Beyond The Grave
A James Bond novel
By Lee's Ghost
Chapter One The Roar of the Lion
The day was warm, but not overly humid; that was a welcome change. The past few weeks had been in the high nineties and sent many to the stenches of beaches near the English Channel for a long bath in the clear waters. But not those in the Lion café, they had seen to many hot days to be warded away. After all, most were to ancient to climb into cars and drive for days on end anyway.
The Lion café itself was as old as it's most religious visitors. Built in 1900 it had survived two World Wars and twice as many attempts of Foreclosure. Each time the café was in distress a kind soul had breathed new life into it. Although owners and names had changed like seasons, two things had always been counted on: good coffee and a laidback atmosphere.
The café was never cluttered with tourists. This was because there wasn't a decent view of the Eiffel Tower, which stood some six blocks away. But some did venture in every once and awhile so no one paid any mind when two young men had entered.
They sat at a table by the window, glancing at the cars flying by.
The taller of the two, a heavyset black man, scowled into his coffee cup. He spoke in a low whisper, "Are you sure this is the right place?" he asked in English.
"Its what he wanted," said the man in a not quite French accent, it sounded as if it belonged in New Orleans. "Are you going to argue with that?"
"No, but come on," he tried to reason. "Look at 'em; it's like stabbing my grandma!"
"Which you would do happily, if she had a million dollars! We do it, end of story!"
The teller man groaned and said, "Okay."
The men waved for their bill and left without a word of thanks. A waiter began clearing their dishes. He noticed a black leather briefcase under the table and picked it up. A second later it exploded.
The force shattered the windows and sent chucks of brick flying in all directions. The two men were four blocks away when they held the blast. Both grinned, the black man a little more reluctantly. A car pulled up and the man from New Orleans exclaimed, "Ah our get away car!"
Even before he could open the door a 9mm pistol was poking out of the window. The diver fired and the man was pulled backward his face drenched in blood. The black man stared in horror and he backed away when he saw the weapon was leveled at him.
"No! You need us! N…" his plea was cut short by a bullet to the throat.
….
Aaricia Durand rubbed her hazel eyes and groaned when she noticed her cell phone woke her an hour before her alarm would have. "Yes?" she said in a groggy voice.
"Its Phil," said her fellow homicide detective, an ex French Foreign Legion officer who originally came from Wisconsin. "Sorry to wake you on your day off but we got a bad one. Press is having a field day. More bodies then the Moscow train bombings."
"Where?" she asked.
"It's the Lion, Aaricia," he said.
Her breath hitched in her chest. Oh God! Her Uncle had just brought the place six months ago.
"Aaricia, just get your ass down here and we'll catch the sonsabitiches."
…
She pulled her car in front of the ruins of the café and got out. Police were already hard at work, the first thing that caught her eye were two words scrawled on what remained of the back wall: Le Chiffre.