AN: Sorry for the wait, but school's been crazy and so has this story. I'm not really satisfied with how it's going, so it will probably be a long wait from here on out because I want to get the whole thing written before I post again. I also want to warn you that I may re-write this chapter later, so read at your own risk.

-Chapter 3-

We head back in the direction of the other wreckage site. Twilight is setting in and the forest has taken on an eerie darkness. The trees aren't packed too closely together, so we should have several feet of visibility when the sun sets, but even a hardened international agent can get the creeps.

We have to be in the Cascades. That's the only thing that makes sense, considering the topography and our flight plan. So: our plane was shot down, we have people after us, we're in the forsaken mountains, there are big, big game, Chuck is hurt, we might be on our own, and it's going to storm. I'm really starting to hate this job.

Chuck is moving under his own power, but I see signs of distress. His breathing is ragged and he stumbles every few steps. For the first time, I'm cognizant of the fact that he's wearing his BuyMore uniform, minus the tie, and nothing else. I should have given him time to pack, but I had to be a hardass and schedule the most immediate flight.

"Did you bring a jacket?" I ask, knowing that the temperatures will decrease drastically once the sun sets. He doesn't reply, but I can tell he's trying to recall the information and is unable.

"Chuck."

"I think so, but I…."

I pull up next to him and put a reassuring hand on his back.

"It's alright. We're heading back to the tail. I'll look for it then."

When we reach the newly created clearing, I sit Chuck down next to a tree and head into my former prison. I look up and down the plane's body for Chuck's jacket, finally locating it under one of the seats. It's not ideal, but it should retain some of his body heat.

Inspecting the outside of the plane, I find what I am looking for and head back in Chuck's direction. His eyes are closed and I fear that he slipped into unconsciousness during me brief absence. I call his name, but he doesn't respond. My steps hasten and I'm quickly kneeling beside him, shaking his good shoulder.

"Whoa…what?"

I can't help the relief that spreads through me, but I'm outwardly neutral. Handing Chuck his jacket, I say, "Here, put this on. It's getting chilly."

I put the jacket on his leg and set about searching through my pack. Our followers need to be delayed as long as possible. That means we have to create the illusion that their mission was successful. We'll have to…my thoughts are interrupted by Chuck's weak voice.

"What," I question, upset at the distraction.

"Would you...could you" he responds. I hate when he talks in nonsensical lines and I'm about to tell him so, before I realize his predicament.

He has his injured wrist inside one of the sleeves, but his other arm won't function enough to complete the process. I silently chide myself for being so concerned with the plane that I forget an equally important part of my assignment. Without uttering a word, I lift his right arm and gingerly slide it into the coat. He gives a small grin of gratitude and I zipper him up, patting his chest lightly when I'm done.

"Time to get up again. I need to get you to a safe distance."

"From what," he wonders aloud, leaning against me as I wrap my arms around his waist and hoist him to his feet.

Instead of responding, I urge his legs to move faster by applying pressure to his side. He remains silent, but his steps do quicken. I'm not sure if he's appeasing me or is too tired to care that I ignored his inquiry. We travel a hundred yards or so, before stopping at another indistinguishable, tall piece of nature. I motion for him to sit down, but he instead leans carefully against the organic structure.

"I think I'll stay standing."

I don't say anything, but there is a questioning glint to my gaze and he senses that. He's always been more perceptive than I, as his handler, would have liked.

"Might not want to get back up…cold, hard ground can be so tempting."

He forces a smile that stops with his lips. It's good that he can still joke about things, but we've only been in the cold for minutes and his weariness unnerves me. Even though I've been taught basic first-aid and survival medicine, Chuck's compounding injuries may be out of my league. That's hard to accept.

"No problem. I'll be right back," I assure, keeping my voice as neutral as possible.

Reaching the clearing once more, I scan the horizon for signs of life, whether they be good or bad. It's been roughly an hour since the plane went down and I'm surprised our attackers have not arrived. Casey should start to worry soon, but it may be too little too late. It's going to be up to me whether or not Chuck survives.

I check my target one more time before raising my gun and aiming. I'm about to bring the enemy right to us and buy us more time. The bullet shoots out of the barrel, hitting the plane just below the wing, on the underbelly. Even from this distance, I can feel the heat from the explosion on my back, as I make my way to Chuck.

"What was that," he asks distraughtly, moving to meet my approach.

"Improvisation," I reply in an uninterested voice.

"You blew up the plane. Haven't you heard of a little something called a forest fire?"

"Look, they're going to think we were in there, at least for a little while, and that can buy us some time," I explain, while breaking off a branch from the nearest pine tree and putting it in his good hand.

"I should call Smokey The Bear on you."

"Be serious Chuck," I admonish, but the slightest hint of a smile escapes my grasp and he reciprocates ten fold.

"Fine. I'll call him later."

"We're not starting a forest fire. There's snow on the ground and another storm is about to start."

"Whatever helps you sleep."

I resume my position as Chuck's crutch and check the compass on my cell phone, thanking the technology gods that it still works because I can't see the stars through these clouds. The plane was heading North West, so we're following that route and getting as far away from the hostiles as possible or, as a last resort, we find a defendable place to stay. I'm not even one hundred percent sure they're behind us, we could be walking right for them, but the angle of the missile's impact tells me we're doing the right thing.

I motion to the branch in Chuck's hand and instruct, "I want you to drag that behind us. It's not the best, but I'm hoping that the coming precipitation will help. Can you do that?"

"Yeah. Like this," he questions, gingerly moving his arm back. It has to hurt, but we can't leave our tracks untouched.

"That's perfect," I reassure.

We continue our trek in silence, as darkness begins to surround us. My senses are set on detecting threats, so it shocks me when his voice breaks into my consciousness.

"What if they didn't know where we were and they do now?"

"They're going to think we were in the plane and try to confirm that."

"What if they assume we got out before it caught fire?"

I don't respond.

"I mean they now know exactly where we are."

"They knew where we were anyway Chuck. I made a judgment call. What's done is done."

I'm angered by his thoughts because he is only reiterating the same ones I had. Second guessing distracts you and distractions get you killed.

I did the right thing.…I think.

I hope.