it.
His lungs, his limbs, his whole body wanted to give up. But his brain refused.
He let go of the wrist clamped around his throat. His right arm pawed on the wet stone for something, anything, he could use to fight back. That was when he felt the coils of the nylon climbing rope still clipped to his belt. Under his shirt, he found the loop that was knotted into the rope. With his eyes burning into hers, he jerked the loop over her head and around her neck before she understood what was happening. Then he wrenched the rope back hard, dragging her head with it, and her dark eyes widened with shock and fear as her own lungs were stripped of air.
Her hands weakened, just for an instant. The knife wobbled in her grasp. He used that second to let go and drive his left hand like a piston into her chest. She shuddered with the blow; the knife spilled from her fingers. Her other hand unlocked from his throat, letting in sweet air. Her body reared back, giving him a single moment of freedom, and he dug his fingernails under the calf pressing down on his thigh and upended her. She screamed as she flew. Her body landed against the parapet, then broke through the old stone and disappeared backward over the wall into the air.
As she fell, the rope uncoiled from his belt, slithering like a snake. It dragged him with her toward the edge of the cliff. He braced his feet against the worn outcropping, but the weight of her body yanked him forward and tumbled him over the edge. His fingers grasped for any handhold that would keep him from falling. Then, with a jolt, the pressure at the end of the rope vanished. He held on, clinging to the rock with the tips of his fingers. When he looked down into the voracious sea, he saw Miss Shirley falling the rest of the way to the bottom of the cliff.
She fell in two pieces.
The rope around her neck had cut off her head.
Her body landed in the white surf, which sucked it in and consumed it. Her head bounced like a soccer ball off the pointed sea rocks and became wedged in a furrow in the granite. Waves crashed over the head but failed to dislodge it. She landed faceup, and her eyes stayed open, staring grotesquely at Bourne as he dangled from the wall.
FORTY-FIVE
BOURNE made it down from the wall and back to the cemetery before he collapsed. He lost consciousness, his body yielding to a tidal wave of pain. When he opened his eyes again, he had no idea how much time had passed. The rain had stopped, but the daylight was almost gone, and thick dark clouds raced overhead. He pushed himself up slowly until he was sitting on the wet ground. A deep chill in his bones made him shiver. He rubbed his hands through his hair, blinked, and waited for the dizziness to pass.
Then he saw that he wasn’t alone.
Nash Rollins loomed over him, a solitary figure in a hat and gray raincoat in the middle of the old graves. The Treadstone agent leaned on a cane and pointed a gun at Bourne’s chest.
“You look like hell, Jason.”
“Thanks.”
“That must have been one hell of a fight.”
“At least I kept my head,” he replied.
“Yeah, I saw what you left at the bottom of the cliff. That’s enough to give me nightmares.”
“You and me both,” Bourne said. He studied the empty grounds and the austere frame of the old castle set against the trees. “Is the area secure?”
“It is. MI5 gave us a hand.”
“The Medusa guards?”
“We dealt with them.”
“If you search the woods, you’ll find the body of Miles Priest. They killed him.”
“I’m sorry to hear that. I wouldn’t say I liked Miles, but I had a grudging respect for him. We were a little bit alike. Both of us willing to make the hard choices and go it alone if we needed to. You’re the same way.”
Bourne stood up on unsteady legs. He didn’t bother trying to run. He knew he wouldn’t make it more than a few steps before collapsing again, and Nash was unlikely to miss at this range.
“I take it you’re here to kill me,” Bourne said.
“I’m sorry. That was always the plan. The director wants you dead.”
“I’m not Medusa, Nash. I never was.”
“Abbey Laurent told me the same thing. She said I should help you instead