He struggled to his feet as his brain attempted to assess his situation. A body bearing twin bullet wounds to the back of the head lay at his feet. In his right hand he cradled a gun. Where had it come from? Was it the murder weapon? Was he the executioner? Confusion overwhelmed him. His memory was blank, he remembered nothing. Not even his name.

A closer look at the victim triggered no recollection, the man was a stranger. A glance through a window worsened his anxiety. Where was he, he had no idea. He saw no point of recognition. A herd of Holsteins grazed in a distant field while the nearest house sat on the opposite side of the road a quarter mile away. Three children played in the yard behind the house.

A siren interrupted his thinking. The increasing volume suggested a rapid approach. The siren-blaring vehicles were now in view. Had he left it too late to flee? He watched the children, interest in their game had subsided; curiosity was now in control as they ran towards the road to investigate the source of the sound.

Instinct assumed control. Fear surrendered to a calculated reasoning, running wasn't an option, he had nowhere to go. Apprehension offered even less appeal. Without knowing why, he checked the pockets of the victim, he found a phone and a wallet. He took both. Thoughts of surrender yielded to reality on identifying his pursuers. They weren't police; their cars carried the insignia of Homeland Security. It wasn't a name he knew. Some deep-seated fear warned him to run.

The back door was bolted, from the outside. Conversely, escape via the front door was now impossible. Marksmen had assumed positions on either side of the gate with rifles aimed at the front door. Another half dozen operatives leapt the fence and ran to positions on both sides of the house. He was surrounded.

One option remained; the rear window and a hundred yard dash to the large barn that housed the cattle throughout the frozen winters. Did he have time to make the barn? Or would he become target practice for the squad of snipers? He kicked out the glass, crawled through and ran as never before.

Once inside the huge wooden structure he searched for some form of hiding place. The open design, it consisted of four walls and a roof, offered no concealment. Had he painted himself into an inescapable corner? There was nowhere to hide and only one point of exit. It was just a matter of time. Should he reconsider and hand himself in?

The sound of gunfire quelled all thought of surrender. The pursuers were taking no risks as they launched a fusillade of bullets into the house. The aggressive action suggested a live prisoner wasn't a priority. This was a deliberate and premeditated attack and he was the target. Why? What had he done? One thing became obvious; the barn would become the next point of attack.

A second burst of sirens rose above the gunfire. Reinforcements were on the way. How many pursuers were required to apprehend a lone unarmed killer. A brief examination of the weapon eased his conscience; he wasn't the killer. The gun contained no ammunition, nor had it been discharged recently. His skill in dissembling and reassembling the weapon surprised him, as did the ability to determine its usage. Where had this knowledge come from?

Next he sought some explanation for his presence at the scene. He didn't know the victim, nor could he pinpoint the location. Nothing made sense. And, if he hadn't been responsible for the murder, why had he been set up?

If only he could remember something about yesterday. Where had he been? Who had he been with? What had he been doing? His memory remained a vacuum.
In an attempt to rationalize further he searched the pockets of the clothes he wore. He found a wallet containing a number of credit cards, all in different names, a Montana driver's licence in yet another name, forty dollars in cash and a cell phone. He was none the wiser. One point troubled above all others. Who was this Homeland Security? Were they another CIA-like Government Agency? Was he a spy, or a traitor? What had he done?

The licence bore the name Calin Roberts and it listed an address in Billings. Was it paranoia or realistic to question everything? Was the cell phone tagged to identify his whereabouts if and when used? He had similar suspicions with the credit cards and driver's licence. Was one of the identities genuine? He had no way of knowing.

He weighed his options. A sense of futility swept over him. There was no escape, nowhere to go and no one to turn too. A man with no memory had neither family nor friends. Nor any point of reference on which to plan a workable or effective response.

In the absence of alternatives, he chose to accept the identity Calin Roberts. So what did he know about Roberts? He endeavoured to analyse the few facts he knew. One, he was a fugitive, a military fugitive. Two, he possessed knowledge of firearms. Three, an order to terminate him had been issued. The term 'terminate' struck a familiar chord.

He closed his eyes and attempted to draw some conclusions from these three facts. It was an authorised execution, plain and simple. Why? Was it something he'd done, or something he knew? He sensed the latter. All contemplation halted on hearing the gunfire cease. He knew what to expect, the barn door would be thrown open and they would come in blasting.

There was nowhere to run. He hoped death would come quickly. Within seconds, the truth became obvious. A deafening explosion preceded a massive shock wave. Guns had given way to a mortar attack. The detonation lifted him off his feet. It triggered a visible trembling of both the earth floor and structure. The barn walls and roof convulsed from the effects of the blast. He watched in horror as large sections of the tin roof peeled from its beams in an earthquake like response. The thick timbers groaned like an arthritic man struggling out of bed, a total cave-in appeared imminent.

Without knowing why, he scrambled on hands and knees towards the feed bins attached to the barn wall. Situated several feet above the floor the space beneath them would, he hoped, provide some protection in the event of the collapsing of walls or roof. Ten seconds later he watched the wall opposite crumble. In a domino like effect, the remaining walls completed the barn's destruction.

He was engulfed by dust as a dense cloud rose from the floor. Breathing became impossible. Every inhalation contained far more dirt than fresh air. His throat constricted from the lack of oxygen. Was suffocation preferable to execution by bullet? Soon he would know. He lost consciousness.