Chapter Fourteen: The Shepherds' Graveyard
The Rokon-AB23 hummed between Feale's legs with its steady, thundering rhythm. The ground beneath her was eaten away at a ferocious pace as the 2 x 2 motorbike paced itself up the fifty-degree incline like an automated mountain goat. It was amazing to her how sixty kilometres an hour may seem like crawling on an open road, but when driving up a mountain, dodging trees and rock outcroppings, it was a blur of obstacles.
She'd "borrowed" the bike from Marc-Ange's stores beneath the church once she realised the Corsican had no intention of taking a woman along on his little raiding party, much less a woman whose allegiances were suddenly in question. Bond had been right about Draco not seeking retribution against her, or if it was to happen, the old man had been in too much shock initially, and her punishment was to be slow in coming.
Part of her prayed (for prayer was still a vital and important part of her life; they'd taught them more than just combat at St. Pete's) that Bond would come back down the mountain with Donn's blood on his hands. Certainly she wanted her own vengeance, but it would have saved her heart some wear if the Englishman were sound and unharmed. But through each hour of the evening that had passed, a night without sleep for her, it became more and more obvious her initial fears would be correct. She had tried to explain to the thick-headed bastard going back for Che Che may have seemed like the gallant thing to do, but it was also exactly what Donn would anticipate him doing. Donn was a master at kill boxes, it had always been his bread and butter. He was always three moves ahead of his quarry, luring them in, then sealing the trap. Just as he'd known there would be a rescue party sent from the village, and with or without Marc-Ange, there would be a minefield awaiting them. Just as she was sure there were contingency plans for her own betrayal.
She dodged between several trees, and was once again impressed with the sturdy, thick-tyred bike. The deep cleats dug into undergrowth like teeth, and her ascent continued unabated. It used a Kohler engine and drove more like a tractor than a motorcycle. The AB23 was even able to float across streams when its tyres were properly inflated, tyres also designed to be used for spare petrol storage, giving the machine a 650-kilometre range. Its heavy, but compact frame, allowed it to cut through dense, jungle like conditions, and also gave it an unmatched ability to drive straight up sharp inclines. The later trait assured her a quick arrival at Donn's base camp. She had a thin lead to maintain. She'd left after Draco's men, even watched through field glasses as they'd met with the Brits who'd arrived so dramatically in their helicopters, but she would get to Donn long before their vehicles were even the mummers of distant engines. Peter had kept quiet about his plans for Bond, but she was quite certain he wasn't going to kill him outright. He would toy with him like a cat, wringing out every drop of physical and emotional agony, before devouring him.
She was covered in her own sweat, and the grime of the maquis thrown up from the floor of the forest, and lashed upon her from the passing fronds and trees. Feale had no plan of her own, just a desperate need to save the cold, but handsome, Englishman, and feed her own ravenous desire for retribution. She only hoped there would be enough of Bond left to save.
* * *
The dog was back, lathering his wrists from behind with renewed, almost urgent, tenacity. This time, however, there was no drugged haze to obscure his thoughts, and James Bond was well aware there were no dogs about.
Consciousness flowed back quickly this time, and without the drugs to interfere, he was able to grasp it and hold on tightly. He was surprised at how little pain there actually was; if anything there was just a burning numbness coming from his groin area, one that spoke loudly of the agony to come, but for now was a dull roar. He could feel the stickiness coating his legs, and between his bare hindquarters and the seat of the chair, so he knew there had been quite a bit of blood loss, but he'd certainly known worse. He tested wiggling his toes, and he could feel that the dirt floor beneath his feet was also muddied with his various humours. Bond didn't preoccupy his mind with the injuries, survival wasn't a concern of his, and it never was. Thoughts of self-preservation just got in the way of him completing assignments, and his priority right now was making sure Donn didn't get his satisfaction. Or, at least, any more satisfaction.
James Bond used his ears to check the room before opening his eyes. After a few minutes of silence, aside from the shuffling sounds coming from behind him and the buzzing of hungry flies gorging themselves, he was satisfied Donn and Troy had retreated from the hovel. The place probably smelled strongly of their ministrations now, and even sadistic bastards can get disgusted by smelling things meant to be left on the insides of bodies.
When he allowed his eyes to creep open, he was careful to avoid looking down to survey the damage. It had been his experience that avoiding the sight of an injury could help one temporarily over come it. He had witnessed a football match once while on assignment in Brazil. A star forward had broken his leg, and still continued to play throughout the heat of battle, even scoring the winning goal in overtime. He tore his ligaments and muscles to shreds, and after the game, learned he would never walk normally again, much less play football.
Instead, Bond braced his eyes against the faint light bleeding through the open doorway of the stone hut, and glanced backwards to affirm that his imaginary dog friend was just that.
James Bond was greeted by what might have once been a human face, but was now a swollen purple and red visage that leaked blood from every orifice and looked back at him with eyes drowned in red. The thing attempted to smile through what must have been ghastly pain, and then went back to its business of gnawing at the ropes binding Bond's hands from behind.
"Che Che?" Bond whispered, wondering how far his captors had wandered from their charge. The answer was most likely not far. He'd garnered the idea earlier from Donn's preaching that once Bond had regained his composure and consciousness, they planned on putting on a little show for him using Che Che's battered body as a canvas.
The giant nodded, but then ran air through his cracked lips in a shushing sound, adding credence to Bond's thoughts.
Bond now flexed his wrists to aid the doctor in loosening the ties. As the knots became slacker, he found he could turn more easily in the chair, providing two unfortunate results. The first was the pain from his crotch, which had been bathed in numbness, but now became a more defined thing as fresh blood was pumped from the disturbed wounds and an angry cloud of flies took flight. The second was the ability to take a better inventory of Che Che's own wounds. The man was sprawled on the ground behind the chair, and Bond could make out the trail of blood moving back and forth from his body's resting place in the corner of the shepherd's shelter. He'd been taking a horrible chance to free Bond, leaving a trail that noticeable, but in all honesty, there wasn't much more Donn could do to the man other than to kill him. With the way Che Che was propped up awkwardly on his elbows with his legs sprawled out behind him, he resembled a grotesque, beached seal. Bond could tell each of his arms and legs were broken, some in multiple spots. His right leg was so drastically shattered the bones protruded beneath the skin like the outline of a corpse beneath a sheet. His fingers were also gnarled and crushed, useless to the point that he had to resort to chewing at the ties holding Bond.
They struggled there in the shaded darkness, for what seemed an eternity, a time so long that a glimmer could begin to fester itself in a wounded man's mind that perhaps his attackers had gone, left the two of them to bleed to death in solitude. But as Bond started to feel his restraints becoming more and more loose, he began to dig within himself for that old, bottomless reserve of perseverance, and in doing so, began to hope that Donn and Julian hadn't left. One way or another, this was going to finish.
* * *
Julian Troy took a few more drags off of the cigarette he'd fleeced from the Brit, after all, he wouldn't need them much longer. They were foul, dark things, bitter and full of bite, but he had to admit, they also carried a nicotine kick that left him shaking his head for clarity.
He'd been leaning against the rear wall of the shepherd's hut, as if he were once again the Catholic schoolboy, hiding from the nuns, while catching a quick puff of the forbidden fruit. Maybe there was something to the old guilt cliché, he decided. But instead of being some princess hung up on sex, he was an assassin hung up on the moral ramifications of smoking.
Julian harboured no fears of smoking; it's not as if Donn would care. But if he were caught abandoning his post, the ever-constant vigil of Mr. James Bond, there would be hell to pay. In all honesty to himself, however, he couldn't stand being in there…in the death room. He'd seen enough torture in his days, (working with Donn since they'd been teenagers, first with the IRA, and then on freelance jobs to help foot the bills, it was unavoidable) but it didn't get his rocks off like it did for Peter. That is, if Peter had still had rocks to get off. The killing he could live with, but pulling the wings off of flies had never been his game. Just the smell of the place, with the blood, and urine, and faeces, was enough to drive him out into the clean mountain air.
Right now, the crazy bastard was out there playing with his mines. As gunmen, neither of them had much experience with the things, and Donn was having a hard time living up to his own perfectionist standards in their concealment. It would be a shame if he blew all that pretty surgery to Kingdom Come fiddling with one of the damn things.
Julian had always prided himself on his hearing; his ears had saved his skin more than once in the past. Now, the cool air brought a momentary sound to him, a distant motor roaring, but it wasn't the Hummer, it was high-pitched, like a motorbike. Perhaps it had been his ears playing tricks, but he doubted it. Soon, they would have company, and hopefully a real fight on their hands. He had tired of the cloak and dagger, closed-door operation, and he longed to cut loose. They'd brought enough firepower in the Hummer to light half the mountainside ablaze, and knowing Donn, they'd probably do just that.
He extinguished the cigarette beneath the heel of his boot, and rounded the hut to the front. Gritting his teeth against the awaiting stench, he heard the low droning of a man's hushed voice as he approached the door. So, their sleeper had awoken.
When he entered the hut, all was as it had been; the table, the near corpse in the corner, and the bloodied and naked figure of Bond strapped to the chair. The Brit's head was cocked to one side, and a line of blood and spittle had worked its way from his mouth, but Troy wasn't buying it. He positioned himself opposite the spy and stared at the other man's face, waiting for a twitch to give away a hint of consciousness.
"Come on, Bugger, I heard you mummerin'. He took a couple of false swings at the man, but there wasn't any response. Frustrated, he took a real swipe at Bond's head, only to be rewarded with a dull thud, as his target lolled back, like an abandoned, anchored boat bobbing in the water.
Now, he could hear the Humvee pulling up front. Finally, Donn was back, and hopefully ready to start putting an end to things.
"Ya hear that, Boyo?" Julian said to the limp figure. "Whether you want to pretend to pay attention or not, we're going to carve your friend, the good Doctor, up for you like a Christmas goose. All fine and good for me," he said as he walked around to the corner where the giant lay crushed. He lifted Che Che's massive head by the scalp. "I was wantin' to get a little slice of that whore of his before we left town, anyway."
He would have carried on, but now Julian heard a voice from outside. A woman's voice, Feale's to be exact, calling out to Donn. She must have been on the bike he'd heard a few minutes earlier and hidden in the brush until Donn had made the scene.
Now, he could hear Colleen's voice, and the volume level was quickly increasing as the two began to shout at one another. Once again, Troy realised, Donn had been correct. He'd said that Feale would come back for him, or for Bond, and that either way it wouldn't matter; she was just going to provide them with another avenue for torturing Bond.
"Then again, maybe the boss will let me have a go with his ex, before we slit her throat in front of you."
Still no response from either man. Well, it didn't matter in the end. He had to get moving or the boss might have a go with him. He unzipped the pouch strapped to his side, and removed the syringe. Donn had even prepped the tranq for Feale's body weight. The man thought of everything.
Standing between the table and Bond, Julian Troy took the last step he would ever make toward the door. Then all hell broke loose.
* * *
Bond had listened to the man's childish taunting. He'd been impressed with Che Che's silence when he'd mentioned Marie. Corsicans had a hard time staying quiet as it was, and it must have taken considerable effort to swallow his pride like as he had.
The two of them had bided their time, however, waiting for the moment Troy's guard would drop, and Feale's arrival had provided them with that opportunity.
As the Irishman made for the door, James Bond stood up, with no little difficulty, slid his right arm around the back of the other man's head, and muffled Julian, palm over mouth, while at the same time yanking him back against his own chest. Troy panicked for just a moment, but recovered quickly. He was reaching back with the hypodermic, trying to jab it into his assailant's stomach, but he'd already given Bond more than enough time. Using the screaming pain from his crotch as an adrenaline pump, Bond fished blindly on the table with his free left hand, searching for the coffee can.
Once his efforts were rewarded with a hollow, glass stiletto, he quickly drove it deep into Julian's left eye socket. The scream was squelched by Bond's other hand, and then silenced by a merciful two- handed twist that severed his opponent's life from his body.
Putting his pain away again, Bond slowly bent to retrieve the syringe, and arose, naked and damaged, for the next challenge.
He ran, as best he could, to Che Che.
"Are you alright, for now?" he asked the giant quietly.
The man attempted to say something positive, but the words were lost to his injuries.
James Bond made his way to the door, crossing the threshold in the concealing shadows.
The two female voices had continued their argument unabated, and had provided more than ample interference to cover Bond's near silent kill. Now, crouched next to the hovel's opening, he could catch their words clearly.
"…hoped to accomplish what?" Colleen's voice droned on. Bond had noticed that once Donn had learned that he was party to assassin's little secret, something had changed in Colleen's voice. It was as if he no longer needed to feign femininity. Thanks to the surgery, it was still pitched higher than a man's, but it now had gruffness to it, almost like a teenage boy whose voice was beginning to break. It was painful to listen to, but Bond carried on. "Were you coming to rescue Bond, the maid in shining armour? No, no, I don't think so. I think you were coming to finish this sad little play of yours."
"Is that what you did to Tom?" Feale snapped back. "Did you just keep talking until he blew his own head off out of sheer boredom?"
That one must have struck close to home, Bond thought, for Donn went silent for a few moments.
He's not talking for your sake, Feale, Bond thought to himself. He's buying time so Troy can take you from behind. Donn just didn't know Troy's days of doing anything at all had come to an end. Although Bond didn't want to risk glancing outside, he was able to construct a mental picture of the two verbal combatants. From their voices, they were no more than seven or eight meters from the shepherd's hut. Donn was most likely standing next to the Hummer, where he would have been unloading his toys for the next round of festivities inside the stonewalls. At least one of them, possibly both, had weapons out; otherwise they would have been at each other by now.
"I'll tell you what you came here for," Donn picked up again, letting Feale's words lay by the roadside. "You came here to commit suicide. You don't want to kill me, you want to be killed yourself, or you would have used that thing by now." So, Feale was the one with a gun, Bond noted. Why the hell didn't she just shoot the bastard? He shook his head, once again wondering why women didn't leave men's games to men.
"Don't you feel anything?" McCann asked, emotion creeping into her voice. Bond had seen this play out before, female operatives could be effective, very cold-hearted killers if necessary, but if a personal element came into play…
"If this gun were in your hand right now, I'd be dead, wouldn't I?" she stammered.
"Stone cold, my love," Donn replied bluntly. "As dead as that thing you had in your womb." He was trying to push her over the edge, and from all indications, succeeding.
The shot that came jerked Bond to his feet, and the following brief sounds of struggle made him lean to the doorway, but still he hesitated. His best chance at Donn was to take him from concealment when he walked through the door.
Was he willing to let Feale die just to gain the upper hand? He found himself a victim of the same sentimentality that he'd been silently cursing McCann for a moment before.
"I'm sorry, Feale," he heard Colleen say. "The truth is, I feel everything. I just don't let it come between me and my destiny."
Bond could hold his position no longer.
He quickly glanced around he corner of the doorway.
Feale was down on a knee with her back to him, she was obviously in pain, and slightly stunned. Donn stood facing her, and in doing so, facing Bond as well. As he'd feared, Donn's well-trained eyes flicked to the brief movement in the doorway, and Bond knew his simple plan was undone.
"I loved Tom as much as you did, probably more. You just came later, an afterthought. I was their first chosen one. I would have loved to have married you, spent my life with you, and raised a family I could have loved. But the monster inside that hut, the thing you let make love to you, it took my heart, and left me with shite for a soul." There was a pause for a moment. "And now, I'm going to watch it die slowly."
The last was obviously intended for Bond, but Feale was still oblivious to his presence, which seemed to be exactly the way Donn wanted it.
Taking a cue from the Irishman's lead, Bond stepped out of the doorway as silently as he could with his injuries into the now blinding sunlight. He held the hypodermic in plain sight.
"You bastard," Feale spat at the ground, still on a knee. Bond stopped, wondering if she'd seen him, but then realised she was still addressing Donn. "You could have let it go anytime you wanted, the truth is you just enjoy the suffering, everything else is a convenient excuse."
With Feale's eyes averted to the ground, Donn focused back on the approaching man.
"Will you let her live, if I do this?" Bond mouthed slowly and silently. He didn't want to trust Donn, but he didn't have many choices. Her Majesty had been bartering his life for years, and it was about time he traded it for something himself.
Donn paused for a moment, then nodded.
James Bond stood over Feale's crouched figure, his shadow stretched out behind him like an unwilling accomplice, staring at the exposed back of her neck. He gave a brief moment to think of having caressed that neck, before driving the needle home.
"Sorry, Luv," he told the girl as she crumpled to the ground.
* * *
"Mano un Mano, is it then?" the thing he'd known as Colleen asked.
Bond shrugged.
"Something like that, I guess," he replied.
"Well, I hope you weren't expecting I'd just lay down my gun, so we could strip down and settle this thing like men. You see, I really don't qualify any longer, and from the looks of things, you're barely in the running yourself."
Bond took the comment in stride, but it still performed its purpose. He quickly glanced down at his naked self and his own injuries, with the caked blood running down the length of his legs had been covered over by a fresh crimson river, and somewhere down beneath the blood, there was something that used to be a part of him. He felt his own energy wane as the pain attempted to return in waves.
In contrast, Donn looked robust. Fresh from the struggle with Feale, Colleen was flushed red, her arms muscular and glistening with sweat. She was wearing camouflage pants now, with a khaki coloured sleeveless top, and Altama combat boots. Her long, black hair was pulled back into a loose tail. She held Feale's Springfield M1911 in her left hand, steady as hell, and aimed at Bond's midsection.
Donn had continued to ramble on the entire time. Feale was right; it was as if after a lifetime of killing mostly from a distance, he was now happy to be able to play with his victims close up and personal before dispatching them, much like a well-fed cat tortures mice before making the kill. This deviation from the assassin's routine, one that Bond had been careful to avoid over the years, gave the spy hope. Part of being a professional was sticking to routine, and when one strayed from that routine, mistakes were made. A few mistakes would be all Bond would need to level the playing field.
"It's kind of ironic things should end up here, you know. I knew you would run to the hills, after all, I had hundreds of years of Corsican history to back me up. There's a thousand little huts just like this on this island, and they're not just here for the shepherds. When the Corsican men found out there were a vendettas on their heads, they made for the maquis, especially in the highlands. Many a shepherd was made of a wanted man. Of coarse, this was a well-known fact, and usually the rival family would just go to the hills, and hunt down the offending party. This hut here," Donn gestured toward the hovel with his free hand, the gun staying ever calm with it's one eye patiently focused on Bond. "Has more than just a hundred years of sheep dung dried on its floors, there's more than a fair share of blood there as well. Your ghost is going to have a lot of company before moving on to Hell."
Bond felt the time drawing to a close. Donn was going to tire of being in the pulpit, and his little speech was petering out. Giving up wasn't an option. Certainly Che Che was going to die if he didn't get help soon, and he had little faith in Donn keeping his word on Feale. His one hope was to keep things going long enough so Marc-Ange and his men might be able to pick their way through the minefield successfully. The tree line was only six or seven meters away. If he could make it into the maquis, even though it was thinned at this height, it would still provide ample cover for him to gain a few precious minutes.
"No, I feel much more comfortable with a gun in my hand. Now, may I assume Julian won't be joining us anytime soon?" Donn asked.
"Not in this life," was Bond's reply.
Donn considered this a moment.
"Well, really it's just one more loose end I won't have to tie up. I'd hoped to drag this out a little longer, dissect your loved ones before your eyes, and all, but I'm afraid were going to cut things a little short. You're very tenacious, Mr. Bond. A normal man wouldn't even be able to stand after what you've been through, much less kill a full-grown adversary, or even walk. I've no intentions of attempting to tie you back down myself, I think a bullet to the head would be much more efficient. I'll just leave you with the happy thought that before I leave Corsica, I'm going to kill them all. The good doctor, Feale, the old man, they're all going to die. Now, get on your knees!"
James Bond didn't move right away.
"And then what happens to you?" Bond asked.
Donn frowned.
"Delaying tactics, 007? How droll. Now, get on your knees, don't think I'm going to get close enough to you for you to try any closed combat. Either you get on your knees or I'm going to shoot them out from underneath you."
"Fire away then, you bastard," Bond spat back at him. "Dieing on your knees is for cowards who kill children with bombs."
This brought a quick flush of anger to Colleen's face, and for a moment Bond thought he might attempt to lash out with the butt of the gun, stepping in close enough to strike out, but then the hatred quickly subsided, and the man in a woman's body laughed.
"Sporting try, Mr. Bond, but in the end it won't matter." Donn was walking around Bond's backside. "Now, how did that go? Was it two to the base of the skull? Yes, I do believe it was."
Bond waited for the bullets to come; the bullets that would end the pain.
What he got instead was a deafening explosion that shook the ground, and nearly toppled him.
* * *
There was no helping it, Donn instinctively turned toward the source of the blast, and saw the small plume of smoke rising several hundred meters away down the side of the mountain from which the main path arose. The explosion deafened him for a few moments, the sounds of the maquis and the recoil being lost in the thumping and drumming of his own pulse within his eardrums.
When he turned back to where Bond had been a few moments earlier, he was gone. Off into the woods like the hunted creature he was. After a few moments, during which he checked the clip in Feale's Springfield to make sure he was well equipped, the pounding in his head began to be replaced again by the drone of the woods.
He wanted to scream in frustration, but he wouldn't give Bond the pleasure, but he did shout.
"That was your rescue party, Mr. Bond!" he called out to the woods. There wasn't much need to taunt the man, he didn't need him to reveal himself, but it was still fun. There was enough blood dripping from the man's wounds that a child could have followed the path. "I'd be careful where you step as well, it's dangerous to play hide and seek in a minefield, you know. It's just the two of us, now!"
* * *
James Bond ran the best he could, limping into the underbrush, concentrating on little more than putting distance between himself and the assassin. Distance equalled time, and time equalled the opportunity to find somewhere to seek shelter, and to find something to fight back with.
He was painfully aware he was going to be easy to follow, just as he was aware that his head was lightening from the exertion of dragging himself through the maquis. The thin air, the blood loss, and the lingering traces of drugs in his system were taking a heavy toll on his weakened state. His eyes were concentrating on the ground in front of him, watching for any possible areas of recent concealment such as disturbed earth, or an unnatural piling of leaves or twigs. The uneven ground of the mountainside already made the going treacherous on his battered body and there were some precarious points where falling would have been as fatal as a landmine. There were a few times he had to wrench his body to one side to avoid a suspicious outcropping at the last moment, but he was careful not to cry out, no matter what the pain.
Shouts rang out behind him, and he attempted to ignore them, and drive on, but his thoughts were falling back to Marc-Ange. Certainly he would have come to Bond's aide himself; he wouldn't trust such a thing solely to his men. Had Bond's choice to come to Corsica doomed the man, just as he'd doomed his daughter? Maybe he would have been better to take the bullets than to continue on through a life where he continuously played the grim reaper to those he loved. But such thoughts were little more than static to his body that continued to do what it did best, survive.
That strange time warp of running through the maquis took its toll again, and soon he wasn't sure if he had been going for five minutes, or half an hour, but at some point he did stumble onto the plateaued clearing that held the graveyard.
Actually, graveyard would have been a complement. When compared with the beauty and elegance of the burial ground he and Toussaint had spied on the hillside a few days earlier, this was nothing more than a collection of stones and shallow graves. The one exception was a large, ornate granite mausoleum that immediately caught Bond's eye. He actually took a few valuable seconds pondering how they could have negotiated the huge stone slabs up the side of the mountain. When he considered the thing looked to be many, many decades old, the feat was even more astounding.
The other graves were nothing more than pits, blasted, or pick axed, out of the rock of the mountain, and then loosely covered with the discarded stones. These shallow graves surrounded the magnificent structure like macabre satellites.
How much of a lead had he gained on Donn? A few minutes, maybe ten at the most. His mind quickly spun through the possibilities, and a not too distant memory brought a glimmer of hope to him.
At first, he pried in vain at the heavy slab serving as a door for the tomb, but even in top condition, he doubted if he could have budged it, and in his present state, it was hopeless. Looking about, he found a large rock piled onto one of the graves. This he hefted, an effort that caused the blood to fountain forth from his wound at an alarming rate.
Just how much blood is there in a human body, he wondered, his mind beginning to wander. For a moment, he almost forgot why he was carrying the stone, but then things snapped back into place.
It took several tries, and for a while, it looked as if the granite door would win, whittling his hammer stone slowly to rubble. When the door finally crumbled, he was rewarded with a deep crushing sound as the opening fell in upon itself.
The inside of the structure was thick with must and the air was almost unbreathable, but he had little time to waste.
If Donn were correct in his thinking, then many of these graves would have belonged to shepherds who had not come to a natural end, and if that were the case, then it would follow they might not have been buried alone. With little need for decorum, Bond searched the aged corpse on the first shelf he came to. There were dried flowers and a few dilapidated slips of paper that may have been from a doting wife or children, but nothing of use to him. The body on the shelf below offered little more.
He was beginning to give up hope when he turned to the pile of bones on the first shelf on the opposite wall. There, next to the body, were two ornate blades, vendetta knives for which Corsican metal workers were famed.
When he stepped back into the sunlight, and the thankfully fresh air, Bond quickly assessed the weapons. The blades were rusted and somewhat dulled from their time in the mausoleum, but the points were sharp and they would still be effective if handled properly. He wavered there for a moment, his equilibrium threatening to challenge his consciousness.
"Not yet," he muttered encouragement to himself. He took one of the aged blades, and poked his arm with it hard enough to draw yet another thin trail of blood. He forced himself to focus on that one small font of pain, to sharpen his mind for one last attack. There would be plenty of time for dying later.
* * *
Donn cut the vegetation silently as he entered the plateau, the gun leading the way.
He hadn't been disappointed; Bond had certainly lived up to his reputation as being hard to kill. He was fearfull he might never find the body, that Bond might have crawled off like a wounded animal somewhere to die. Lord knows the maquis; even this high up, could swallow a body with little trace in a very short period of time.
The sight of the graveyard greeted Donn with the same view it had afforded Bond a few minutes before. After a cursory glance at the graves, his focus turned to the mausoleum, with its crushed door.
"James," he said aloud. "It would appear as if you have huffed and puffed, and blown the door in. He approached the entrance with the outstretched gun before him, and peered inside the musty, shadowed chamber. He didn't really know what he expected to find, maybe some feeble trap designed by a desperate, dying man, or maybe something as simple as a crumpled body on the ground.
And prophetically, there before him on the cold granite floor of the tomb, concealed in the dimmed and murky light, was a body. He could tell immediately it was too weathered, and much too clothed to be Bond. He craned his head inside of the structure, noticing too late that all of the shelves were already taken, and that the body on the floor had obviously been tossed there recently.
His back had been exposed to the scattering of graves behind him as he peered into the darkness. Donn heard a small rumble of displaced stones, and then a whooshing sound as the knife cut the air and imbedded itself into the back of his skull.
Stunned, but not quite incapacitated, he turned and fired.
* * *
Bond didn't have to lie in the grave long, which was a good thing. He'd quickly uncovered the body, and then discarded it by tossing it into the tomb. Lying in the grave, he'd covered himself with the rocks as best he could. The cold ground was comforting, and there were times where he could have easily nodded off and slipped away while asleep, but he wasn't going to leave work undone.
If Donn had looked more carefully, he'd certainly have noticed the haphazard looking gravesite, but the assassin had been hot for the kill and gone straight for the mausoleum, just as Bond had hoped.
James Bond had lain there in the earth, watching the rock-filtered shadows of his stalker pass by his hiding place, and then he'd counted to twenty, sat up, and thrown the knife with everything he'd had left.
He'd aimed for the hollow cleft at the base of the skull, where the spine raised to meet the cranium; a near sure kill shot. The target hadn't been more than a few meters away, and yet he'd missed it. Major Boothryod would not have been impressed.
Whether it was the weathered, misbalanced knife, Colleen's thick ponytail deflecting the blade, or his own impaired throw, the results hadn't been good enough. Bond watched as the blade buried itself into his assailant's skull. Certainly, without help quickly, it would be a fatal blow, but Donn was able to clumsily spin about a fire a reflexive shot.
The round took a chunk out of Bond's left arm as it passed and threw him back into the grave, where this time he lay gasping for breath. Gasping, but still holding the knife in his good right hand. He coughed in the dirt; groaning, and preying the bastard would get close enough to allow him one last chance.
He watched from his lying position as Donn reached back and felt the hilt of the knife extending from the base of his skull, and then attempted to take a step toward Bond. The assassin's legs deserted him, and he fell face first into the dirt.
"Nice throw," he grunted at Bond in his sickening, half-woman voice. "I guess you don't have as good of aim when someone isn't on their knees."
He couldn't see Donn now, not without sitting up, and he wasn't going to chance giving the thing a clean shot at him. He could hear the Irishman scrambling across the ground, attempting to regain his feet.
Finally, Donn was there above him, wavering like a tree in high wind, the gun in his hand the only steady thing about his person.
"Looks like neither of us are going to make it out of this one, Mr. Bond," Donn said.
Bond mumbled a response through his shallow breaths.
"What was that?" the assassin had leaned in a little closer to catch the words.
"You first," he said clearly this time. There was a brief look of shock in Donn's eyes as Bond reached out through a daze and slashed at the perfect, beautiful face before him. The weapon opened an ugly gash across Colleen's features and Donn screamed in agony with his freakish voice.
The gun came to bear again, and Bond met its promise with his eyes wide open.
"Won't you just die?!" the thing that had once been Peter O'Sullivan shrieked.
There was a gunshot, and a neat hole appeared just above Colleen's left breast. After a few moments of initial shock, he fell backward into the dirt.
There were footsteps, and finally Marc-Ange's face swam out of the gloom above him.
"Bitch," he said, as he fired the gun again. Bond couldn't see, but he knew this one would be a professional shot to the head.
There was a grim look on his father-in-law's face that became even darker when he looked at Bond.
"Good God, James," he said. "Look at what they've done to you."
"I've been better," he croaked back, bringing a fit of coughing that felt uncomfortably wet. "What about Che Che?"
Marc-Ange Draco shrugged his shoulders.
"He's still breathing, and he's a tough bastard, just like his father. Your friends, the Inglese, should be able to lift the two of you out of here with those beautiful helicopters of theirs. They wanted to come barrelling in here with those damn things and start shooting up the whole place, but we convinced them the psychopath would probably kill both of you when he heard the first hint of propellers."
And he would have, Bond thought.
"The mines?" he mumbled, beginning to slip away as Toussaint's face joined Draco's above him.
The little Corsican laughed.
"The bastard planted mines like a Frenchman," he said.
Bond wanted to laugh as well, but Marc-Ange shushed him. Toussaint had a brief conversation over a handheld radio, presumably with the helicopter pilot, and then all was quiet until the whooshing of the giant blades filled his ears.