Author's Note: Direct continuation.

Reunions, Bitter and Bittersweet

Though Aaron was favoring his injured side, it was still excruciating trying to lift Emily up off the ground. But fortunately she recovered quickly from her (obvious) shock at seeing him. She threw her arms around his neck, and though that did make it easier to lift her . . . it still hurt like hell.

Especially while trying to hold onto the shovel he'd grabbed as a makeshift weapon.

But still he didn't have the heart to throw her off. Not with her sobbing, "oh my God, I thought you were DEAD!" while smothering him with kisses. And though under any other circumstances Aaron would have enjoyed the moment . . . they had no time for reunions.

Not unless it was going to be their last one.

"Not dead," he half hissed, half groaned as he felt a fresh stab of pain radiating out from the bullet wound in his shoulder, "not yet. But I can't say the same if we don't get out of the open."

"Oh, right," Emily immediately blinked and sniffled as she hobbled back slightly, "I'm sorry. Sorry," she muttered anxiously, trying to simultaneously blink away her tears while refocusing on escape, "I was just so surprised to see you!"

God, stupid, stupid Emily! Going to get him killed for real!

"It's okay," he muttered while throwing his arm around her waist, "let's just keep moving."

And then he began dragging her forward.

After two steps it was clear how hard she was trying to keep up with him, but her left leg was dragging . . . something had broken or torn . . . and all she kept murmuring was a pained, "sorry, I'm sorry," as they stumbled forward, each of them hobbled in their own way. It was ridiculous. And he knew . . . they were never going to survive that way.

Not for more than a few minutes.

So while throwing another panicked look over his shoulder, he muttered to her, "we have to get behind the shed," he turned back around, again wincing with the effort of pushing his injured body just a little bit harder, "and then we can stop for a second. It's only another ten, twelve paces."

Where WAS that asshole?! He should have been RIGHT behind them! He WAS right behind them! Aaron had seen him coming out the front door after Emily. That's why he'd lurched out to grab her when he had.

Otherwise he would have waited until she was passing closer by him.

But fortunately minimal safe shelter (aka the shed in question) was just ahead of them. And after another dozen pained, stumbling steps, they passed around the corner of the wooden structure.

At that point they were both slick with sweat from not just the exertion, but also the horrific summer heat. The humidity was making it even harder to move quickly.

And it was hard enough moving as it was.

But somehow Aaron did keep them going the few extra steps. And after throwing another worried look over his shoulder . . . still no sign of the perpetrator . . . he steadied Emily against the side of the little building that he'd woken up inside of some minutes earlier. Then he yanked the door open to grab another of the only halfway decent weapons they presently had at their disposal.

The shovels.

Though there were also a few pairs of half rusted gardening shears in a rotting wooden box . . . that's what he'd used to cut the wrist bindings he'd found himself in . . . those were close quarters weapons. And if they were close quarters with the psychopath who had carved up Emily's photograph, Aaron didn't want to give him any other sharp objects to play with.

But shovels . . . he pressed one into Emily's shaking hand . . . would be perfect. They were relatively lightweight, but still good as both defensive, and offensive weapons. Most particularly they were good for bashing in skulls.

That's what Aaron planned to do with his.

As soon as he got the chance.

But for now he wasn't sure if they should hunker down, or try to keep moving. The shed really held no durable shelter. It was a ten by twelve wooden box. One that that asshole could circle it in twenty seconds flat, and then shoot it up . . . or burn it to the ground . . . in the same amount of time. But Aaron's main worry wasn't so much the fire, but that God damn rifle that had put the bullet into his shoulder. And also . . . his fist clenched . . . his service weapon was missing. And that was bad.

So very bad.

Worse even than the known existence of the rifle. Because the rifle at least required a few feet of distance to get any kind of decent aim. A handgun was lethal from both a country mile, and millimeters away.

And neither he nor Emily were in any condition to be dodging bullets from any distance AT ALL!

Hell, Aaron huffed to himself with no humor at all, they were barely in any condition to be standing. But at the moment standing was the only option. There was no place to rest. But given his concern about being shot AGAIN . . . and then he'd be completely useless/dead . . . with his good arm, Aaron hefted his shovel up to partially shield his face.

Not that the shovel was bulletproof . . . unfortunately gardening tools didn't come in Kevlar . . . but it looked about as old as he was. And back in the good old days, they made things to last.

Which meant that the shovel was probably constructed of steel.

And that meant that it might . . . big, huge, ENORMOUS emphasis on the might . . . at least have the tempered strength to deflect a straight shot to the head. And under the circumstances . . . circumstances being that he needed to get their bearings, and there were NO other options at his disposal(!) . . . deflection was about the best he could hope for at the moment.

So he poked his head around the corner.

But still, even as he frantically scanned the house and the front yard, he couldn't see where the HELL the bastard had gone! And the fact that he didn't have a freaking CLUE where this asshole was hiding, was making Aaron's skin crawl! Because he had DEFINITELY come out the front door! That was not in question. He'd SEEN him with his own eyes! White male, early twenties, yellow shirt, black pants. And he had all the guns, and God knew what other hellish, slice and dice weapons he'd brought with him, so why the hell wasn't he coming right at them? Why was he hiding from THEM?!

SHIT!

Feeling a fresh panic creeping up his spin . . . there was something really wrong here . . . Aaron turned back to Emily. He was about to grab her arm, and tell her that they were making a run for the woods . . . they might at least have a shot at hiding until help arrived . . . when he saw that while he was distracted with the perimeter check, she'd taken that time to hobble further inside the shed.

"What are you . . .?

His question started out as a hiss, but then his eyes widened when she turned around and he realized when what she'd gone in to get.

An archery set.

He'd completely missed it.

After shooting another quick glance behind them . . . still clear . . . he put a foot inside the small structure.

"Oh you are brilliant," he whispered while flashing her pained grin, "are they yours?"

"Yeah," she hurriedly tossed the sling of arrows over her shoulder while keeping the bow in her hand, "grandfather used to practice with me. He said it was a good skill to have. The set's a little old," her brow wrinkled as she plucked the string in front of her, "but it seems to be workable."

It had probably been at least five years since she'd used this set, so the arrowheads looked a little rusty from sitting out in the damp. But as long as they still flew, maybe the rust was a good thing. She might luck out and be able to give Patrick a good case of tetanus. Her brow darkened slightly as her fist clenched.

That would be nice.

"I agree one hundred percent with your grandfather," Aaron nodded anxiously, "that is an excellent skill for you to have. Now come on," he put his hand out, "we can't stay here. There's not enough shelter."

"Right," Emily was adjusting the arrow sling on her shoulder as she started limping the few steps back to him, "I was thinking maybe the lake. But," she grabbed his fingers, "I don't know if I can swim now, and," she bit her lip, "your shoulder."

"Well," he looked behind them, "I was thinking the woods. Plenty of places to hide. But now I'm starting to get concerned that maybe he's already in there. Really," he shot Emily a quick, worried look, "I can't figure where else he could have gone when he came out of the house. I only looked away from him for a few seconds to help you up. He had to have doubled around."

Which meant that it might now be completely suicidal, to run into the ONE area that would seem to provide them a bit of . . . decent . . . temporary safety. His jaw clenched.

Great.

"Patrick," Emily quietly, and somewhat embarrassingly, corrected after Aaron finished speaking, "his name is Patrick," she shook her head, "something. I can't remember his last name. We went out a few times early last year. But then I stopped returning his calls because he um," her voice started to thicken, "well, he started to kind of creep me out a little bit." Her eyes snapped up to Aaron's.

"I'm so sorry Aaron," she bit her lip as she continued softly, trying to make sure her voice didn't carry, "it never would have occurred to me that these threats could have been coming from him. Not until I heard his voice in the house. We'd talked maybe a half dozen times on the phone, and then there were the voicemails," she tipped her head, "more of them afterwards. He kept asking me out, and wanting to know why," she stammered a bit, "why, I wasn't calling him back . . . I got maybe twenty of those."

Her last sentence was barely audible. Though she knew that Aaron needed to have that information, she was so ashamed that she'd been so stupid, that she didn't even want to say the words out loud.

"Twenty?!" Aaron repeated in disbelief, "you got TWENTY messages from this guy and you didn't think to MENTION him?!"

What the FUCK?! That would have been his NUMBER ONE pick for a background check!

"I know," she sobbed quietly as her hand came up to hover around her mouth, "I was stupid! But Aaron, it was SO long ago! I mean, really, I haven't heard anything from him in ten, eleven months! He only tried to reach me that first week or so after the last dinner and then he just . . . stopped." She sniffled. "So I figured that he got the hint and moved on. And it had only been a couple dinners, nothing serious at all. Like I said," she sucked in a ragged breath as she felt her emotional control loosening, "I can't even remember his LAST NAME! God, who thinks some guy you had spaghetti with a year ago wants to slice your FACE open?!"

Realizing that her voice was getting to loud . . . and feeling the sob of despair bubbling up . . . Emily quickly smacked her free hand over her mouth. The last thing she wanted to do was give away their hiding position.

Then she'd DEFINITELY get Aaron killed!

Seeing Emily's clear remorse . . . and shame . . . over events that had happened so long ago, Aaron immediately felt his remaining anger with her drain away.

Of course he never should have been angry with her to start.

None of this was her fault. It was this jag off . . . Patrick, his brain corrected, remember the little prick's name . . . HE was the one to blame here, nobody else. So he reached out to pull Emily into a quick apology hug.

"All right," he soothed with a gentle pat to her back, "I'm sorry. Don't cry Emily, this isn't on you, it's all on him. And besides," he turned to look around the corner again, "none of it matters now anyway. We can talk about it later. Let's just," his gaze snapped back and forth between the woods and lake, "pick a direction."

"Okay," she sniffled and lifted her head to look, "um, well, couldn't we try and just hole up here and wait for help? I know it's not the best place to hide but the sheriff's department should be along really soon. Well," she tipped her head as she wiped her face, "no more than ten minutes. That is their response time, right? Eight to ten minutes?"

"That is what the expected response time is," Aaron nodded his agreement as eyes darted left and right, "but we wouldn't last that long here. If Patrick doesn't already have an eye on us right now, eventually he's going to come hunting. And there is NO shelter here if he starts shooting."

"All right," Emily's brow wrinkled, trying to think of another option, "then what about the car? I can't run, but," she looked up at him wide eyed, starting to feel a spark of excitement, "maybe you could get down there and come back and get me?"

Though she thought him going for the car was a pretty good idea . . . at least comparatively out of the batch of HORRIBLE ideas currently at their disposal . . . Aaron was already shaking his head before she'd even finished speaking.

"No, no, absolutely no. First, I'm not leaving you, and second," he leaned out to take a quick glance at the car in question, "we don't even know if it's still drivable anyway. Patrick could have cut the gas line, or slashed the tires. Or both."

"Yeah, but . . ."

Just as Emily began to speak a bullet went whizzing right by her head and slammed into the shed. The wood splinters that flew back, embedded themselves in her cheek.

She screamed.

HOLY SHIT!

The next thing she knew, she was hitting the ground, Aaron was on top of her . . . and she was flashing back to the PREVOUS worst day of her life. Though that day it was Agent Rossi that had done the tackling.

But it wasn't just her terror . . . or her flashback . . . that had her continuing to scream, it was mostly fueled from her physical agony. Because when she fell, her leg twisted again.

And the pain was EXCRUCIATING!

But before she could even get beyond the pain or really even intellectually process what was happening beyond the obvious . . . Patrick had found them, and Patrick was now DEFINITELY trying to kill them(!) . . . Aaron was hauling her up and dragging her around the corner of the shed.

Then he was on top of her again.

"All right," he gasped even as she winced, hearing another shot slam into the wood above them, "we are going to try for the car. I just remembered that there's a flare gun in the trunk. It doesn't have great aim, but I can still kill the son of a bitch with it. And I know you can't run," he hurriedly wiped the back of his hand across his brow, to get the sweat out of his eyes, "so I want you to get on my back. I'll carry you."

"No," Emily sucked in a ragged breath as she tried to push back both her tears and her near paralyzing terror, "you're hurt, and I'm too heavy! We'll never make it! If you think you can get there, you go! Come back for me!"

"I'm not asking you Emily," Aaron's voice hardened as his eyes snapped down to hers, "I'm telling you, get on my back, NOW! The period of discussion is over!"

And then he pushed himself up so she could move out from under him. And though she still felt that this was a TERRIBLE idea, Emily knew better than to argue further. Personal relationship notwithstanding, at the moment he was in charge. And all he cared about was trying to keep her alive. She bit down on her lip.

Even if he killed himself in the process.

So with her ankle throbbing, and the terrifying sound of the bullets still flying . . . Patrick trying to flush them out . . . she inched to the side. And then Aaron was up on his haunches, and she was wincing as she threw the bow over her shoulder before climbing onto his back. Then she wrapped her arms around his neck and hitched her legs around his waist.

At least one of her legs . . . the other was sort of dangly.

And though she heard Aaron hissing in pain when her arms tightened, all he muttered was, "hold on, and keep your head down on the right side. He shouldn't be expecting us to run out in the open, so that should buy us a few seconds. And I only need maybe ten."

Though he wasn't all that sure about this plan . . . it really was the only one that they had. They couldn't stay behind the shed, the lake was much too far away, and the woods were now a complete no go.

Not with that psychopath already IN there!

No . . . he pushed himself up, snatching the handle of the shovel up when he did . . . getting that flare gun was about their only shot. No pun intended. And maybe . . . he sucked in a deep breath . . . they'd luck out and the car might actually be working.

Actually . . . he shoved his hand into his pocket and yanked the car keys out.

"Hold these," he jammed them into Emily's hand, "when we get there, I'll drop you to the ground, and cover you while you get the trunk open. Then you duck down and I'll grab the flare gun. And you stay under the car until I tell you to move again, got it?"

"Uh, huh," she nodded and sniffled, "got it. And if we don't make it," she pressed her head against his as her voice thickened, "I had a really nice couple days."

"Yeah," Aaron felt an ache in his gut as he listening to the timing of the shots, waiting for his moment, "me too sweetheart, but we're going to be okay. Now head down," he gave her hands a quick squeeze, "hold on tight as you can."

And then he sucked in another breath, hitched the shovel around to shield their heads the best he could . . . again, deflection was better than nothing . . . and took off at a dead run.

The distance to cover was about forty paces, and at the Academy he'd been able to run the course mile in just over six minutes. Now granted . . . his feet pounded across the soft grass . . . those times were set without a bullet hole in his shoulder or a hundred and twenty pound girl on his back. But he knew that objectively speaking, he still had a pretty good shot of getting them there in the ten, twelve seconds he was projecting. Because it was a short run, and on many of the days he'd made his best times on the track, he'd been carrying an eighty pound pack on his back.

Emily was just a little heavier.

And as he ran across the side yard, heart pounding, adrenaline surging, he actually wasn't feeling any pain at all. Terror, yes. But only that Emily would be hurt.

But he tried to push that thought aside to focus on the shiny dark oasis coming up fast ahead of him.

And then the first bullet dinged off the side of the shovel.

FUCK!

Emily screamed and though he wanted to ask her if she was all right . . . that would have taken oxygen that he was using elsewhere. So he had to assume by the fact that she was still holding onto him, that she was okay. So he kept moving. Though fortunately his training kicked in and he immediately started going in a zig zag fashion.

That made them a harder target to hit.

Of course it also slowed down their forward momentum considerably, but the goal here wasn't to make time . . . it was to avoid getting shot. He sucked in another ragged breath.

And so far so good!

And the driveway was getting closer! But he was gasping for air. Running with a bullet wound REALLY wasn't recommended . . . how the hell did anyone EVER survive an actual war(?!) . . . and the sweat was literally pouring off of him.

And still the bullets were flying.

He could feel the zip as they passed by them . . . and then the louder report coming from the trees. It was backwards, but bullets traveled at supersonic speed. And this asshole, thank GOD, really was a horrible shot!

Just then Aaron's sneakers slapped down on the packed dirt driveway.

"Get ready," he gasped, "just a few more feet!"

"I'm ready," Emily hissed back, "I promise!"

Just then Aaron felt a horrendous burning pain in his leg . . . it was almost simultaneous with the sound of the shot that had found his thigh.

SHIT!

He stumbled . . . and fell.

"GO! GO! GO!"

Even as they hit the ground . . . seven feet short of their target, the car . . . he was screaming at Emily to keep moving.

And she did. She rolled, and hobbled and even while he was frantically crawling after her, she was stumbling . . . and screaming in agony . . . as she limped forward as fast as she could on what he was fairly certain was a broken ankle.

Then she was at the back of the car, dropping to her knees as another bullet shattered the glass of the rear window.

"FUCK YOU PATRICK!" She screeched even while jamming the key into the lock with her shaking hand, "FUCK YOU SO FUCKING HARD YOU PATHETIC PIECE OF SHIT!"

The profanity was not at all characteristic of the sweet . . . somewhat soft spoken . . . girl that Aaron had known these last few weeks. It was like some new depth had been reached in her reserves of strength, And the girl that was coming up from down there . . . she was harder, tougher. Stronger.

She was a fighter.

And then the trunk popped open and he snapped back to reality. Emily began tossing the bags and boxes over her shoulder.

"On the left," he yelled, even while trying to crawl faster across the dirt before he got hit again, "under the spare tire!"

Another bag flew over her shoulder . . . his . . . and then out came the tire. It bounced to the ground and rolled off. And just as he reached the car . . . she pulled out the flare gun.

"Good girl," he gasped as he yanked her down to the ground, pulling it from her hands, "now get around the side, go low, and get back into the house."

"But what about the car?!" Her eyes were wild as she looked over at him, "can't we try it?"

"It's no good," he gave a jerk of his head to the fuel spill behind her that she apparently hadn't noticed in her rush to get to the flare gun, "he cut the line. Just go. Head down, keep moving. Unless he starts running himself, he's not at the right angle to hit us up on the porch. We just need to get out of the driveway."

The driveway was still open space, the porch had an advantage.

The house blocking it.

"Okay, okay," she muttered, right before taking two rapid deep breaths. And Aaron thought that she was just about to run for it, when she turned her head and surprised him with a searing kiss.

It was quick and hard, and when she pulled back, she gasped, "you're coming with me."

And then she shifted herself under his shoulder. They were both still low to the ground, and he was about to order her to leave him, when she anticipated that move and shook her head.

"You wouldn't leave me," she whispered frantically, "and he's going to come running any second, and he'll kill you if I leave you here. You already said the flare isn't that great of an aim, so obviously he has the advantage with a shot from any distance away. And if he kills you, then he kills me next. So come on," she cried as she started pulling him along, "between us we have two good legs, let's use them!"

Though Aaron wanted to argue, she had made a very valid point about the likelihood of him getting shot dead on the ground before he could get a decent aim. Which meant at the moment, they were participants in the world's most terrifying three legged race.

So with them both in horrific pain, and slick with dirt and sweat . . . and his blood, which was now smeared all over Emily's shirt from where she'd been pressed against him . . . they stooped down and began to slowly inch their way around the car.

Each had one leg dragging on the ground . . . his was leaving a nice trail of blood.

He was going to be so PISSED if he passed out!

"Stay down as low as you can," he huffed out on a groan as he steadied himself with a hand on the passenger door, "don't raise you head until the last second. And when we get through the front door, stay down on the floor. Again, low as you can. Remember, the glass in those windows is reinforced but not resistant."

Though many people considered the terms interchangeable, they weren't. And "reinforced" and "resistant" were very big distinctions when the bullets were actually being fired AT you! And the most recent shots had definitely been coming closer than the earlier ones. Which meant that Patrick was now moving across the yard.

And the yard was big, but it wasn't that big.

"Right," Emily gasped as they wobbled another inch forward, "right, okay. Are we ready?"

Just as they made the final run . . . three feet across the driveway, Aaron heard the sound of an engine.

His head snapped up to see a brown and yellow cruiser coming around the corner, through the trees. Lights, no sirens.

But they were coming up fast. Really, fast.

Sheriff's Department! Thank you GOD!

Still though, Aaron didn't let that slow them down.

"KEEP MOVING!" He hollered breathlessly over to Emily, as they hobbled up the first step, "UP TO THE PORCH!"

And even as they inched their way up to relative safety, Aaron started yelling over his shoulder as loud as he could back to the fast approaching deputy.

He was only maybe fifteen yards away.

"FBI! THERE'S A SHOOTER BEHIND THE HOUSE! WE NEED BACKUP NOW!"

And then he just prayed that the windows were down for the deputy to actually HEAR the words he'd yelled! And that he wouldn't mistake THEM for the perpetrators!

Because getting shot accidentally, would be a HELL of an end to this day!

But fortunately in response to his cries for assistance, the sirens immediately switched on. And then a second later . . . as he and Emily were stumbling up the third step, with Aaron watching frantically over his shoulder . . . the cruiser screeched to a halt just behind them. And then the deputy jumped out with his Remington in his hands. As it was coming up to fire, he was screaming.

"GET DOWN! HE'S COMING UP ON YOUR LEFT!"

So once more Aaron knocked Emily flat and covered her body with his own.

Then from behind them he heard two cracks from the deputy's shotgun . . . and then there was the immediate return fire from Patrick.

Then glass breaking . . . shots hitting metal . . . it was a free for all. It was actually the first firefight he'd experienced firsthand, and they were stuck in the middle of it. He could feel Emily shaking beneath him. And realizing how terrified she had to be . . . after all, this was NOT, her first firefight, and she'd already been terrified of gunshots before this day . . . he pressed his lips to her ear.

"It'll be over soon, sweetheart," he murmured while fumbling to squeeze her hand curled between them, "just keep your head down. We'll be okay."

The words had no sooner left his mouth, when Aaron heard a scream of agony from behind him. The deputy. Their savior.

He was hit.

FUCK!

A/N 2: So Aaron was NOT dead, because you know, that would have been a real bummer. And kind of left the option of a sequel, dead in its tracks. And we will be getting a sequel, after we get through the end of their day, and then the epilogue. So, ONE MORE! Really, truly, just one more! And I know you're all like, 'seriously, you freaking cut it AGAIN, sienna? AGAIN?!' Yep. I did that :) And barring some unforeseen incident that either physically, or psychologically, prevents me from writing this week, I'm aiming to get the epilogue wrapped up. I already have like 4 pages done. Truly.

And funny here I was trying to get a good mental visual on the deputy and his weapon, so I was googling and I'm like, wait there's no way in hell I'm going to find a frigging google image of a Culpepper County deputy, in summer gear, carrying his official shotgun back in the 90s! I'm not getting one of those things. Even the cruisers now are all the fancy, cool dodges. But back then almost all departments had crown vics, so that was at least a simple mental image. And Remington has been sourcing shotguns to police departments forever, so that was the best way to go there. So brown cruisers, brown uniforms, big black shotguns. Good to go.

So thanks for reading everybody!