The air smelt of burnt flesh and it was making Hoxton sick. He had been walking for what seemed like hours. Pressing his charred arm against the wall, he signaled Bain, "How much further?"

"Just a little bit more. The escape van will bring you to a trustworthy doctor," The rest of the crew listened as Bain's calm demeanor seemed to be breaking.

The Englishman pulled his mask off and threw it to the ground. It was too irritating to wear with his burns. Hoxton checked his sidearm's ammo, cursing and dropping it alongside his mask. It would only slow him down and he could buy another one when he got home. If he got home.

Hoxton couldn't help but wince as he pulled his charred side away from the wall. He continued onward for a few more feet before tactical lights flashed in his face from his escape point. The sharpshooter spun around as quickly as he could, but he was cut off.

"Bain...," Hoxton began, "We've had a good run, right mate?"

Bain was silent. Hoxton took that as a sign that he had lost hope too. He pressed his back to the wall and slid to the ground, he could hear the crew urging him to try something, anything. Hoxton was content to rest.

He was roughly handcuffed and shoved into a squad car. The officer, who he was pretty sure someone had called Winters, hadn't buckled him. Hoxton was slowly falling asleep, and before he knew it he had had dropped to his side.