There were doors along the walls of the alley but Malcolm, though tempted, stopped at none of them. His best chance of escape was to keep a lead over his pursuers. He could not hear anyone behind him; however, he had no doubt they were closing in, and there would be many. The walls were tall and if men came from the front and the rear of the alley's openings, he would be trapped. He had to make it to the other side and out of the opening. He slowed down several steps from the opening and hugged up to the wall inches from the corner of the building. If there was anyone visible at the left or the right, anyone who might catch sight of him, he would have to turn and find another solution. He peeked to the left and to the right, and there was no one. He began to step out and heard voices, "Have you checked this alley?" "No, not yet. I checked that one there." "Let's take this one."

Malcolm ducked back into the alley. He knew currently he was showing like a swollen thumb. There was a group of tin garbage cans in the direction from which he had come. He made haste to the cans and quietly shuffled them around so that he was hidden behind them. He was squatted down, heaving. He couldn't catch his breath. If the agents walked by the cans, they may not see him, but they would hear him.

The agent's feet shuffled loudly, and the noise echoed down the alley. Malcolm closed his eyes and concentrated on damping the volume of his beathing. He covered his nose and mouth with the collar of his shirt. The grinding sound of the footsteps was getting closer. There was a voice, "Come this way." Malcolm tightened his eyes, and the voice called again, repeating, "Come this way," except now it was in the German language. Malcolm opened his eyes; he was a young soldier with his rifle sighted on the German trooper below on the open road. His arms trembled and he pulled the gun from the window and turned to sit below the window, his rifle cradled in his arms. He heard the trooper say from below, "What was that up there?" Another German trooper asked, "Where? From where?" The first trooper said, "Up there, in that attic window. I saw movement."

Malcolm was not alone in the dark attic. His wounded companion, Colby, was there with him. Colby sat in the adjacent corner clutching his arm; the sleeve was wet soaked in blood. Colby whispered, "Malcolm, what are you doing?"

Malcom whispered in a snippy tone, "I can't do it anymore. I can't kill anymore," as if it were all Colby's fault for prying.

Colby was stressed by this answer, "What are you talking about? Do you know what they'll do if they find us?"

"I don't care. I can't do it anymore. It's complicated."

Colby leaned forward and hissed, "For Heaven's sake man. It's your job. It's your duty."

The two had nothing else to say. The silence was unnerving; cold white clouds puffed from their lips. In only several moments time the trooper could be heard again, this time yelling, "Hey, you up there. You're surrounded. There's at least twenty of us down here. We know you're up there."

The two companions of the attic sat very still. Colby's eyes bulged with great contempt on his friend. From the road below there was a series of clicking noises and the room exploded with the sound of guns firing and the popping of bullets against the outside wall, the inside walls and the edges of the window casing. Splinters of wood whizzed by Malcolm's head. He dropped to the floor on his belly.

Back in the alley Malcolm came out of the vivid memory of he and Colby. He could only see the backside of the garbage tins. The sound of agent's feet shuffled away. Apparently, they had walked only partway into the alley and were satisfied that they saw nothing. Malcolm carefully raised his head, eyes just over the top of the tins, and there was no one in the alley. Malcolm chuckled nervously. A steel ladder hung down in the alley, a fire escape, and it led up to a high open window in the second story of the brick wall. It was on the opposite side of the alley, not close, yet not impossibly far either. If he could make it there, if he could climb it, if he could do so quietly, he could wait, hidden, until the heat had died down in this area. After that, he could move out, on the run.

He did make it to the ladder. He did climb it. He did so quietly. He stepped over into the open window, easing into the tight casing with his backpack and the leather briefcase. He should have paid more attention the windowsill. A lone, empty, cheap glass vase, no taller than a drinking glass, was on the sill to its corner. It was only a wild guess as to how long this vase had sat there. Maybe days or weeks, perhaps even years. It was no matter how long it had been there; today was its last day. The briefcase grazed the vase, and it tipped off the sill to the outside, over the fire escape, and crashed and tinkled down every rung of the ladder. It was a high-pitched tinkle and it shouted and echoed down the alley in both directions.

Malcolm moved faster and sat below the window on the inside, much in the same way he had sat under that cold attic window with Colby. The room was dark; however, he could see a door across the room some twenty feet away. It was imperative that he make it to that door. He leaned over to crawl but stopped and sat back against the wall when he heard an agent from the alley below, "Merriweather, we know you're up there." The agent stood over the shattered vase and calmly said to the other agent with him, "Call for backup."

Malcolm could hear more feet shuffling into the alley, many more feet. He closed his eyes and laid his head back against the wall. The voice called from below again, "There's no way out, Merriweather. Come down and surrender."

Andy and Barney heard the agent calling from the alley. Barney said, "They found him."

Andy tapped Barney on the chest and said, "Come on."

Andy led the way in the opposite direction. Barney said, "Andy, that's the wrong way."

Andy said, "No, we're going around the front side. They won't see us."

Barney nodded and followed.

Malcolm clutched the briefcase to his chest and whispered, "This is it, Malcolm. You're finished lad." He tossed the briefcase away from him and pressed his palms on the floor, "I've lost. It's over."

The agent called again, "Merriweather, your time is up."

Wheeler, the man in the glasses, said into the agent's ear, "Light it up. Shoot to kill." Wheeler turned and walked away.

The agent held his right hand up in a fist. The ten agents behind him raised their rifles and opened fire.

It was the same hell that Malcolm had lived through so many years back. The bullets cracked and popped all around, the windowsill sprayed splinters into the air, peppering Malcolm. He instinctively fell to his belly, his hands covering the back of his head. A hand touched his elbow, and he looked up from the floor. It was Colby gently gripping his elbow. Colby said, "Chin up, mate. Chin up. It's okay." Colby managed a compassionate smile, one that said we may die right here and now, but I'd rather die with you than die alone. "Chin up, soldier." Colby laughed a bit, "Funny thing. There will be a tomorrow. And I should be happy to see it."

Malcolm grabbed the leather briefcase and pulled it to him. Colby was no longer with him, or he was no longer trapped in a memory, he could not say which was true. Efficiently, he put the rifle together and loaded in the clip. He waited, and the rattle of bullets and gunfire stopped. They had to reload. Malcolm took a deep breath, "Corporal Malcolm Merriweather at your service."

Malcolm raised the rifle to the windowsill and popped shots off, moving the end of the barrel, his eye never leaving the scope. He stopped firing and tuned back to his seated position below the window. There was no more firing from outside. What came from below in the alley was the sound of cries and moans. Each agent laid on the alley floor clutching the same right arm in the same area, the upper arm at the bicep. They had each been shot in the same location in the amazing time span of eight seconds. Malcolm began to disassemble the rifle, "Perfect one for one ratio Merriweather."

"What did you do?" someone squealed. Malcolm looked up with fright, his eyes wide and his mouth dropped. It was Barney standing at the open doorway across the room. Barney continued, "Did you kill them?"

Malcolm shook his head and smiled, "No. Only wounded. They'll all live." Malcolm stood and began to move in for an embrace, his arms out in front of him, his smile even larger than it had been, "Barney Fife. I am so glad to see you."

Three shots rang out and Malcolm's abdomen flashed with smoke and blood. The smile had flipped into a bizarre twist. His mouth was pulled back and his eyes strangely squinted like he may have found his lover in bed with another, perhaps his best friend. Behind a puzzled Barney stood the man with the glasses holding a smoking pistol pointed at Malcolm. He had slipped in behind Barney without Barney's knowledge. Merriweather had never seen Wheeler; he had been too distracted by joy. Malcolm fell backward pressing his hands over the wounds.

Barney turned to Wheeler, "You shot him!" Barney quaked nervously.

Wheeler said, "Good job, Deputy. We got our man." Wheeler moved and stood over Malcolm. He looked down into Merriweather's eyes and removed his dark sunglasses, his gray eyes almost matched his suit. He said nothing to Malcolm; he only watched the man gurgle and spew blood from his lips.

Barney said, "I thought you were handing him over to us."

Wheeler straddled over Malcolm, standing and facing Barney, "Would you say he was about here?"

Barney continued, "I thought we had an agree... what?"

Wheeler asked again, "Here. Would you say Merriweather was here?"

Barney said, "Sure, I guess. Why?"

Wheeler pulled a second pistol from his pocket and shot Barney squarely in the chest. Barney fell to his back, his eyes shut.

Wheeler wiped the pistol with a handkerchief and placed the gun in Malcolm's right hand, "You are right-handed as I recall," he said as he closed Malcolm's hand around the gun. Malcolm coughed and spewed blood, shaking with the cold of death, which was much colder than the attic of a wintertime war. Wheeler gently patted Malcolm's shoulder, "Hell of some good shooting, Corporal. You may be the best I have ever seen. I knew we had tasked the right man."

Wheeler strolled to the doorway from where he had shot Malcolm and heard footsteps rushing his way. Andy dashed into the room, instantly saw the two bodies on the floor and knelt down by Barney placing two fingers on his Deputy's jugular. Andy searched desperately for a pulse as Merriweather passed into death with a final defiant choke of blood.

Wheeler said, "If only I had gotten here a second earlier, I could have saved your Deputy."

Andy, one brow raised in disbelief so deep that he felt as if he had tumbled from the edge of the Earth into an endless black void, said, "Call for an ambulance now."

That evening, as the sun had begun to sink into twilight, many of the citizens of Mayberry stood outside the courthouse holding lit candles. Through that crowd, Wheeler, sunglasses on despite the encroaching darkness, pushed his way through the crowd and entered the courthouse. Andy sat alone; hands clasped on his desktop, his eyes staring miles away.

Wheeler said, "I'm sorry about your Deputy, Sheriff. That's quite a crowd outside; he must have been a good man."

Andy said, "He was the best."

Wheeler said nothing in return, only nodded to affirm the Sheriff's words, and left the courthouse back into the crowd. He stayed on the sidewalk along the storefronts. A person moved from the crowd and stepped in front of him, stopping his stride. It was Earnest T. holding a candle of his own. With a very sadly turned down mouth and eyes suffering from pain, Earnest said, "It sure was a shame about the little fella' wasn't it?"

Wheeler asked, "You will tell the Dark Lord everything I have achieved here today. I want full credit."

Earnest T. said, "Don't worry. You will be well rewarded."

Again, Wheeler gave only a nod to affirm the words and stepped by Earnest T., continuing his exit of the town. Earnest watched him walk away. Earnest looked up at the barber's pole by his head. He walked into the barber shop and found Floyd seated in his barber's chair; a news announcer's voice came from the radio, "The world may have never seen or ever will see a turn out like this again. Thousands if not millions have shown up in the center of Kisnu to mourn the death of Prince Shahi. It is deep into the night there, and the crowd is still silent and vigilant in this candle lit gathering. The prince was clearly loved more than the world had known. Tensions between Kisnu and Terhati has escalated to an almost explosive level. The United Nations..."

Floyd switched the radio off. He folded his hands in his lap and said to Earnest, "It's forbidden to do anything like this directly."

Earnest stepped back in shock, "I broke no rules. I only nudged."

"And Barney?"

"Yeah," Earnest sucked on tongue, "I didn't know that was going to happen. But a fortunate turn of events for me." The silence between the two was thick and heavy, Earnest continued, "So, things are in motion now. A gathering of mourning in Mayberry, and one on the other side of the world. That's something to reflect upon," Earnest said, and a most sinister and thin-lipped smile stretched slowly across face. If a forked tongue had slipped from those lips and flicked, Floyd would not have been surprised.

Earnest slung a lazy salute from his dingy ballcap and left the barbershop. Floyd tried to turn his chin up, but could not.