He knew it was going to happen. He couldn't run any longer, and he accepted that. He walked through the house one last time, taking it all in. He smiled at the photographs that hung neatly on the walls, and he smiled at the memories of his childhood. Thirty-three. He never expected to die at thirty-three. He thought of the FBI agent who had been assigned to protect him. What was her name? He couldn't remember. But he did remember that he had liked her.
He also remembered what he did to her. He remembered how he had hurt her. There was no other option. If he hadn't hurt her, she would be here now, and she would die with him. She didn't deserve to die. She didn't deserve what he did to her either. He thought of the look in her eyes when she realized she had been betrayed. He could see it as though it was happening now.
He stood very still, while she made sure his house was clear. He could hear her heels clicking on the wooden floors of his home, as she searched for intruders. She came out onto the porch, and told him the house was clear. But he didn't move. He stood completely still on the paved driveway. The FBI agent approached him.
"Are you all right?" the agent asked as she stepped closer.
"No," he responded.
The agent was right in front of him now. She looked him straight in the face and knew that something was very wrong.
"Talk to me," she said softly.
His hand was withdrawn into the sleeve of his suit jacket. He silently withdrew the blade of his pocket knife. Before the agent could say another word, he stabbed her. He stabbed her only once. It was his goal only to wound, not to kill. The agent's green eyes expanded in shock as she felt the blade cut her. She inhaled sharply. Her knees gave out, and her body began to drop but he caught her. He held her in his arms, as she struggled.
"I'm so sorry," he whispered. "This is for your own good. I know you're supposed to protect me, but you can't."
He put her unconscious body into his car, and drove her to the nearest hospital. Nurses and Doctors swarmed her, and he slipped out the door without being noticed. He returned home, to await the arrival of his murderer. To await the arrival of his death.
The sound of a car pulling into his driveway brought him back from the memory. It was time. Time to die. He sat down in his favorite arm chair, and faced the front door. He hadn't bothered locking it, he knew there was no evading what was to come.
The front door opened, and there he stood. The killer. The murderer had a gun in his hand, ready to shoot. He raised his arm, aimed the gun, and fired.
The house was swarming with police. The crime scene was a peculiar one. The police went through the victim's personal belongings, searching for something, anything that would lead them to his killer. A police officer looked down at the body. The victim was sitting in an arm chair when he was murdered. The officer noticed a tattoo on the victims arm. He looked closer, and sighed.
"Someone call NCIS!" he shouted.
"Why NCIS?" someone asked.
"This guy's a Marine."