[i]'Son of a... '[/i]

In the movies, the 'cop' in the chase was always supposed to shout something nice and useful, like "STOP!" or "POLICE!" But at least the 'cop,' always cool, calm and collected, knew better than to just stand there expecting the guy to actually do what he was supposed to do and like, you know, not run. 

Needless to say, the 'bad guy' of course has some karmic obligation to ignore the cop, and just keep running anyway. 

For the first time in her life, Bree had never been so spectacularly grateful she didn't have a partner with her. He was behind her - right behind her!. Strolling up the walk to the porch absently, it was the soft, distinctive sound of shoes on pavement that said someone was behind her. "Tom" hadn't answered her knock, and she could only assume the poor sod might be coming home from work to a hell of a surprise on his porch.

And when she turned maybe, just maybe, a small surprised squeak escaped her, and she might have jumped in surprise, wide-eyed and mouth gaping like some naif walking into a most unwelcome surprise party. His eyes were closed as he walked - why, she couldn't begin to guess. But that uncanny something hung about him like some invisible pall, that same inexplicable mystery that drew her gaze in the first place, a month ago on the floor of a makeshift casino.

No more than an arm's length away. All she'd have to do was reach out now, tap his shoulder. And as if it had a mind of its own, her arm stretched to do just that, fingers shaking with anticipation or exhilaration or abject fear she couldn't have said. A frisson of sudden pain shot through her heart over the bullet hole and the surgery scars, and she winced, gasping softly as those once-shaking fingers clutched at her chest.

The instant their gazes locked, Bree read the intent in those matchless eyes. He was going to run, and words wouldn't stop him, so Bree didn't waste the breath.

She dashed after him, her body knowing instinctively to keep these strides long, steady and even as the pain in her chest subsided with every long, rhythmic inhalation of breath. The precious, rare Pacific northwest sun overhead warmed her almost comfortably, and Bree fell instinctively into the unrelenting pace of a practiced distance runner. He could run all he liked, the green-eyed man. Bree had run the Marine Corps Marathon in Quantico every year for the past seven years, improving her time with every event. 

Unless he really could walk on water, her green-eyed man wasn't going far - or at the very least, not nearly so far as she could go.