Heidi was in terrible pain. The bullet had entered her body just below the collarbone. It was a perilous wound. She didn’t know if her lung had been pierced or not. Using every bit of strength that she could muster, she reached down to her calf and took hold of the object that was secured to her leg. Then she lay very still.
The guard cautiously approached her, gun in hand. Was she dead? He stepped up to her body and nudged it with his foot. Blood was spreading all over the floor and her eyes were closed. She had to be dead.
He made the fatal mistake of bending down to see if she was still breathing.
The hunting knife swung up and perforated the man’s heart. His gun discharged into the air as he fell over next to her.
Heidi attempted to sit up, but the room was spinning. The pain was unbearable. God, don’t let me die here, she prayed.
She tried to stand, but couldn’t. Blood was pouring out of her wound like tap water.
The last thing she was aware of before blacking out was that she had still not found her sister.
Back in the bullring, James Bond and Peredur Glyn circled each other with their respective weapons. The bull, curious but wary of the two humans, stayed at the edge of the fence to let them fight it out. It was still smarting from the pepper spray.
Bond thought it was one of the most unsettling sensations he had ever felt. Here he was, facing an enemy that was, to all outward appearances, himself. If ever he had needed a clear head, it was now. Unfortunately, the throbbing in his head had taken over and his heart was pounding from the exertion and anxiety.
Glyn charged at Bond like the bull, the sword held straight in front of him. Bond feinted, swung the lance, and caught the imposter in the stomach. Glyn doubled over and dropped the sword. Bond broke the lance over Glyn’s head, but the man merely fell to his knees and shook it off. He reached out, grabbed Bond’s legs, and tackled him.
They rolled together on the dirt, their hands clutching at each other’s throats.
Glyn managed to get on top. Bond was exhausted from the ordeal with the bull, and his increasingly disorienting condition was not making it any easier.
The man who looked like Bond whispered through his teeth, “When you see … your double … it mean you’re … going to die.…”
Both grips tightened as each man attempted to strangle the other before their strength gave out.
Then the hazy dark cloud that had been plaguing Bond for months began to descend again.
No! Not now! Bond screamed to himself. I mustn’t black out now!
His enemy’s fingers dug into his throat. The lights in the ceiling spun above the imposter’s head, bringing on nausea and the inevitable feeling that death was mere seconds away.
Bond fought the blackout with every ounce of willpower he could summon from the depths of his soul … but it was no use.
The dark curtain fell with a crash and then there was nothing.
TWENTY - THREE
BLOOD AND LUST
MARGARETA PEERED THROUGH THE PEEPHOLE AND SAW THE BLOND WOMAN sitting in a corner of the room, her knees folded in her arms. With the guards accompanying Espada to Gibraltar, the compound had been left unattended for a night. Margareta wanted to make sure that everything was secure and that none of the girls could escape. Everything appeared to be all right, she thought.
The rest of them were in their rooms, quietly enduring the long hours of waiting for the times when they would be called upon to perform their duties. Some of them who were literate would read books, others might sew. Some slept, some watched television, while others simply sat and stared at the wall, wondering if they would ever see freedom again. Some of them looked forward to their new life away from poverty and hunger, but most of them knew that they had been sold to a fate worse than their most horrid nightmares.
Margareta was satisfied that the girls were safe. She closed and locked the door, then went through the corridors and out of the foyer. She relocked the front door of the compound, then crossed the yard to the house. It was hauntingly quiet with everyone gone. In just a few hours, she, too, would leave with the assassin and join the others at the border.
She went to her room and checked the bag that she had packed. Now she would take a quick shower and get ready for bed. Sleep would probably be elusive, though, for she felt tense about the upcoming events. She needed something to relax her, so she pulled a bottle of red wine off a shelf, uncorked it, and poured a glass.
Margareta undressed and went into the bathroom to start the water. She waited until it was hot, filling the room with steam, then she got in the shower stall.
Margareta had finished washing her hair when the knock startled her. Someone was in the bedroom, just outside the bathroom door.
“What is it?” she called.
“It’s me,” came the voice. Peredur Glyn.
“Just a second,” Margareta said. She rinsed, turned off the water, and stepped out of the stall. She wrapped a towel around her body and opened the bathroom door.
The imposter was standing in the middle of her room. There was a cut above his eye, and red marks were evident around his neck.
“What happened to you?” she shouted. “You look terrible!”
He laughed. “It was the prisoner,” the man said in the distinctive Welsh accent. “We had a scuffle. It’s all right, though. You won’t be hearing from him anymore.”
“What happened?”
“The guy passed out in my hands,” Glyn said. “Just fainted dead away. I said, ‘To hell with this,’ and let the others handle it. I left him with them, they were going to take him to the slaughterhouse. The job should be finished by now.”
“You need to get cleaned up. It won’t look right if your face is messed up tomorrow,” she said, leading him to the bathroom. She ran water in the sink, took a washcloth, and dabbed the wound on the assassin’s head.
She smiled as he winced. “That plastic surgeon did an incredible job. I have to admit that James Bond was a handsome man.”
“You mean is. That’s who I am now,” Glyn said as he slipped his hand inside the towel, feeling her firm breast.
“Right,” she said, ignoring the gesture. He wondered if that, in itself, was an invitation to continue.
Instead, though, he said, “Sorry, Miss Piel, but tonight I have a date with a certain American blonde, if I remember correctly.” He withdrew his hand.
“Hmmm,” Margareta said. “I suppose you do. Well, don’t overdo it. You need your wits about you in the morning. Don’t stay up all night.”
“I can come back and do you again after I’m finished,” he suggested.
“Last night was lovely, dear, but I do need my beauty rest,” she replied. “But if I can’t sleep …”
Glyn grinned lecherously, then left the room.
The phone woke her two hours later.
Margareta grabbed it and answered, “Que?”
“Something bad has happened.” It was the imposter. He sounded out of breath.
“What’s the matter?”
“She’s dead.”
“What? Who?” Margareta had to fight the clouds of drowsiness away.
“The girl. The blond American.”
“Dead? How?”
“I don’t know.…” he stammered. He sounded upset. “I didn’t mean to hurt her.… It was an accident.…”
“I’ll be right there.” Margareta slammed down the phone and put on a silk robe over her naked body. She removed the Glock from her bedside table and stormed out of the bedroom.