricks. There are subtler ways to get rid of an agent, and why wait a year?

It could be an old enemy, but if so, Ethan had no idea who or how. He made a point to keep tabs on anyone who was involved with a target and walked free for precisely this reason. No, he doubted it was anyone he'd encountered in the past.

So someone new. Someone with some serious firepower too. Ethan thought over the afternoon again, trying to find themes, clues, anything that may indicate a name. He analyzed until his eyes blurred, but he couldn't find anything. He had no idea who was hunting him.

Ethan sighed. He hoped he could find a public space in Porlock he could rest up until the sun rose, before he'd keep going. He'd have a few things to take care of first. His arm was still throbbing, and the burns on his back screamed against the seat. He would tend to his wounds once he reached somewhere safer. He thought too of the tracker under the skin of his upper arm, replaced there by the IMF after the Cobalt mission. Every deep cover agent had one. If was live as long as the heart was beating, and could be activated by the IMF to hone in on an agent's location.

Ethan grimaced. Trackers were a last resort. The IMF activated them only when there was no other way, for two reasons: one, that it would broadcast his location only for a few hours, and two, it gave off a faint but distinct radiation that was easily detectible to even primitive scanning technology. Agents were trained to withhold their affiliation to the death in the event of a capture, but if their chip was turned on, their captor could just scan their arm and bingo.

He knew the IMF would normally wait forty-eight hours before turning to the chip once an agent disappeared. They should do the same for him.

Except….the explosion. They wouldn't be looking for bodies. They'd be looking for bones. They would assume his death and not use the tracker at all. And even if Brandt, Jane and Benji were looking for him, they wouldn't have access. The chip was useless now.

Ethan leaned his head back. So he didn't have to cut the tracker out. That was convenient. He was in plenty of pain as it was.

Besides, he couldn't go home yet even if they did know where he was. He glanced back down at the black line snaking its way across the GPS. A beacon. A focus. He had people to protect, a job to do.

These people had shot first. As far as Ethan was concerned, that meant war.

He felt his hope returning. Now, he had a target.