Seventy-two
Bane studied Ducard, still not sure if he was awake or asleep. Then he noticed other newcomers in the shaft—lithe men in black garb at various intervals, firing automatic weapons at fleeing prisoners. Astounding noise, nearly deafening amidst the stone walls. Inmates dropped dead, others screamed and fell wounded, only to be shot again until they no longer moved.
“She told me about you,” Ducard said, closer to Bane, as if nothing were taking place around them. “She said there were others who helped her—four men.” Ducard produced a scrap of paper from inside his vest, a rustic garment made from the pelt of some pale, coarse-haired animal. “Where can we find these men?”
Through his bleary gaze, Bane read the names of Doctor Assad, Hans, Temujin, and Abrams. He nodded his understanding, realized now that he was indeed awake. Incredulous relief rushed through him like a soothing warm breeze.
“Can you stand?” Ducard asked.
Again Bane nodded, though he was suddenly trembling so badly that he was uncertain of maintaining his feet once up. Carefully, Ducard assisted him, seemed to feel his instability and thus did not let go of him. Ducard’s men had ceased firing, apparently awaiting their leader’s instructions.
“I will gather the others,” Ducard called to the assassins. “Then you will proceed with my orders.”
Bane took them to Hans first, for he was the closest. They passed cells where other prisoners had taken cover. Some tried to conceal themselves beneath blankets or behind meager furnishings. Some were silent, others cried out for mercy, though of course they knew not why they were about to be murdered. When some began to realize that these strangers were somehow Bane’s allies, wild claims sprang forth, men insisting that they had not harmed Bane, nor Talia, nor even Melisande. A wild display of desperation that Ducard ignored.
They found Hans seated patiently on his cot, as if awaiting the inevitable. When he saw Bane, he stood, curiosity loosening his jaw.
Bane, with Ducard’s paper in hand, pointed to Hans’s name and nodded to Ducard. Then he gestured to Hans to come out. The German did not appear completely convinced.
“I mean you no harm,” Ducard assured. “We have come to liberate you. My daughter—the child you knew as Henri—spoke highly of you. For that, you will be spared.”
Hans’s glance went to Bane, who nodded again to encourage him. Warily the German unlocked his door. Bane could tell that Hans’s hesitation was not because of any mistrust toward him or his strange rescuer but because the very idea of liberation after all these years was an unbelievable concept.
From there, they went to find Temujin, who was just then coming along the corridor from his cell. He staggered to a halt when he saw Henri Ducard.
“It is you,” the Mongol said, blinking as if into a strong light. “When they described the men coming down the shaft, I wondered…” A grin stretched across his swarthy face as he reached for Ducard’s outstretched hand.
“How are you, old friend?” Ducard smiled back, showing a warmth that, up until now, Bane could not have imagined existed in the grave-faced man who towered over all of them.
“A bit worn, my friend, and happy to see you.”
“It would seem your bad fortune has been a blessing to me.”
“Sometimes the world works that way,” Temujin grinned. Then he touched Bane’s shoulder. “Well, my young bull, it seems our little angel has delivered you just in time. You are in good hands now. No more of that bungling doctor.”
“Come,” Ducard said. “We have the doctor and one other to gather.”
“Then what?” Temujin asked the question that Bane had been unable to rally enough courage or physical ability to form.
“Then these men will feel my vengeance, not just for my daughter and for Bane, but for Melisande.”
Hearing Ducard say his wife’s name sent an odd sensation through Bane as they started in the direction of Abrams’s cell. What was it? Nostalgia? Jealousy? To realize that the man of whom Melisande had spoken so often over the years was this very same man who now moved with long strides beside him… Surely this was all a dream, and he would soon awaken. Seeing Ducard in the flesh left Bane feeling irrelevant, as if everything he had done for Melisande had meant little in comparison to the power this man obviously wielded. An intoxicating charisma oozed from Talia’s father; Bane had witnessed its power the minute Temujin had recognized Ducard in the corridor. And he saw it in the cold eyes of Ducard’s cohort, one of whom joined them as they neared Bane’s cell.
Abrams stared at them as the group approached. He showed no fear. Indeed, for a moment, Bane thought he saw relief on the man’s tough face—not relief that salvation might be near but that death might soon claim him. Bane pointed to his name on the list for Ducard.
“Hans,” Abrams said. “What in hell’s going on?”
“Unlock the door,” Hans replied. “They’re freeing us.”
Abrams’s disbelieving gaze went to Bane who nodded and waved for him to come out. As he did so, Abrams asked Ducard, “Who the hell are you? Do you run this prison?”
“No,” came the reply with a touch of intolerance, like one unaccustomed to being questioned
Bane turned to his own cell, fumbled with his key, hands shaking. He hurried inside and retrieved Melisande’s blanket as well as the writing slate and chalk. When Ducard saw the blanket, he stepped over to the door as Bane came out. Bane draped it around his neck, lifted one corner for Ducard’s perusal. The man stood there, speechless, something Bane figured rarely happened. For that brief moment when Ducard’s fingers caressed the fabric, Bane saw a completely different man—not the leader of a team of assassins, but a husband and father. His gaze lifted to Bane in silent appreciation. Then, in the next instant, Ducard banished his emotions from view.
Ducard said, “Take me to the doctor.”
Bane led the way around the shaft to Assad’s cell. Assad sat upon his cot, head in hand, as if he had just awoken from a deep sleep with a pounding headache. He did not appear unnerved by the recent gunfire and the black-clad gunmen in the shaft, as if he had been expecting them.
“Get up, Doc,” Abrams called. “We’re getting the hell out of here.”
Assad lifted his head, frowned in confusion at them, his gaze cloudy as it wandered to Ducard. Then some of his fuzziness seemed to clear. Slowly he climbed to his feet.
But Bane stood at the door, ready to bar the doctor’s exit. He scrawled hastily upon the slate and shoved it through the bars.
Assad shuffled over to read aloud: “‘Who sent my mother here?’” Now the drug-induced fog lifted from his startled eyes. “I—I don’t remember, Bane.”
Angrily, adamantly, Bane tapped the chalk against the slate, pressed it at the doctor.
“Bane,” Abrams said, “can’t you ask him this later? Let’s get out of here.”
Bane vehemently shook his head, staring only at Assad. The chalk tapped upon the word “who.”
Assad stammered, “Perhaps in time I will remember…”
Bane threw the slate at him then grabbed Ducard’s sidearm from his belt, aimed it at Assad who backed away. Abrams and Hans immediately sent up a protest and reached for the pistol, but Ducard calmly held them back.
“Wait,” Ducard ordered, the natural authority in his gravelly voice restraining the men. His interested gaze swung from Bane to Assad as he said, “I suggest you give him the information he desires, Doctor.”
Assad swallowed, nodded shakily, hesitated. “Before I tell him,” Assad said to Ducard, “you should know that the man responsible for the imprisonment of Bane’s mother is a powerful man. He could very well see to Bane’s end if he learns of his existence.”
“Tell me!” Bane demanded, hiding the pain his muffled effort exacerbated.
Again Assad swallowed hard. “His name is Thomas Dorrance. He was a British diplomat at the time he sent your mother here.” He hesitated as Bane’s eyes widened at this news. “He is your grandfather.”
Bane stared in disbelief, the pistol momentarily sagging.
“Jesus,” Abrams grumbled then quickly recovered. “All right, damn it. You got what you wanted, Bane, now let him out.”
Bane swallowed his shock, aimed the gun, growled, “No.”
Abrams scowled. “No?”
The prospect of stringing entire, painful sentences together or lowering the pistol in order to write his reasons on the slate did not appeal to Bane, so instead he looked pointedly at Hans, rasped out, “Melisande.”
“Bane,” Hans said, “you can’t be serious. You really want to condemn him for one mistake, an accident? Think of all the good things he’s done—”
“Tell him,” Bane repeated, flashing his glance at Ducard.
Ducard crossed his arms with an air of impatience. “We don’t have much time, gentlemen.”
“Bane,” Assad entreated. “Please…”
Hans looked to Abrams as if in search of an ally, but Abrams remained silent, though he did not appear any more pleased with the situation than Hans. So at last Hans capitulated. “The day your wife died…it was Doctor Assad who accidentally left her cell unlocked.” Quickly, before Ducard could react, he rushed on, “But he’s done many good things as well, including delivering your daughter. He’s paid for his mistake many times over; it’s nearly destroyed him.”
Ducard’s only overt reaction to this news was a deepening of color upon his cheeks, though Bane also detected a flash of outrage in his eyes, one that was quickly masked. Talia’s obvious effort to shield Assad gave Bane a moment of hesitation. But then he pushed aside his innate habit of giving her anything she wanted and instead thought only of Melisande.
“My daughter did not tell me of the doctor’s part in her mother’s murder. No doubt her omission was because of what you say are the doctor’s finer attributes. However, hearing this news, I am inclined to agree with Bane. The doctor will be spared, but he will not be freed.”
“Spared from what?” Abrams asked suspiciously.
Assad’s shoulders slowly slumped in despair, but he did not look away from Bane. The sadness there, the memories of all they had shared, the companionship…Bane would not allow any of it to chase away the image of Melisande in that second when her eyes had locked with his before he took Talia out of her cell and away from her attackers.
“Bane,” Hans tried again. “You can’t let this happen.”
“Come,” Ducard said to the others with a final harsh look at Assad, “we have wasted enough time here.”
He held out his hand for the pistol. When Bane surrendered it, he caught a glint of satisfaction in Ducard’s eyes.
“The will to act,” Ducard said. “An admirable quality, Bane.”
Ducard led the way back toward the shaft. Bane ignored the simmering stares of his two friends.
When they reached the stepwell, Bane halted, gestured back toward his cell, said to Hans, “Yemi.”
Ducard turned back to them, a questioning eyebrow raised.
Hans explained, “He wants us to take Yemi with us.”
“Talia did not mention the name.”
To Hans, Bane mimed with his arms as if he held an infant.
“Yemi helped save Talia,” Hans expounded, “when she was kidnapped as a baby by one of the inmates.”
Bane nodded hopefully at Ducard.
“Very well.” Ducard gestured to the member of his team who had been accompanying them. “Go with Hans and locate this man.” Then to another of the assassins who waited nearby, expressionless, stolid yet attentive, like a cannon loaded and primed, waiting for the lanyard to be pulled, “As soon as they locate their man, you will proceed with my orders.”
The masked man gestured to the others of his team, and their numbers fanned out, several to each level of the prison. Their silent communications, their alacrity in obeying their leader instilled admiration in Bane.
Ducard continued around the shaft. “Can you climb, Temujin?” he asked without looking back at the man.
“I hope you do not mean without a rope,” the Mongol joked, his levity in this atmosphere striking even to Bane.
One corner of Ducard’s mustache twitched upward. “Only if you prefer one.”
They came to where one of the black ropes reached the steps. Ducard handed it to Temujin, then retrieved a second line nearby. He gave it to Abrams.
“Tie it around yourself, Mr. Abrams. My men at the surface will pull you up.”
“No,” Abrams said. “Take the kid up first.”
“There are other ropes,” Ducard pointed out. “No need for anyone to wait. I will help Bane up the shaft.”
Though Bane knew he truly needed assistance, the prospect irritated him. Ducard might think him an invalid, but Bane wished to prove himself otherwise, no matter how outwardly battered he may appear. He reached for the rope. When Abrams stepped forward to help him, Bane brushed him off, shook his head. Abrams seemed to understand and backed off.
Shortly after Bane began his ascent, gunfire erupted below, and for a time the world became nothing more than screams and the roar of endless rounds echoing from the corridors below. Ignoring Abrams’s curses off to his left, Bane felt nothing except a dull satisfaction as he remembered the day Melisande had been brutalized. His only regret was that it was not under his own hand that those men now died.
As he was gradually pulled upward, Bane had little to do but use his feet to fend himself away from the rough wall. Ducard remained just below him, in case Bane should require his aid. Bane never looked down, paid no attention to the waning gunfire far below, never allowed even a final glance back at his only home. Instead he stared upward at the sky, the mouth of the shaft growing ever larger. He tried to ignore the fact that he trembled in fear from head to toe. The thing he had always desired lay before him—not as a temporary thing, as when he had injured his spine, but as a permanence. So, why was he not elated? Momentarily he closed his burning eyes. The injuries…they robbed him of his triumph. He knew they were irreversible and that they would try to dictate how he would live his new life. Could he overcome them? And who would be there to help him? In the pit, he had knowledge of everything, but up there…he knew nothing and no one.
Past the ledges near the top of the shaft. It seemed a lifetime ago that he had stood upon the first one. The memory of his fall shook him, but he banished it. Never again would that shaft and its ledges mock him.
One of Ducard’s men reached over the lip of the shaft, and Bane stretched an arm upward. The man—as impassive as those below—gripped him and helped him over the side.
Lightheaded and blinded by the hot sun, Bane bent over, hands braced upon his rubbery legs, panting. He closed his eyes, his heart racing.
Someone gasped nearby, small and high-pitched…not a man; a sound that was somehow…familiar…
Slowly, his head throbbing and seeming to weigh more than the rest of his body, he looked up, squinting beneath the encroaching bandages. Then his heart seemed to stop beating, his lungs suddenly robbed of oxygen.
From only a few steps away, standing near a truck, Talia stared at him, pale and frightened. She retreated a step, as if repulsed by the sight of him.
Her reaction crushed Bane, brought tears to his searing eyes, ripped away what little strength he had left, drove him to his knees. He dropped his gaze into the blazing dust.
“Bane?”
Her tiny, tentative voice could not lift his head. He pressed his eyelids shut. Never, never had he imagined such pain, far more powerful than that which sought to destroy his body; this…this was something in his very soul. He wanted to return to the pit, to the cloaking darkness. He did not want her to have to look upon him, not that way…
“Bane!”
Recognition now in her voice, she ran to him, dropped to the dirt in front of him, touched his arm. He felt her other hand against Melisande’s blanket.
“Bane,” she repeated tearfully. She took a hold of his right hand, kissed his crippled small finger, as she had for the past seven years, then she pressed his hand to her wet cheek. “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry…” She began to sob.
Bane lifted his head, touched her opposite cheek with his left hand, shook his head. “No,” he managed to force through the gauze. “No.”
She nodded. “It’s all my fault. I’m so sorry…”
Again he shook his head, pulled her into his arms.
“I shouldn’t have told Greyson that I’m a girl. I didn’t mean to. It’s all my fault…”
Bane pressed her tightly against his shoulder, tried to stifle her words. Soon her sobs drowned the endless apologies, and the two of them sat in the dust, clinging to one another as the merciless sun beat down upon them.
), there are a lot of "daddy issues" going on in RFD (with more to come 
).
