47- Aftereffects of the Mountain Fall

  Then two shadows appeared on the rim. People.

  The hitman was unable to determine how far away they were. He was delirious from the pain. He did, though, manage to raise an arm and wave it back and forth. In the dim light, the fading sun cast a glint off his wristwatch and acted as a beacon.

  The two travelers saw him and rushed forward.

  When he awoke, Agent 47 saw a flickering light dancing across a stony ceiling. Icy stalactites hung like daggers but were in no danger of falling on him.

  He was in a cave of some sort.

  The assassin turned his head.

  A campfire. A man and a woman, bundled up, sitting close to the warmth. They weren’t Caucasian. Nepalese, most likely. Maybe Tibetan.

  The woman glanced at him and muttered something. They both got up and moved closer to him. They spoke a language 47 didn’t understand.

  He tried to raise himself, but the pain shot through his back and he nearly cried out. The woman spoke comforting words and gently pushed him down. He was lying on a fur blanket. She said something else, crawled away, and then returned with a bowl of hot liquid.

  Yak butter soup with grain barley on the side.

  Although it tasted absolutely horrible, Agent 47 consumed it voraciously, as if it was his final meal on earth.

  The Nepalese nomads sewed up the bullet wound and nursed the assassin for two weeks in their private ice cave on the side of Kangchenjunga. From what Agent 47 could fathom, the couple had left civilization quite some time ago. Perhaps they were hiding from the Chinese in Tibet. The husband made monthly trips down to one of the villages to stock up on food and supplies. Their home was well furnished and comfortable—for a cavern. Agent 47 thought the couple might be a little crazy from the seclusion, but at least they knew how to care for him.

  At last, 47 was well enough to leave. The Nepalese man accompanied the hitman down Kangchenjunga. Using the couple’s climbing equipment, a seven-hour trip took twice as long due to 47’s discomfort. At the end, though, Agent 47 found himself on solid, flat ground. He paid the man from the money he had in his pocket. At first the hermit refused, but the assassin insisted. They parted ways with a handshake.

  The pain was still severe. Simply walking was a chore.

  He checked in to a hospital in Kathmandu and discovered that he was suffering from a spinal disc herniation. His sciatic nerve was under constant bombardment from the pressure. The doctor told him that anti-inflammatory drugs and painkillers were the best approach but that 47 should get plenty of bed rest for about six weeks. The hitman took the man’s advice, checked into a fleabag hotel, and dosed himself with oxycodone and naproxen sodium tablets.

  After two weeks, he limped like a cripple to an Internet café and tried to contact Diana. Every line of communication to her was broken. He checked the secure server where he picked up messages from the Agency. There were several for him, asking him to contact ICA if he received them. They most likely assumed he was dead. Tellingly, there was no mention of Diana.

  It took fourteen weeks before Agent 47 was finally pain free. He thanked the doctor and left Nepal with a three-month supply of the painkillers.

- Hitman: Damnation, chapter 18