Thank you to all who reviewed! Much obliged. This chapter was a gargantuan pain in the ass for some reason. I had to go back and edit the crap out of it before it satisfied me, which explains why this took so damn long.

On a side note, Bourne Ultimatum was AWESOME. Fresh batch of inspiration!

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Chapter 9

He probably should have prepared her more.

It wasn't a long fall, or a very hard one, but Yuna was still in shock from her wound, and he had not given her much warning at all. She landed with a muted grunt next to him, her hand red with blood as she pressed down on the graze. He kept his arm around her and immediately made for the cluster of cork trees ahead of them, praying that they had not been spotted. He could see the blue and red flash of police cars lining either side of the tracks up ahead, and the dark shapes of officers standing in wait to jump on the train. They were still far off, but not so far that they wouldn't miss two people running towards the trees if they looked hard enough.

As they ran, he inwardly cursed at himself. He had gotten careless, desperate. He should have stayed to clean up the mess he'd made. The smart thing to do would have been to stash the bodies somewhere and wipe up all the blood. There weren't many places where he could hide four corpses on that cramped train car, but maybe it would have bought them some time.

He didn't even want to think of all the fingerprints they had left behind.

Once they reached the tree line he sat Yuna down to get a quick look at the gash, gently resting her against a tree trunk.

"It's not as bad as it looks," she gasped, wincing as he pushed her hand aside.

He widened the tear in her shirt to examine it. "I'll feel better when we get you cleaned up. Besides, we can't have you bleeding all over the place, now can we?" He tried to smile at that last part, but it felt forced, and she didn't return it. Looking down, he saw that the flesh was parted more than he had expected, and it was bleeding freely. He could see that a simple bandage wouldn't be enough; she needed stitches.

"What about you?" she asked, nodding to the bullet hole in his arm. He glanced down at it absently. It burned, and it would probably affect his mobility before long, but he found that he was quite able to ignore the pain. Perhaps it was something he had grown accustomed to in his line of work. He tore off a strip of fabric from the hem of his shirt and wrapped it around his arm to keep blood from falling on the grass. The last thing they needed was a trail for the cops to follow.

Through the small gathering of trees he could see a farmhouse close by, backed by an enormous barn. It was surrounded by sheep and cows, with a couple of horses completing the scene. A few old trucks were parked at miscellaneous locations around the yard. The windows were dark, shuttered.

She followed his gaze. "You think anybody's home?"

"Stay here," he ordered. "I'm going to get a closer look. Maybe there are some supplies in there –"

"What are you suggesting?" she asked incredulously. "We should break into that house – two wanted fugitives – and steal medical supplies that might not even exist from whoever might be in there?"

He rubbed his eyes. "All I know is that between those cops out there and us being injured with no car, we don't have many options," he pointed out. "We could sit here and wait for them to search the train, find those bodies and our blood on the floor, track us out here and arrest us . . . or we could just take a closer look at that house and see if there might be anything useful."

From her expression, he could tell she wasn't totally sold on the idea.

"Look, if I don't find anything, I'll come back for you and we can take a truck. We'll drive to Zurich ourselves," he offered, trying to sound more confident than he felt.

Pursing her lips, she nodded and sat back down on the grass. He removed his jacket and threw it around her shoulders. "Stay out of sight," he ordered quietly. "I'll be back soon."

"Be careful."

He took off at a measured lope, keeping close to the ground and using every available cover to stay invisible. Yuna's eyes followed him until he disappeared out the other end of the tree line.

His body seemed to know the routine. He stayed as low as possible while moving continuously, heading for cover along the way. Bushes, ditches, and even an old tractor provided shelter for him as he moved. The sky was darkening, which helped, but his eyes roved back and forward between the house and the cluster of police cars near the tracks.

For the most part, the animals ignored him. A few sheep darted away as he drew near and one of the cows pawed the earth warningly as he passed, but no real ruckus occurred.

He reached the house a few minutes later and ducked under what appeared to be the kitchen window. It was dark inside, but a faint light from the TV lit up the glass. He slowly raised himself up to look inside. An old man was sitting on a reclining chair right in front of the window, facing the TV with a semi-vacant expression on his face. He noticed movement at the corner of his eye and suddenly looked outside, squinting in the gloom of his house.

Cursing silently, the blond dropped down and hurried around the corner of the house, hoping no one else was home. Normally he would have turned and walked away from it all, but he had distinctly seen a white med kit above the stove, and now the hole in his arm was really smarting. One old man wouldn't be hard to overpower, and it's not like he planned on killing the guy. Maybe just knock him out for a couple hours.

There was another window at the back of the house, an open one that led into a tiny, cramped bathroom. He slowly peered inside, only to find himself staring down the barrel of a Winchester.

The old man cocked the rifle in a business-like fashion. His scruffy beard belied the efficient, calculating mind that must be operating underneath. He was obviously used to handling this gun, and his senses were much sharper than one would have given him credit for. He had known that he had seen someone skulking around his property.

"So, you're the one the police are after," he commented in an almost conversational tone, his French colloquial and somewhat rustic. "You don't look like much in person. And you're bleeding all over my poppies."

The startled young man automatically raised his hands at the sight of the gun, not daring to check the makeshift bandage that was soaking through. His heart was racing, as were his thoughts; he was not close enough to grab the gun before the old man would pull the trigger, and he did not want to risk such a bullet hitting him at this range, aimed squarely at his forehead.

"Please, monsieur," he said slowly, in French. "There's been a mistake."

The old man raised an eyebrow at the accent. "Américain?" he queried. "What do the police want with an American boy, I wonder. And where is your petite amie? The pretty girl from the poster."

He considered lying, but decided that this old man had some measure of shrewdness to him. His list of options was running shorter by the minute. He licked his lips and tried to ignore the mounting pain in his arm.

"She's hurt, back there in the trees," he explained, jerking his thumb over his shoulder. The words were sounding even more pathetic out loud than in his head. "I came here to find medical supplies."

The farmer laughed. "And you thought I would simply hand it over and forget about your faces flashing on the news channel? Tell me, boy . . . what's to stop me from shouting to the police? They've already searched the house once, the filthy pigs, but to get you I think I would not mind having them come back."

He felt his heart sinking. "If you like, you can call them. But you should know that my friend is innocent of any charges. It is only her bad fortune to be in my company at this point."

The old man blinked at him, looking taken aback. The rifle lowered ever so slightly. "Why is she with you, if she is innocent?"

"She is my hostage."

"You show too much concern for a woman who is just 'your hostage', my friend. I think you are lying." The rifle came back up. "I think you are trying to protect this woman. Is she your lover?"

"No," he replied firmly. "But I owe her a lot. And I promise you that she is blameless of anything they might accuse her of."

"Why do the police want you so bad, if you say there has been a mistake?"

"Monsieur, please," he said, becoming urgent. "I am begging you. If you will not help me, either shoot me or turn me in. Just . . . please help my friend. She does not deserve any of this."

The farmer stared at him with probing eyes for a long time, reading every worry-worn inch of the young man's face. He stared back levelly, silently praying for some kind of miracle.

"How badly injured is she?"

"Not terribly. But she's in a lot of pain."

"Can she walk?"

"Yes."

Suddenly the barrel of the rifle dropped down and the old man gave him a quick nod. "A man who cares so deeply for his friends, enough to endanger his own life, is no criminal. Bring her to me, and I will help you. Be quick about it."

He nearly sagged with relief as the air rushed out of his lungs.

"Merci," he said breathlessly, turning and hurrying back across the field. The police would be moving further down the train by now, getting closer to the car filled with dead bodies.

He kneeled down next to Yuna to check her wound. The bleeding had slowed down, and was beginning to coagulate. He figured that was a good thing, but he didn't like how pale she looked.

"I found a friend," he explained as he guided her to her feet. "He agreed to help us."

"Can we trust him?" she asked quietly, glancing over her shoulder at the police cars.

"I think so. He doesn't seem very fond of the police."

Yuna snorted lightly. "The French police do not have many friends, even in their own country," she grumbled, copying his posture and keeping herself as low to the ground as she could. She was leaning heavily on him, but managed to keep up.

They reached the back of the house where the bathroom window was left open invitingly. He crawled in first before turning around to pull Yuna through, careful of her injury. Under the door he could see a sliver of yellow light from the kitchen down the hall. Mindful of any windows they might pass, he led Yuna towards the kitchen, where the old man was setting up a workspace. A small round table had been cleared off, and fresh white linen had been spread over it. The medical supplies were laid out, easily within reach.

The farmer glanced up as they approached, both looking uncertain and nervous. His eyes warmed on Yuna.

"Lie down, cherie," he instructed kindly. "My name is Maechan. You are Miss Savard, yes?"

Yuna nodded and offered him a smile as her companion helped her onto the table. "I am most grateful, monsieur. You are risking a lot for us."

He waved his hands dismissively at the notion as he went to examine her. Pushing up her shirt, his sharp eyes narrowed slightly on the wound. "Hmmm," he mused. "Nothing I cannot handle. You, boy . . . what is your name?"

The blond opened and closed his mouth, frowning. He wanted to explain to the old man why he had no answer, but Maechan shrugged and looked away.

"No matter. Just get me a cloth."

He found himself appreciating the farmer's bluntness, the way he was simplifying an otherwise complicated issue. It felt nice to take direction for once. He went to the tap and ran a cloth under warm water, while behind him Maechan was making small talk in rapid, comfortable French.

"You are in good hands, child. I sewed up more than a few friends on the battlefield during the war. Out there, one had to learn quickly or lose a comrade. We didn't have enough medics, you see. Walking around the field, looking for the injured, sometimes they would get shot and have to direct us on how best to fix them up!"

Yuna was listening politely, nodding her head and smiling at the appropriate times. "I trust your judgment, monsieur Maechan," she assured him, closing her eyes as her friend brought the cloth over. Maechan took it and gently began wiping away the blood crusting around the wound.

Feeling completely useless, the young man paced around the table, watching as the needle skillfully went into Yuna's skin. She sucked in a quick breath and kept remarkably still.

"You okay?" he asked, gazing down at her as she schooled her features. She was trying to look like she was in less pain than she really was; it was a sensitive area.

"The skin is so thin here, it's hard not to feel every poke," she admitted. "But Maechan knows what he is doing." The old man beamed up at her as he worked.

"Almost done," he announced. "I hope I don't leave a scar on such a pretty girl."

Yuna allowed a small chuckle at that. "I would be proud to wear it."

"There," Maechan declared, taping a bandage over his handiwork. "That should do it. Take some extra gauze with you, yes?"

Yuna sat up and pulled her shirt down, looking pointedly at her companion. "Your turn," she said authoritatively.

He obediently sat down and allowed Maechan to have a look at his wound, which was by now beginning to look red and angry. His whole upper arm felt like it was being eaten from the inside out by fire ants, yet he felt oddly detached from it. He had probably been forced to get used to pain like this, doing what he did for a living. The thought unsettled him.

Maechan managed to dig the bullet out with a set of tweezers, and secured a bandage over the hole after rubbing a disinfectant over it (which actually stung more than the actual wound).

"I have some spare shirts that might fit you," the old man grunted, gesturing towards what must be the bedroom. "Yours has seen better days."

Nodding, the younger man went and looked through the closet, before choosing a nondescript t-shirt to go under his jacket.

It was only sheer luck that had him walk by the window at that precise moment. Had he been looking the other way, he would not have noticed the sudden beam of light from a policeman's flashlight on the ground as a team of officers approached the house.

He quickly ducked and rolled out into the hallway away from any windows, his pulse racing. Careful to remain low, he scrambled to the kitchen where Yuna and Maechan were chatting.

"They're here," he said, almost numbly. "The police. They found us."