A thick black head bag was pulled from over Malcolm Merriweather's head. The light in the room was dim, yet compared to the stark pitch black inside the hood Malcolm found himself blinded, and finding focus was difficult at first. He blinked, searching the room, his upper lip curled while he squinted. His heart raced; he wiggled his cuffed hands behind his back; the chair he sat in was incredibly cold and hard. Across a shiny metal table, a man wearing a perfectly pressed gray suit and a dark pair of shaded eye glasses also sat in a chair of similar make.

The dark glasses man spoke, "Malcolm Merriweather, World War Two British sharpshooter, one of the best from what I've read. You had quite an outstanding kill ratio."

Malcolm was beginning to squint less, "What is all of this? Who are you?"

The dark glasses man ignored the questions, "You once sniped ten Nazi's with a single bolt action three oh three. You did this in record time as well. Quite an acheivement."

"It was war," Malcolm said. "I did my part for Queen and Country."

The dark glasses man sat back in his chair, "You are being re-activated."

"Re-activated?" Malcolm snorted. "There is no such thing. What's your credentials? Secret Service? Royal Guard?"

"No, I work for an organization that those services answer to. You could say we are a deeper level."

"Rubish. I think you're full of bloody rubish. You sound American."

"Yes. We also orchestrate missions carried out by the American elite military and government branches."

Malcom raised a single brow and said, "There is no such thing. Now uncuff me and please..."

"We have an assignment for you. We need someone with your special skills, and you fit our profile perfectly."

"I took an oathe after the war. I live a humble life now, and I've recanted for all the sins I committed in the name of war. I'm done. Find someone else."

Dark glasses man clasped his hands on the cold metal table top, "They know, and dare I say, even welcome you in Mayberry. You are very familiar with the layout of the town. You are the candidate that best fits within our tight timeline."

"Mayberry? Those are my friends. I'm not killing or sniping anyone... ANYONE... least of all someone in Mayberry."

Dark glasses man slid a photo across the table. Malcolm looked at it and said, "I don't know that person."

"Exactly, so you won't be targeting anyone who lives in Mayberry, only someone passing through."

"Mayberry? Why Mayberry?"

"Sometimes," dark glasses man slid the photo back to himself and removed it from the table, "the where is just as important as the who."

Malcolm sat back in his chair and said in a most relaxed posture, "I'm sorry. I decline. You can't make me do this. I'll never kill again. There's no amount of money or threats you could use to make me take another life."

Dark glasses man was silent for several moments, "This is your final answer?"

Malcolm's voice quivered a tiny bit, "Yes. I'm afraid so."

Dark glasses man raised his arm and held two fingers up as a signal and said, "Then I am sorry we have wasted your time here, Corporal Merriweather. I'll give your regards to the Lovat Scouts." As signaled, the metal door behind dark glasses man made a loud series of clanks as it was unlocked and opened. Another gray suited man stood just outside the entrance, "You'll be returned home now."

Dark glasses man stood and turned his back to Malcolm, who asked in a shrill voice, "That's it? This was complete rubish."

The second gray suited man held the black cloth sack over Malcolm's head and said, "Beg your pardon, Corporal. Anonymity is a chief goal here."

Malcolm nodded, "Not a surprise."

The black sack again was pulled down over Malcolm's head.

Malcolm packed his light travel bag as he spoke to himself, "...shaving lotion, hair brush... I think that's everything." He looked into the mirror on the vanity in his bedroom, "Remember soldier, he who shoots and runs away, lives to shoot another day." He zipped his bag and set it by the door. He made a call on the phone, "What time does your bus leave for Englefield? Yes I know that's in Birkshire, I don't care how expensive the ticket is... Thank you."

He hung the phone up and made another call, "Hello mum? Yes, yes, it's your laddie. Mum, I will be traveling out of town for a while. Well I don't know how long. No, mum, nothing is the matter. I have the urge to go traveling. I already have permission from my employer. Yes mum. Well I plan to be staying at some places that may not have a phone. Yes. That's right. But if I do stay where there is a phone, don't worry, I will call you. I'm fine, mum, really. Okay, I will, love you too."

Malcolm looked back at the mirror, "Malcolm Merriweather, you've lied to your mother. Aren't you ashamed?" He then walked to his bag, "Not this time."

It was dreary at the bus stop, but Malcolm was bundled up best he could be. He watched up the street with two other patrons. Finally the bus showed and he boarded. He sat by a younger man as they rode out of the city, the young man asked Malcolm, "Where you headed?"

Malcom smiled, "Just a vacation. You?"

The young man answered, "Not me. I've a need to leave this place. Too much trouble."

Malcolm nodded, "I see. Leaving family behind?"

"It's for their own good," said the young man. "Trouble seems to follow me everywhere."

Malcolm nodded once more, "Sometimes it is best. Sometimes you do have to run from it all."

"Ace for someone to finally understand."

"You have no idea."

The motel room Malcolm entered was none as nice as his own apartment, but he expected that. He tossed his bag to the foot of the bed and flopped down on it. He gave a heavy blow, "Malcolm old boy, you are entirely too old for this sort of excitement." He rolled over on his side, "So tired. Not going to sleep... just rest my eyes."

Overhead two planes roared as a thundering explosion rattled dust over the head of a much younger Malcolm Merriweather. He was suited for combat and hidden away up high seated on the floor beside a window. From below, a sound he knew all to well, a tank roared closer and closer. Malcolm peeked from the lower windowsill, the pane had long been shattered. He could barely make out what was happening, the tank was but a speck. He quickly perched the rifle on the window and looked through the scope. It was a German tank, and in the lead of it a small squad of German soldiers. Malcolm made a head count, "One two three... five... eight... ten. Ten in all. Looks like they are coming this way. The tank is trouble, though."

The tank turned left and the soldiers continued forward. "I don't believe it," he muttered. "They're in range, but still too far out."

Malcolm bit his upper lip, "This is my job. This is my duty."

He tightly closed his eyes and opened them again; he placed his shoulder against the butt of the rifle. Softly, he said, "For the Queen." The young soldier, the trained sniper, Malcolm Merriweather, fired, pulled the bolt, the shell popped out, and he did this ten consecutive times, each shot in less than a second apart. The firing happened so quickly that Malcolm wasn't sure if he had hit a single advancing soldier. He pulled the scope back to his eye, and all ten of them laid motionless on the ground. At least it appeared that all ten were motionless. One soldier, laying on his back, grabbed his neck. Malcolm could make out some detail. The soldier was very young, there was blood spraying from his neck, and his chest heaved in the way that only a person who is sobbing could heave. Malcolm went back to the dying soldier's face. It was obvious the face was twisted with anguish, and though on that day Malcolm could not make out a detail as fine as tears, his imagination assured him could, and did.

Malcolm then awoke screaming, "I'm sorry." His face and head were soaked with sweat. Feeling dizzy, it took him a few moments to orient the fact that he was in a motel room in Englefield. He slowly stood and felt very flush, he went to restroom and splashed cold water on his face. Malcolm smiled for once, but that smile flipped instantly when he looked into the mirror again and found a note taped to the top right corner. There was but a single word on the paper: 'Closet.'

His head spun from left to right, back over his shoulder, he turned and scanned the room. There was no one in the corner by the window, no one by the bed, the door was still locked tight from the inside. He took the note down and studied it, then asked himself, "House keeping?" He shook his head, then he shouted, "Who's in here? Show yourself." There was no sound. Malcolm read the note once more and took the plunger by the toilet. He braced it in two hands as though it were a heavy axe that could slice a person in half. Just outside the closet door he called out, "Alright, whoever is in there. I have a weapon and I will bash you." He reaced for the closet handle with a slow hand, a grimace on his face as though he expected the handle to be red hot. The closet door clicked as he turned the handle downward, he then yanked the door quickly, took a step back and raised his plunger weapon, the door had swung fully open, and he screamed like a barbarian storming the enemy gates.

The man laying on the closet floor was of no physical threat. A clear plastic bag had been placed over his head and duct taped tightly around his neck. His eyes were open and buldging, his mouth too was wide open, a last testiment to his final struggle for oxygen. Malcolm droped his plunger and stepped back two paces, the dead man on the floor seemed to be pinching away in his vision. This is when the phone rang and Malcolm's heart lept so violently he felt as though his entire body had dropped several feet. He placed the phone to his ear, and unfortunately he recognized the voice on the other end.

It was the dark glasses man, "Hello Mr. Merriweather. I feel I owe you some explaination as to why there is corpse inside the closet. This is... was a man who just like you decided to walk away from our request. He made a choice, and we honored his choice by doing what we had to. I don't want to see you stumble into the same fate as this poor bastard; I feel it is only fair to demonstrate to you the end result of your choice." Malcolm's mouth was completely dry, he said nothing. The dark glasses man continued, "Beneath your bed is a sizable leather briefcase. It contains everything you will need to complete this job. Please don't try to run and hide again. I think we have displayed that to be quite futile. Finish the job, Corporal Merriweather, and you are free to go back to your quiet life and we will never contact you again. I am a man of my word." There was a click, and then a dial tone from the phone.

Malcolm laid the receiver down by the phone and checked beneath the bed. He pulled the leather case from beneath and placed it on the bed. It was somewhat heavy. He had a very good notion as to what he would find inside, and he was correct. Inside was a disassembled three oh three rifle, the same make and model that he had used in the military; a nine millimeter pistol, several clips of amunition for both; a round trip airways ticket to the United States; and the photo of his target. In the upper corner of the case he saw a small notepad that he could only assume to be detailed instructions, and beneath that a passport.

Malcolm closed the case and stared past the bed, out the window, into the distance.