As Ressler fell, Red's heart jumped in his chest. Without a moment's thought, hauling the dead man off him, he dropped over the guard rail himself, going after Ressler. Shouts sounded above him, and a shot rang out. An answering higher pitched shot filled the air. Dembe was still on the far ridge, keeping the men pinned down.
"I said I want Reddington alive!" someone called, but Red was climbing lower down the hill, out of their range now. The sun was high in the sky as he made his way down the steep embankment, but under the trees everything faded into a deep green light. Hanging onto tree trunks and lower branches for balance, his shoulder muscles clenched with the effort. Surely Ressler hadn't fallen this far? But the broken tree branches and disturbed ground of what could only be the passage of the agent led him downward in a marked trail. Cursing the lower light under the trees, Reddington forged onward and downward, his hands scraping past rough tree trunks. The rubber soles of his dress shoes helped prevent him from landing at the bottom of the ridge in an ungainly heap, where he was now positive Ressler had ended up. He didn't dare call out as he made his way cautiously down. He scowled, angry at himself for how things had turned out. But what was done, was done, and no point berating himself on it further. He needed to find Ressler, then get them both out of here.
Almost at the bottom of the ridge, his shoulders screaming, the trickle of a stream bubbling nearby reached his ears. Unseen through the trees, the water was close, marking the bottom of the ridge. He exhaled, frustrated. Where the bloody hell was Ressler? Moving more to his right, hanging on to slim tree trunks to keep his balance, something caught his eye. There! The agent lay on his side, back toward him, stopped in his downward plunge by a well-placed tree that had prevented him from dropping all the way into the stream. Reddington pushed on through the trees, concerned at the lack of movement in Ressler.
"Donald!" he hissed, barely wanting to raise his voice at all.
No answer. The FBI agent didn't stir.
Reaching Ressler, Red squatted in front of him, noting the multiple bleeding scratches on his face and hands. Ressler's black shirt was torn, and his displaced clothing revealed his scratched torso. Dirt, leaves and twigs were caught in the agents clothing and hair.
Placing his fingers on Ressler's neck, Red was rewarded with a slow, steady pulse. He was alive, but out cold. Another study of Ressler in the green, faded light revealed limbs that appeared intact under the dark jeans, with nothing bent horribly out of shape to indicate broken bones. But looks could be deceiving, he knew that. Ressler's wristwatch was shattered. On impulse, he lifted Ressler's jacket and reached into the inner pocket finding an equally shattered phone that was rendered useless. He'd seen the agent keep a small flashlight under his work suits, and sure enough, he had one in his zippered jacket pocket.
"Always prepared. Such a good Boy Scout, Donald," Red whispered, leaning closer, examining with the light, and glad of the agent's predictability.
The beam from the flashlight revealed a patch of sticky blood underneath Ressler. Concerned, Reddington maneuvered the still unconscious Ressler onto his back, moved the jacket aside then lifted the shirt higher for a better look.
"Oh, dear," he said, shining the light onto a deep, bleeding gash in the agent's left side. Judging by the broken branches Red had seen on the way down, Ressler had been pierced by one of them during his downward plummet. Red was leaning down, pressing fingers around the deep gash for a better look, forcing fresh blood from the wound, when a groan came from Ressler. Lit in the narrow beam of the flashlight, Ressler's eyes fluttered open within his scratched, dirt stained face. He looked up at Reddington wordlessly.
"Welcome back, Donald."
###
It took a few seconds for recollection to return, and once it did, memories hit Ressler full on. He'd stopped falling, yet it still felt as if he was spinning down the cliff. His head hurt. His side hurt. His ribs hurt. Hell, everything hurt. And Reddington was making it worse.
"Don't touch me," he panted, but Red ignored him, continuing to stifle the flow of blood. Reddington was shining the flashlight - his own, he noticed - onto the bleeding wound in his side, with his fingers still pressed into it to stem the bleeding.
"Will you stop?" Ressler gasped through clenched teeth, flinching painfully away from the criminal's fingers. "You're not helping."
Reddington regarded Ressler coolly, dropping his hand. "Fine. I don't know how long Dembe can hold them at bay up there, but we do need to stop the bleeding if we're to get moving. That is, unless you're quite content to lay here in the dirt and wait for them to come down here?"
It wasn't a thought he relished, and with an effort, Ressler managed to haul himself up into a sitting position, reluctantly allowing Reddington to assist. He sat still, gasping, eyes closed, waiting for the pain in his side to ease after the movement. It hurt to breathe. He'd had enough broken ribs to know he had a couple of cracked ones in there. Ressler leaned his head back on the tree trunk, and opened his eyes again, looking up at the steep incline. Reddington was right, and he knew the criminal's sarcasm was to get a bite out of him to get his ass moving. They couldn't stay here.
"Does anything feel broken?" Red asked, and Ressler regarded him, now seeing the real concern in the criminal's eyes.
"Ribs," he said, then painfully moved each limb in turn, the only painful jolt from a knee that appeared to be swelling under his jeans. Reddington watched keenly, his hand on Ressler's shoulder. "I don't think anything else is broken," Ressler added, and heard Reddington's relieved sigh beside him.
Red shone the flashlight full into Ressler's face, and he slammed his eyes shut in response, wincing at the bright light. "Damn it, Reddington!"
"How's the head?" Red asked.
It was the second time today Red had asked him that. Ressler glared at the criminal. "I'm sure it feels better than Ethan's."
Reddington had the decency to look abashed, but ignored the remark. "You likely have one hell of a concussion." Red looked around them. They were alone for now, but who knew for how long. "Can you stand?"
"Yes," Ressler said, hoping like hell he could. Pulling his legs under him, he struggled to his feet, grasping at the tree trunk. The world tipped sideways and black spots appeared in his vision. Fresh blood leaked from his torn left side, running down his dark jeans. He wavered on his feet, but he was standing.
Reddington watched him worriedly, then removed his own tie and reached into a pocket for his folded handkerchief. "The best we can do for a dressing, I'm afraid."
"Hold this," Red told him, handing him the folded handkerchief. Ressler accepted it silently, willing the world to stop swaying. As he held the folded cloth against his side, he allowed Reddington to reach around his waist with the tie, binding the dressing against the wound under his torn shirt. It was tight, and Ressler sucked in a sharp breath but didn't complain.
"We need to get out of here," Red said. They both looked again at the steep incline they'd come down. "If we can find somewhere less steep, we could make it back to the car." He shook his head. "But they'll be waiting for us up there."
"It wouldn't do us any good," Ressler replied as his vision settled, patting his jeans pocket with one hand while his other clutched his left side. "I lost the car keys on the way down."
Reddington gazed up at the incline, then shook his head. "I'd never find them."
"Shit. My phone is toast," Ressler said, pulling the smashed iPhone out of his pocket. This just kept getting better and better.
"I noticed. It does complicate matters further," Red replied. "Good news though, is that I found your gun near the top of the slope. And if you're sure you won't shoot me, I'll return it."
Ressler scowled at the criminal, and held out his hand. Red returned the weapon, then Ressler managed to slip it back into his shoulder holster. Ethan's death sprang to mind again. "Why did you kill him?"
"Not now. We need to go, Donald," Red told him, "I'll say a quick prayer that you are able to walk."
Ressler said the same prayer, and they set off, walking along the small stream bed. Ressler hung back, each step jolting through his body. He was furious with Reddington, but now wasn't the time to discuss it. They needed to get moving and do it quietly. Another shot from above reached their ears.
"Dembe can't hold them off forever," Red said, glancing up at the high ridge behind them.
"Where are we going?" Ressler asked after a few minutes of silence. His ribs burned in pain, while his left hand pressed into his bleeding side as he limped along.
"If I'm right, we're heading in the direction of the National Park," Red replied, walking in front of Ressler. "I had arranged to meet Dembe near the Park Ranger's station after the meeting."
"And if you're wrong?" Ressler asked, irritated, hurting and not in the mood for any of this.
"Then I don't know where the hell we will end up," Reddington replied, looking up through the tall trees at the dappled light and adjusting his fedora. "But at least we'll have fresh water."
Ressler didn't reply as they made their way slowly along the stream bed. Great plan, he thought, but didn't voice that opinion.
###
"I think we've lost them, for now," Red said after 30 minutes of walking, looking back in the direction they'd come from. So far there had been no further sign of pursuit and two more distant shots from Dembe's rifle.
"They probably think we're dead," Ressler said, weaving slightly as he followed Red, head down.
"I doubt that," Red replied, looking back and watching the agent. "Well, they know I was alive, at least." He stopped, and Ressler almost walked into him. "Donald, allow me to assist you." He reached an arm out, but Ressler kept out of his way.
"I'm fine."
"And I'm the King of Persia."
"I got this," Ressler said through clenched teeth, walking again. "Your Highness."
Reddington shook his head. They were still following the creek, but it had been gradually widening. What had previously been a shallow stream they could easily jump over if they'd felt so inclined was now a good 8 feet wide and running with a fair current.
"I think this water is draining into that lake we saw from the road, which is in the National Park, so we need to keep following it," Red said.
Ressler didn't reply. He just kept on walking, following the stream bed. Blood was still seeping through the makeshift dressing around his middle, staining his shirt and jeans. He wanted to stop and sit, just for a moment, but was afraid he'd never get moving again if he did. He looked at Reddington, as another shot rang out from Dembe's rifle.
"What the hell did you do to piss them off?" Ressler asked.
"Oh, any number of things, I'm sure," Red replied, not breaking his stride.
Ressler scowled at him. Of that, he had no doubt. His anger bubbled to the surface, and he let it. "That's what you do, isn't it? Piss people off. Kill them when they become an inconvenience or cross you."
"Now is not the time, Agent Ressler."
Ressler closed his eyes a moment, both wanting to calm down yet needing the anger to stay in him.
"We need to keep moving. I don't know when Dembe can leave that ridge, but heading for that Park Ranger's office is our only option. It's where he will go to find us."
Ressler walked just behind Reddington, and the criminal stole a glance back at the agent. Red softened his tone. "How are you doing, Donald?"
Ressler kept on putting one foot in front of the other, pale faced and swaying a little, hand clutching his side. "I'm fine."
Reddington looked at Ressler's pale features. He wasn't fine. He stretched his arm out once more to Ressler's arm. "Donald, I know you're angry, but-"
Ressler cut him off with a scowl and a raised hand, blood on it after holding it to his side. "Don't!" he snapped. Yes, he was angry. But he needed that anger to keep propelling himself forward. He clung to it, using it to put one step in front of the other.
###
Ressler couldn't determine what hurt more. His bleeding side, his ribs, or his throbbing head. The culmination of it all wore at him and try as he might, despite his anger at Reddington fueling his progress, he couldn't walk any faster. Several times he almost stopped to tell Reddington to go on without him. But he didn't. Because despite how bad he felt, part of him was still an agent on duty, with an informant. He needed to make sure Red made it to safety, even with what the man had done.
They stopped in the shade by the creek where Ressler washed the caked blood off his hands once more. They took a moment to sit by the stream, and drank deeply of the fresh water and washed themselves down.
"We should look at that wound, and clean it out," Red said, looking worriedly at Ressler. Blood was dripping from the rent in his side.
"Just leave it," Ressler panted. The last thing he needed was Red poking around on him. He closed his eyes, willing the black dancing spots in his vision to quiet, holding his head in his hands. Reddington's voice seemed to come from afar when the criminal spoke.
"...bad is your headache?"
Ressler didn't open his eyes, and just exhaled heavily. "I can handle it." His head felt twice its normal size. It was rather disconcerting and he opened his eyes again. "Let's go," he said and struggled to his feet. Swaying, he reached out for a nearby tree trunk and clung to it, eyes closed again, waiting for the dizzy spell to pass and trying not to throw up. He retched, but only stream water came up before he got himself under control.
"Donald," he heard Reddington say, and felt the criminals hand on his arm once more.
As the dizzy spell eased, Ressler opened his eyes. "Get off me," he said. He shook Red's hand off him and started walking again.
Clouds now covered the sun, dropping the temperature below the trees. After the heat of the day it was a relief and Ressler felt a little more coherent without the sun beating down on them.
Both of them paused at the sound of a distant shot. "Dembe," Red said, and Ressler nodded.
"You knew this could be a trap," Ressler panted, resuming his walk.
"It was a possibility," Red replied.
"How could you know they took his son?"
"I didn't."
Ressler needed his breath to keep walking, and didn't reply. A darker cloud moved across the sun, and both of them looked up.
"Oh, that's not good," Reddington said. Storm clouds were rolling in, full of rain.
"We're going to need to find some shelter, both from Peterson's cronies, and the storm." Reddington stopped and looked around them at the sea of trees. "And the obvious place is up there." He pointed at a large granite scar on the hillside above them, away from the road. "How do you feel about walking uphill?"
Ressler was leaning against a tree and looked in the direction Red was pointing. The hillside wasn't nearly as steep as where he'd done his swan dive on the way down. It was doable. He hoped. "Piece of cake," he said.
"That's the spirit, Donald."
It was hard. Much harder than Ressler had envisaged. The gradient forced them to lean forward as they walked, grabbing at the tree trunks as they made their way up the incline. Both of them were sweating again, despite the lateness of the afternoon and the temperature drop. A loud rumble of thunder made them quicken their pace slightly.
"We do not want to be under these trees when that lightning starts," Red said as they paused briefly, clinging to a tree trunk, then pulled Ressler's arm to help get him moving again. Ressler didn't have the energy to shake Red's hand off him this time. It was either comply, or fall flat on his face. The wind was picking up around them, blowing loose leaves under the trees. "Come on, Donald," Red urged.
Ressler didn't expend his breath on a reply. With his head pounding, and dizziness making the ground lurch, he had no choice but to allow Red to help him haul his butt up the hill. As if to add insult to injury, the rain started to fall, making the ground slippery below their feet. Ressler stumbled, unable to keep his balance. In a heart stopping moment, he pictured himself hurtling down this hill also, and managed to grab at a tree trunk and hang on.
"I've got you," Red said in his ear. "Put your arm around my shoulder."
Ressler shook his head. "No. I got this."
"Damn it, Donald. If you don't let me help you, we'll both be stuck out here."
As Ressler lost his footing again and the rain increased, he gave in and put his arm around Reddington's shoulder. "Fine," he panted. "This way we can both fall."
Together, they made their way up the incline, hanging onto trees as they went. Twice Ressler slipped and fell to his knees, and twice Reddington hauled him back up. Ressler begrudgingly had to admire the criminal. He had the strength of an ox.
"Come on, Donald. We're almost there."
A flash of lightning lit up the sky and the thunder rolled across the hillside above them. They were wet through, but kept going. The cut in the hillside was visible above them now complete with an overhang they could shelter under.
"Almost there," Red said, hauling Ressler up with him.
Ressler felt terrible. He was bleeding profusely and could hardly see straight. The ground lurched nauseatingly before him.
To Reddington's relief a small shed was off to one side, and that was what he now dragged Ressler toward. "Excellent. Better than I had hoped for," he said, still encouraging Ressler.
Another flash lit up the sky as thunder shook the ground beneath their feet, filling the air with an ear splitting crack. Behind them a tree exploded, and the crackling smell of ozone reached them. They instinctively ducked. "Move!" Reddington urged, dragging the weight of Ressler with him again. Ressler leaned on Red, hating that he needed the support of the criminal. With his head spinning and nauseous with the pain, somehow he kept going.
"Donald, have you ever considered losing some weight?" Red asked him close to his ear as he took the agent's weight, all but dragging him toward the shed above them and to their right.
Ressler's stomach roiled again and he stopped dead, dropped to his knees, and threw up.
Red's hand patted Ressler's back as he finished retching. "Not quite what I had in mind, but bravo on the effort."
Ressler stood up again, silently wishing he hadn't missed Reddington's shoes. Serve the bastard right.
"Are you done?" Reddington asked, looking up as more lightning flashed across the sky and the thunder roared. Ressler nodded, then took a step up the slope, leaning on Reddington once more as the criminal hauled him toward the small shed.
"Donald, look. Down there beside the lake." Ressler followed Red's pointing finger as best he could. In the next lightning flash, a red roofed building was visible by the lake. The Ranger Station. It didn't look that far. As the crow flew, at least. "That's where we'll head as soon as this storm blows itself out," Red told him then dragged him the remainder of the distance to the small shed.
After a well-placed rock broke the padlock on the shed door, they both retreated into opposite corners of the small building, taking a break from walking and the weather. It was getting darker as the sun set behind the dark storm clouds. Ressler dropped to the floor, leaning his head back against the wooden wall, shaking and breathing hard from pain and the exertion. Without a word Reddington removed his jacket, then his vest and began unbuttoning his shirt.
"What the hell are you doin'?"
"Getting you bandaged up. And I won't hear no for an answer," Red replied. He finished getting his shirt off, then whisked off his white t-shirt underneath. "Never let it be said, Donald, that I wouldn't give you the shirt off my back," he said, then proceeded to tear his t-shirt into strips.
Ressler was in no mood to argue anymore. With some effort, he got his own wet jacket and shirt off, then his blood soaked undershirt. Reddington took off the tie he'd previously placed, and the useless handkerchief. In the light of the flashlight, he inspected the deep wound. It needed surgery and stitches, and a lot of them. At his sigh, Ressler looked up at him. "I know, quit poking on it. There's nothing you can do."
"There is always something to be done," Red told him, expertly placing the strips of cloth over the bleeding wound as Ressler grit his teeth to stop from crying out. "You're losing a lot of blood," Red said, tying off the strips one at a time around Ressler. As sweat broke out on Ressler from the pain, Reddington placed his hand on Ressler's forehead a moment. His skin was cool to the touch, and he knew what was happening. "You're going into shock."
"I know," Ressler gasped. "Been there, done that, remember?"
"I do remember," Red told him quietly. "And you and I both survived that."
Ressler didn't answer as the rain picked up outside, pounding on the roof almost as if it were pounding on his head. He closed his eyes and shivered. He felt Reds hand pat his raised knee, before he began to inspect the contents of the shed.
Reddington's voice came out of the dark corner across from him after a few minutes. "How are you doing, Donald?"
Ressler didn't know. He ran an internal assessment of himself. Left side on fire. Check. Ribs screaming. Check. Head throbbing like a son of a bitch. Check Mate. "I'm fine," he replied, his voice barely more than a whisper above the storm.
Ressler didn't see Reds worried look from the other side of the shed. "Don't fall asleep, Donald. I know you want to, but you need to stay awake."
"I'm good," he replied, slowly opening his eyes. He was desperate for rest. Wanted so badly to close his eyes and just rest. But he didn't let himself.
