I was tired.

Oh, boy, I was tired.

Tired of hiding. Tired of watching over my shoulder. Tired of waking several times a night with my body as stiff as a board and holding my breath in fear. Tired of sneaking in and out of a house that wasn't mine. Tired of keeping the blinds closed and the doors locked and eating junk food in the dark. Tired of the suffocating feeling in my chest. And tired, oh so tired, of being alone with all this trouble.

Thus, when I returned from the coffee shop that morning and found the two LEO's, knocking on the front door and shouting: "NCIS, open up!" I nearly surrendered. At least they didn't want to kill me. Arrest me, yes. Charge me with murder, yes. Interrogate and shout at me, probably, yes. But they won't kill me, and maybe they could make sense out of this horrible mess I found myself in.

I didn't think about surrender for long, though. I don't know whether it was the more rational or the more scared part of my brain that took over, but as the man and woman turned around, the desperation of the past six days drove all thoughts of it from my mind. The simple fact was that they would never believe my story. Heck, I sometimes doubted the truth of it myself. So when our eyes met over the length of the driveway, I just saw the years of prison stretching before me, and without a second thought I took off like a hare before a pack of dogs.

The two agents at the door shouted something, and another – somewhat plump – young man jumped from behind a parked car and threw himself at me. Smashing my forearm into his ribs, I ducked under his arm and streaked down the street.

Gardens, hedges and cars flashed past me in a blur. I turned a corner, narrowly missing two old ladies pushing a pram, and ducked into a narrow lane between the houses. The neighbourhood was quite strange to me, but I knew that there were woods somewhere ahead of me. In the woods I may be able to make good my escape, for no city kid would ever catch me there.

One of the agents, a well-dressed guy who now was mud-spattered and looked out of breath and pissed, appeared at the bottom end of the lane, cutting off my escape route and forcing me to stop short. From behind, another agent, a pretty, dark-haired young woman, came bearing down on me with long strides. What she apparently lacked in length and strength, she more than made up for in her expression of deadly determination, and it took me all of three seconds, looking frantically from one to the other, to realize that I was not going to get past either of them.

So I took my only other option: the wall.

For one horrifying moment my foot got stuck in the top of the picket fence, but then I was over and away over the backyards, scrambling as fast as I could over fences and bushes and through flower beddings and rubbish heaps. The agents had gained on me in the lane, and I could hear the man swearing periodically behind me. It was no fun trying to run full speed while constantly tripping over other people's rubbish, and I felt a weird sense of comradeship with the guy. I would have sworn, too, had I any breathe to spare.

It was a relief when, finally, as I leaped yet another fence, my boots connected with wild grass and I saw trees ahead. I was through the neighbourhood and almost in the woods.

Twenty yards, three breaths, one last push, and I'll have the advantage.

It was then, with freedom so near, that an abrupt halt was brought to my escape.

Out of nowhere, two arms closed around my legs and we smashed to the ground, the owner of the arms on top of me.

Now, I grew up on a cattle farm in a rough-and-tumble family with an ex-Marine as a dad. The youngest of five brothers, I've had more than my share of been tackled, kicked and trampled on. Cattle have pushed me and horses have kicked me. Numerous things had fallen on me, like the roof of a cave and a stone wall. But never, in all my life, did anybody or anything fall as hard on me as that man did.

It wasn't that he was that heavy. He was just as hard and unyielding as a slab of steel, and as he crashed me to the ground, he knocked every bit of breath, resistance and also some blood out of me.

For a couple of seconds, the world was playing merry-go-round and my ears sang like the dickens.

I was faintly aware that the man had his knee on my back and was unhurriedly strapping handcuffs to my wrists. A mop of white hair floated by at the outer range of my vision as he felt around my waist for weapons. Then, as the other three agents climbed over the last fence and came walking up, he pulled me to my feet and quickly finished patting me down.

I stood swaying. My head was spinning, and my chest and back hurt like hell. Blood poured from my nose, over my mouth, soaking my T-shirt.

"I should have surrendered," I mumbled, mostly to myself.

A soft, "yeah," floated past my right ear, quietly sarcastic.