Silhouettes: A James Bond Story

Silhouettes Part 19

The four men dragging Bond through the pre-fab corridors of the fort's new building—it's central hub—were not in uniform, but were nonetheless of a type: their hair was long and tied back in Japanese-influenced topknots that had suddenly (and improbably, in Bond's opinion) come back into style, and were matched by heavy beards that were cultivated and styled after warriors in television shows about mystical knights and Vikings. Their muscles bulged from obsessive workouts, supplemented with regular doses of steroids and human growth hormone, and their swollen arms were covered in tribal tattoos from people and places they'd never seen. They wore BDUs under light Kevlar combat vests spattered with magazine and equipment pouches.

But what Bond paid the most attention to were the weapons they carried: H&K VP9s in drop-rig holsters strapped to their thighs and unslung compact SA vz. 58 rifles in their gunhands. It was a cut-down AK-47 variant chambered for 5.56mm NATO round, with a shortened barrel and folding stock. Excellent for close-quarters battle if you weren't too particular about where your rounds went. Bond remembered that the guards at Blofeld's cyberwarfare compound in the deserts of Morocco carried the same rifles. He must have gotten a discount for buying in bulk.

"You do realize that you're all about ten minutes away from a drone strike that will vaporize this entire compound, don't you?" It was a weak lie, but good enough to test the waters. "My government isn't going to reign in their response jut because two of their operatives are on site."

The men surrounding him said nothing.

Bond tried again: "So, precisely what decision-points brought you to a place where you're feeding a man to genetically-engineered lizards? Blackwater let you go? Triple Canopy not giving you enough latitude in the killing of civilians?"

The foremost guard spun abruptly and slammed Bond against the corridor wall. It felt flimsy, like particle board or plaster. He rammed his forearm under Bond's chin and into his throat, bringing his face close enough so that Bond could smell the dull stink of chewing tobacco on his breath and see the stains of tobacco-spittle in his beard—just above the stenciling on the upper edge of his body armor: Fussenegger.

"You best behavior yourself, mister," he said in a thick accent from America's deep south. "The chief didn't say nothin' 'bout you being able to walk when you put you in the cage."

"You could try that," Bond said easily. "And then lay odds on whether or not you're the next entree on the menu. I know 'the boss' better than you do, and if there is one thing he doesn't like, it's disobedience."

Fussenegger 's eyes clouded with confusion at the prospect, then roughly forced Bond back into the corridor. "Just keep it up, Limey queer."

Bond pretended to stumble so he could twist his body a bit and pocket the folding knife he'd slipped out of Fussenegger 's own pocket—because if there was one uniting feature of security contractors around the world, Bond knew, they all kept their folding knives in their hip pockets.

They came to a thick, glass door with a blaze-orange warning sticker on it. One of the other guards punched in a code on a stainless steel pad on the handle, and opened the door. No picking the lock, Bond noted. A blast of humidity hit him first, then he was forced through the doorway and Bond was looking at a massive, circular terrarium, topped by the glass dome he'd spotted from his cell. The terrarium had been designed to emulate a tropical terrain. Palm and citrus trees burst from the loamy earth, and scraggly grass covered the ground. A series of canals snaked throughout the area, joining in a half dozen places with a large, central pond. It had the same dislocating effect s a zoo exhibit—at once immersive and ersatz.

The guards manhandled Bond to a wide finger of land that jutted into the pond, then two men each took one of Bond's arms and forced his wrists into a set of handcuffs bolted into the thick trunk of a palm tree. Bond heard a slopping sound, and looked over his shoulder to see that the fourth guard had opened a plastic bucket pre-staged in a thatch of vegetation and as ladling bloody chunks of chicken into the water. "That's it, get 'em good and worked up," Fussenegger said as he slipped a pair of Oakley plastic-framed sunglasses over his eyes. Then he said to Bond, "You can get smart with them lizards, see what it gets you. Gonna be fun watching you scream." He punctuated his point, but kicking Bond's legs out from under him, forcing him to his knees and yanking his arms up over his head.

"Enjoy, asshole."

Bond watched over his shoulder as the men retreated back to the entry with no small amount of haste, their weapons sweeping the underbrush and canal banks until the door slammed and the electronic lock clicked loudly. A moment later, Bond saw a section of the wall beside the door slide down to reveal a long window. Squinting through the sunlight filtering through the skylight, Bond thought he could make out two figures behind the windows.

The humidity was oppressive. It was less than a minute since he was led into the room, and Bond could already felt perspiration ringing his neck and trickling down his back. He was glad he was still clad in the clothes he wore to Oman—a cotton short-sleeved shirt unbuttoned over a tan t-shirt and baggy cargos—and that Blofeld hadn't seen fit to provide him another sharkskin suit to wear.

Bond leaned into the trunk of the palm tree enough to block the view from the observation window behind him and conceal what he was doing. He hoped that the figures watching—likely Fussenegger and the other guards—were excited enough at the prospect of his gory death that they weren't paying attention to his movement. Or if they did notice, that they were overconfident enough to let him continue.

He unfolded the knife's blade. It was gratifyingly flat and thin, and about five inches long. Perfect for his use. He worked the tip beneath the metal base of the ring anchoring the handcuffs to the tree and sawed and pried at the sandpapery bark until ringlets of the tree's green flesh curled up around the metal. Bond pulled at the cuffs and was rewarded by feeling the ring dislodge slightly. With a satisfied grunt, Bond increased his efforts, sawing and pulling at intervals until sweat snaked from his hairline down his face, around his eyes and cheeks.

Then he heard the rustling. And the hissing.

He threw a fast look over his shoulder and saw three long shapes emerging from the waterline not three meters away from him. Their hides were striped and serrated with bands and fields of colored scales. They stepped slowly and deliberately, front feet moving in tandem with the opposite rear foot, grabbing the earth with inches-long, razor-like claws. Their small, triangular heads swept back and forth as they tasted the air and the blood-stained grass around them with their long, forked tongues.

Bond felt a primal fear blossom in his stomach, a cry of alarm from his brain's oldest regions telling him to flee as nothing had ever before. He fought the adrenaline surge that was causing his hands to shake and went back to the cuffs. They wiggled freely now, the ring barely holding. Bond funneled all his energy and all his fear into one concentrated pull. His biceps and triceps burned, and his shoulders felt like they would both dislocate. He let out a strangled cry as the muscle and bone and sinew of his body strained against the resistance.

And finally, the chains came loose, and Bond almost fell over backward. The metal ring was still embedded in the tree trunk, but only barely, and one last yank brought it free.

They had taken his hidden lockpick set from his belt, but left the belt, and that was all Bond needed to slip the narrow tongue of the buckle between the lock bar of the left cuff and the ratchet and swing the cuff open. As he repeated the process with the right cuff, he saw that the monitors had crawled even closer, cocking their heads in his direction and hissing, showing off rows of needle-sharp teeth. They had his scent. Beyond them, at the water's edge, a half dozen more shapes were emerging from the green water.

********

"He get out of them cuffs?" Fussenegger asked before dripping tobacco-laced spit into an empty plastic soda bottle. "How'd he get out of them cuffs?"

"Can't tell," Baker answered. The observation room was kept dark to better see the spectacle beyond the window. It reminded him, appropriately enough, of the reptile house at a zoo.

"Well he ain't getting far. He's gotta have almost ten of 'em coming up on him." Then the limey turned and faced them. It unnerved Fussenegger, even though he knew the glass wasn't meant to be one-way, and there was no reason the guy shouldn't be able to see them. Hell, knowing he was watching them watch him get torn apart was half the fun.

"What's he doing?" Baker asked.

"Fiddling with his watch, looks like."

Then the limey seemed to throw something, and Fussenegger was slammed by a tornado of broken glass.