He was about to reply to the woman's call when something whizzed by his head on the beach with an accompanying stacatto roar-- someone was shooting at him, and that made his adrenaline surge.

In London in 2012, he could have medaled in the decathlon (two other Americans did) but for bad luck. A missed hurdle put him out. The gunshot woke up a reaction he didn't think he still had, and so when he heard it, he started running, faster than greased lightning and certainly faster than the typical person, even when being shot at. The dude lit out of there for the supposed safety of the woman's voice calling for him and, barefoot, right into the plantlife, the underbrush, where he proceeded to crawl along, handfulls of mud, realizing that he was being hunted by someone. It was just blind luck, really, that he was near the woman that yelled to him in the first place, but he didn't want to call out. His heartbeat thundered in his ears and he tried to bring his breathing under control, knowing that the guy who shot at him was still out there.

He was scratched here and there from bare-skinned contact with the underbrush, but that beat being dead, just as he belatedly realized that he ran barefoot along whatever terrain he saw fit, and something scraped the bottom of his feet. But there was no real point crying about it, because all his stuff was on some beach somewhere and the guys that were shooting at him were between him and his stuff.

"What the fuck do these guys want with me?" he muttered. They seemed intent on catching him, which wasn't good news. He glanced around, frantically, trying to find the woman that called to him...