The day was scorching. The aroma of lemon-groves drifted across the air. Harry wiped his brow with a handkerchief as he gazed down upon the turquoise Mediterranean from the tree he was sitting in. A bee buzzed past his left hand, which clutched the empty gun. The last shot had missed. He had given away his position without taking a shot. “Damn bee!” he yelled tumbling to the ground. Laying wounded, he howled to the wind. Once standing, he ran for cover. Miguel had it out for him, this had been his last chance. He had to decide what to do next. Allow the new canal to go through, or die.
"Give it up, Harry!" Came Miquel's hated voice.
Slowly turning -- beads of sweat falling from his forehead blinding his eyes momentarily. As his vision returned Harry spoke, "I will never give up my ancestors' land!"
"Your ancestors, gringo?" Miguel snarled, as he aimed his rifle at Harry's heart. “They’re waiting for you!”
Harry wondered if it would hurt to be shot. He'd never been shot before. But still, if he could just make it to that boulder, he could kick it loose, letting it roll down the slope, distract Miquel long enough to grab the knife hidden in his underarm sheath. He fell flat on his face, uttering: "Ouch! I thought the knife was in my underarm sheath."
"Hey Harry, what you doin'...break-dancin'..?" laughed Miguel, as he placed his foot on Harry's head. "You're not gettin' away!"
Doomed, Harry thought, as miraculously, that former pesky bee lit upon Miguel's nose and promptly stung him, causing him to drop his rifle right next to Harry's right hand.
"Owwwwww!" Miguel started howling like a baby. "I'm allergic!"
Harry jumped up with the rifle firmly gripped in his hands. "Ha! Are you also allergic to death, compadre?" He smiled, "Either