Foreword
Thanks to all those who helped me in writing this: SiCo and scaramanga1; and of course Ian Fleming, who without, James Bond, ajb.co.uk and the movie-
goers interest in the world of spies and espionage wouldn't exist.
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Intelligence Services Act 1994: "The purpose of MI6 is to obtain and provide information relating to the actions or intentions of persons outside the British Islands, and perform
other tasks relating to these in relation to the interests of national
security".
Flirting With Danger
By Dean Flisst
Chapter 1 - The Man with the Briefcase
Deale walked down the road inconspicuously, there was no danger, he tried to laugh in his head but his nerves were choking him. Every moment he looked over his shoulder in anticipation and fear of a tail. Nobody knows! Nobody even knows who I am; thinking positive thoughts gave Deale a glimpse of the peaceful future. In 10 minutes the money would be safe to drop off, and then nobody had a reason to attack.
But Deale still had the money; the silver briefcase was handcuffed by the handle to his right wrist, the chains covered by his jacket sleeve. He walked down the busy street with his left facing the traffic road. People didn't notice him, he was just another nameless face going somewhere, and with the dozens of people hurrying past him, he seemed the least suspicious in the crowd. But did he, he noticed his slow pace and sped up.
The weather was clear for December, snow was forecasted but the grey skies showed know signs of obeying. Music blared from a passing Black cab and Deale started, don't worry, be calm, his self assurance was all he had. Contact with HQ was forbidden, if the money was intercepted, MI6 would be linked to the mission, and the national security's priorities and trust would be slandered. No, if Deale was to go in, he would go in alone.
His possessions were stripped, his driving licence was taken, and his wedding ring was removed; MI6 took no chances in their agent being the link between them and a top secret mission.
Deale could see the drop off point 50 metres away on the opposite side of the road, he needed to cross now, if it looked like he wasn't going there, he would feel more secure in himself.
He was doing well, third mission since he became an agent, they had all been similar, just surveillance or dropping something off somewhere. Usually agents didn't need to know what was in the case they were carrying, but M himself had summoned Deale to his office.
"Listen closely, we don't want any fuss with this one Deale, simple mission, drop off the case, don't look shifty. I would give this assignment to a 00 agent, but we can't risk them being recognised; you are the ideal man for this job.
Normally, the contents of a drop off would remain classified, but the importance of your success is immense. 2 days ago, a group of four men, who had been under Scotland Yard's observation, were found buying illegal weapons from an unknown source, they met at a chosen destination: the buyers' house, and carried out the transaction, the seller remained at the house. Scotland Yard followed them back to their residence and set up a watch on them.
When the go ahead was given, twelve police officers stormed the house, armed with Sub-Machine guns and came face to face with around 20 not four men. There was a tragic shooting within the house, and police outside were unaware of what was happening inside. The officers were taken as hostages in the house, the armed men shouted out to the two unmarked police vans across the road that four had been shot, and the others were captive. Whether this is true or not, we do not know.
What happened next was despicable and horrific, an assailant of the terrorists who was across the street, and the police were unaware of, pulled two silenced pistols from his coat and shot the four men stationary in the unmarked vans.
When reinforcements arrived, the vans were gone and the house being used by the kidnappers was aflame, a ransom note was left on the pavement where the vans had been, inside a police mans hat; DNA tests have confirmed that the hat belonged to Officer Kevin Blake, one of the charred corpses found in the wreckage of the house.
Now listen here Deale and listen well, Scotland Yard have passed the matter onto MI6, we run the investigation from here. As the head of Scotland Yard is a very good friend of mine, she has requested that I take up the matter personally. The families of the missing officers have been informed and instructed that as long as they remain silent to the media, they will be updated daily on the case.
So far though, we have no leads on the kidnappers, only that there are around twenty people involved in the kidnapping; Scotland Yard believes that the seller of the weapons is in on the act, and that he led the police to the house purposely, and the kidnapping was planned.
"And the note?"
"Those bastards demand £50,000 for each of the eight hostages. But as you know Deale, MI6 does not bargain with terrorists. It never has, and as long as I am in charge, it damn well never will.
Deale respected M, he was brave, and even though he was rarely seen in the field, from behind that desk, he had just as much of an impact as any 00 agent there.
Deale was going over the mission plan in his head, he had the money here in the briefcase, all £400,000 of it. The terrorists instructed that it be left in the women's toilets in the Harrod's store in Knightsbridge, London. He was told by M to do as instructed, and MI6 backup would be ready to arrest. Deale was 10 metres away from the store. The streets were busy, one lane of traffic was moving slowly, cars had to swerve to miss the kerb- mounted saloon, Deale looked inside but the driver wasn't there.
Ha, he laughed to himself, he probably had to go to the toilet stuck in this jam.
The parked car exploded almost instantly, Deale didn't even get time to think about what the noise was. The force of the bomb ripped through the metal body of the car like paper, the windows of the Harrod's store blew out and the glass flew backwards into the store in shards, following the already dead customers in mid-air. The cars in the lane by the bomb were flipped by the might of the blast, and they rolled across each other and pedestrians as though they were weightless.
Pedestrians 100 metres away had chance to duck to avoid pieces of jagged metal and brick. Those 10 metres away were torn into parts unrecognisable anymore; they were hauled from the pavement and into the air. The many customers inside Harrod's were scarred by the glass, some lucky enough to survive the blast.
Deale however was dead, he was the closest to the bomb when it went off.
A man from inside the store walked across the debris and over the casualties, unperturbed; he was leaving. He stepped out of the entrance doors and covered his mouth with his sleeve to stop the thick black smoke harming him. He knelt down where Deale was stood and looked around, 30 metres down the street lay the silver briefcase now scorched black by the fire and force of the bomb. He picked it up and carried on walking down the street, leaving the scene of chaos, death and destruction behind him. The smouldering car and burning building made smoke 100 metres high. Maybe it was this the police saw as a sign of turmoil, but the police Land Rovers and screeching sirens of the ambulances only arrived as the coat of the man holding briefcase swept around the corner of the road.
Chapter 2 - Twice as Sweet as Sugar
"We're in a state of emergency here Bond. Police dead, an MI6 employee murdered, and we have 8 members of the anti-terrorism branch of Scotland Yard being held hostage God knows where. The ransom money Deale had was enclosed in a titanium case, as requested by the kidnappers; at the time we thought nothing of it, our main concern was a clean trade. The bomb destroyed the store, killed Deale and humiliated MI6; now the money is in the hands of the kidnappers and they still have the hostages."
Bond remained still and silent, leaning forward on the auburn chair in M's office. The odds were that if you opened a dictionary you'd find an emotion shown on M's face. He was more frantic than Bond had ever seen him. Bond took another sip of the Conjak M had already poured for him when he arrived. He relished the taste, drinking it reminded him of every meeting he had had with his boss. Drinking his preferred beverage was an indication of a successful mission or the beginning of a new one.
M's face was prominent, he was staring hard into his glass, for the first time Bond had seen, M had his jacket over the back of his chair; through his white shirt Bond could see he was sweating.
The clock on the wall to the left read ten past ten; Bond had been awoken at nine by a phone call from Moneypenny, she spoke urgently and stated that MI6 had a crisis on their hands. A phrase Bond had heard a great deal too often. His morning with the Swiss miss was cut short, Bond felt deprived, he was going to ask her name when she awoke as well.
"Right.."
M didn't look up while talking to his favoured agent, he kept is eyes on the Conjak he was swirling around the bottom of his glass.
"Listen here Bond, you know the case so far, and you have been briefed on the situation by Mr. Tanner. Yes? Good. This morning, the Scotland Yard police matched a fingerprint, found outside the house where the police were first taken hostage, on a bottle, with a database profile. The man has been identified as "the weapons dealer", going on a description of the man given by the police before they stormed the house. His name is Daniel "TK" Hilton; does this name mean anything to you Bond?"
Bond's eyes were fixed on M, he didn't look away when he answered, the exact opposite of what M was doing to him.
"Daniel Hilton, a.k.a Trevor Kinnock, hence the TK. An Irish terrorist, born in 1951, now 32; he has been linked to the IRA frequently but has never been caught in the act; an ex- British army solider, killed his commanding officer in 1975 on campus. He fled to Ireland where he became a key member of the terrorist act. Has expert knowledge on the British army, knows the ins and outs of more or less every gun we use.
He was sighted in France last year, on unknown business, presumably arms dealing. So we - well you - sent an agent to kill him. The trouble is, Hilton was reported dead, shot by 001 outside a bank in Cannes." Bond finished in a sense of confusion.
"Yes Bond, all correct .
God damn it! Hilton was never shot; we sent 001 to France, working through a list of assailants he found that Hilton was currently in Cannes. This was a lie, 001 never spoke to anybody, as soon as he got off the plane he went straight to Hilton's hotel and told him MI6 were onto him.
I am sorry to be the one to tell you this Bond, 001 is on Hilton's side, he is an insider for the IRA, and of course the Irish government deny any knowledge of this at all."
Bond was furious, fury didn't even stretch far enough to express the hatred he was feeling. He had trusted 001, he trusted everybody at MI6, and to have that trust betrayed, and spat upon by a traitor, that was an insult to her majesty's government. Bond always saw national security and any other upholders of the law as a representative of what the world is good at and needs so much, fighters of crime. To let a conspirator get within the secret service was disgusting. Never had such a thing happened at MI6 before.
"So where is Flint now?" Bond didn't regard Warren Flint as a man worthy of the 00 status anymore.
"Our only guess is with Hilton, and the terrorists. That bomb that was set off was to kill Deale and hopefully escape with the money unnoticed. MI6 doesn't stand for this sort of humiliation, Bond. I need you to go and find Hilton, you have worked with Flint before, get inside his mind, and it could be Hilton's only slip up recruiting him.
Bring back the hostages, kill Hilton, and if necessary Flint. Don't get caught or MI6 will deny all knowledge, all we need is the IRA finding out we have spies in Ireland. And Bond, do try and find the money, the prime minister will want to know what happened to it.
Q is in the lab, ask him for your armoury supplies and passport, you leave from Heathrow at 1:00 to Ireland, the database has found one Thomas Dean, a former associate of Hilton's from the 70s, persuade him to help us. As you know, MI6's job is to work on cases in places out of the British Islands, MI5 should be left to handle Hilton, but as they think he is dead, we'll keep this one for ourselves. I should think Q will have some gadgetry for you to take with you as well."
Bond set down the glass and walked from the room without bidding M farewell, a mission in Ireland was hardly comparative to the likes of Japan or Las Vegas, but Bond knew that the job would take him around the world form the beginning. An agent alone in the midst of a terrorism crisis with England was hardly relaxing, but Bond didn't complain; he wanted to get hold of Flint, him even more so than Hilton. Both deserved to die, they had both betrayed their own nation, and the crime of that in Bond's mind was unforgivable.
The door closed silently behind Bond as he walked into Moneypenny's office, she looked up and a smile spread on her face. He returned the gesture with a forced grin; he had nothing to smile about.
"Do bring me something back, won't you James? I always envy the way you tour the world, while I am here answering phone calls." Her smile remained exposed.
"I'm sorry if your days in my service aren't as appealing as 007's, but please keep it to yourself, Bond has places to be. Well, what are you waiting for Bond?"
The sketchy voice coming out of the worn looking speaker on Moneypenny's neat desk was M's; his sarcasm was unswayable even facing the prospect of an investigation into MI6's careless handling of cases; Moneypenny tutted.
"Don't forget James, I expect a present." She winked.
"Don't worry my Moneypenny, only the best for you."
Bond got a hold of himself in the corridor, as he leant against the wall, his mind swimming with thoughts, he realised that this was just another mission, find the contact, establish a location on Hilton, move in to finish the assignment. After this, Bond felt a little jubilant, he needn't make anything personal by regarding his and Flint's relationship as an obstacle.
Bond's walk began to lighten too, by the time he was down the stairs and outside Q's lab; it was nothing short of a swagger. With his left hand in his trouser pocket, he pushed open the glass door with his right.
"Ahh 007, nice of you to join us. This is Dr. Ovene, my new assistant; he is here to test his knowledge on science and weapons to help MI6 agents in the field. Ovene, this is James Bond, agent 007."
Dr. Ovene nodded politely to Bond, Bond greeted him kindly. Q turned to the Doctor and told him to fetch something from the other side of the room; Bond looked around the lab; as always it was full of mishaps and curious experiments Bond would prefer to keep a safe distance away from.
"Ah, thank you Doctor." Q put the silver briefcase onto a paper ridden table and clicked the number locks into the correct place, they read 102.
"Oh Q, that's a bit silly, what if somebody knows your age and works out the lock?"
"Oh grow up 007, and pay a little respect to your elders!"
Q opened the case like a genius revealing the world's development. Inside was a layer of softened sponge with hollows for objects. A German-made 7.65mm holding six shots Walther PPK, black and glistening under the coat of polish lay there; opposite was a black silencer, a piece of equipment vital for stealth focussed missions. Bond had grown attached to the gun; it seemed like another life when he carried a Beretta model in his shoulder holster. Underneath the Walther sat a wristwatch, the logo on the watch authenticated it as a genuine Seiko timepiece. A box of matches, a packet of Benson and Hedges cigarettes and a Parker fountain pen finalised the case of paraphernalia.
"Now Bond, it is essential you listen, for once" Bond smirked, Q frowned, the wrinkles on his face showed stress and evidence of eternal clashes between him and Bond.
"This is your new Walther; it carries 6 shots still, an addition to the usual 6 though, the last bullet is a highly explosive capsule; it has power enough to unhinge a metal door, or to pierce body armour. This is a run of the mill silencer, which must be removed before the final bullet is fired, the bullet's diameter is too large for the barrel of the silencer, and we don't want you exploding yourself along with a perfectly fine weapon now do we.
This watch is a Seiko Premier SMA165P, useable in any terrain, any weather and 1000m water proof. Now thanks to me, it has a built in homing device, twist the face of the watch 180° clockwise, 180° back to initiate the signal; it can be seen anywhere on the new Q branch Signal Finder.
Bond, take heed closely here, these cigarettes are not for smoking, and God forbid what should happen if you tried. There are 10 cigarettes in this pack, 5 are genuine, and the other 5 are duds. See the little brown Q on the but of some of them, that means they can be used by you; remove one of the Q cigarettes and light it, the tobacco has been replaced with a fine and extremely flammable dust, it will burn down to the butt in around 4 seconds.
Now, the stub of the cigarette has a C4 component, any sense of fire and it will explode, so I suggest throwing a lit one away. The other 5 are triggers, and when pulled from the casing, it will detonate the entire packet; and seeing that there are 5 cylinders of C4, I wouldn't want to be the one doing the pulling."
Bond raised an eyebrow, "I'm sure you wouldn't Q."
Q paid no attention.
"These last 2 items are also not what they appear to me. The simple household box of matches has been transformed into a Morse code pager, open the outer shell to reveal the button, use it to key in your message, which will be received by Q branch.
And finally, this ordinary ball point Parker pen has been transformed into a handy tool. Keep clicking the pen to reveal a lock pick, able to open over 75% of the world's locks.
That's all Bond, have fun in Ireland.
Chapter 3 - The Winner takes all
On the plane, Bond read and re-read the briefing Tanner had wrote back at MI6. It contained a list of names and photographs of everybody involved in the assignment. Hilton was at the top of the page, a young smiling face represented his untroubled childhood, who knew if they looked at this picture, that now he was a murderer, a terrorist, a kidnapper and was on the run from the law. His age and facial descriptions were noted underneath his name. Bond had never met him, but he was sure that the small tattoo on the inside of his index finger would still be there. It read - TK, Bond presumed he had it done when he was a youth, as he had changed his name to the alias Hilton around his 20th birthday to avoid recognition.
Flint was second on the list, but most important overall. Bond recognised the gaunt eyes of Flint from this MI6 photograph, he and Flint had laughed about how surprised he looked in the portrait. Bond wondered then, when they were close friends and joking, was Flint working for the IRA?
On the back of the file was a list of the hostages. One name stood out. Joanna Brestluck; he had met her at a party last Christmas; she looked stunning in that radiant red silk dress. Her hair fell cleanly over her face, and Bond remembered that she had the most beautiful eyes. Blue, blue and silver, sparkling like polished sapphires.
As the passengers began to leave the plane, Bond remained seated, he wanted to wait and see if everybody else got off safely, there was a gentleman that looked remarkably like Bond, and as long as he walked out of the airport freely, there was no reason Bond shouldn't. It was just a precaution in case the meeting with Dean was a set up.
He was depicted in an MI6 photograph as a young man, with long blond hair and a handle bar moustache. Bond was sure he would have changed since the 1970s, at least the fashions certainly had. Bond looked around, his briefcase in his right hand.
Sat in the airport lounge was a man, reading a newspaper and drinking from a pint glass of ale. His hair was short but still blindingly blond. Surely it was him, so Bond approached.
"Do you know the score in the England v Ireland match?" Bond quizzed.
"Yeah . were whippin' your arses." He had a strong Irish accent, sounded like a Dubliner.
"Come on lets go."
Dean led the way away from the chairs towards the men's bathroom. The door with the man on it was at the end of a long corridor, Dean just had his hand on the knob when Bond brought the briefcase down on his head with supreme force, making a dull thud and resulting in Dean being knocked out.
Bond dropped into a squat and examined Dean's hands, and sure enough, on his left index finger was a small tattoo - JN. Bond had noticed it while Dean was drinking, and was sure that either the real Dean was killed and replaced or that this was Dean and he was still an active IRA operative.
Inside Dean's coat pocket was a note with the name of a street on it. Bond quickly went outside and hailed a taxi.
"Munford street, please."
The driver took 2 minutes to get there, and guessing by his 60 year old build, he had been around these streets for years. On Munford Street Bond exited and paid the driver, across the road, through the mist Bond could see a house, its entrance flanked by 2 callous looking men, each 6 foot tall and muscular.
Bond took the Walther from his briefcase and slid it up his sleeve (silencer attached) until it reached his elbow, and then he put his hand inside his jacket. The cigarettes and matches he put in his back pocket, the watch on his wrist and the pen in his shirt pocket. He looked represent able and business like when he approached the building.
"What do you want?"
One of the guards demanded. The other was silent and staring.
"To see HK." He put on a thick Irish accent.
"And what business do you bring, Mr .?"
"Hurst, John Hurst." Bond thought it not wise to use his real name when Flint and Hilton could be in the building he was trying to enter.
"Very well Mr. Hurst, I will escort to Mr. HK's office. That is if you don't mind a quick frisk first?"
"Not at all, what's the score in the footy?"
"2-1 to them Blighters"
"Damn it, wish they'd stop being so cocky. Argh, please, be careful with the arm, its fractured."
"Oh sorry sir, If you would follow me."
The goon led the way while Bond followed; the other doorman took his eyes back to the foggy road. There was a lift around the corner, the whole building was pretty old, and the wood was rotting on the ceiling. Two more men defended the lift. They made a gap for Bond and the doorman to get through. In the shabby elevator, the man pressed 3 on the keypad. He was just about to say something when Bond pushed the gun into his face.
"Stop it at 2."
He dropped the Irish voice and the man looked scared, but he did as he was told.
"Where's Kinnock? Is he here?" The man shook his head.
"What about Flint?" The man nodded his head. "What floor? 3?" He nodded. "Is he heavily guarded?" The man shook his head.
"Where's Kinnock? Does he have the hostages?"
"Yes, he's at Aldridge warehouses, Number 14."
Bond whacked the man in the back of the skull with the base of his Walther, rendering him unconscious. Bond pulled the gun from the man's holster. A Beretta 92 Brigadier FS, 15 bullets in a magazine; not one of this gun was spent. Blood began to seep from his head, Bond didn't know if he was dead or not, he presumed the latter. Bond took the magazine and emptied it over the lift floor.
Bond pushed the safety hammer from the left side of the gun up. He started up the lift again, the light moved quickly from number 2 to 3. The lift pinged and the doors opened.
Behind his desk, Flint looked up towards the lift; it was directly ahead of him. He saw Bond and didn't even have time to register he was there. Bond's hand pulled the trigger once, Flint fell backwards off his chair and the papers he was reading went everywhere.
Bond stalked across the room, his gun raised at head level, there was nobody else here, and it seemed the defences were below. There were pillars holding up the ceiling, and there were boxes scattered over the dusty wooden floor. Bond walked behind the desk and saw Flint with his hand in the drawer, he heard the sound of a gun cock, and Bond shot him in the arm.
"Stop!" Bond ignored Flint's pleads, he stamped his foot down on the shot arm. Flint screamed.
"No one can here you up here. Now, are the hostages safe?"
"Argh . yes, yes . 4 died in the shooting, Hilton has the rest. Please, James, I was just following orders, I didn't know-"
"Don't you dare speak to me like a friend, you betrayed me Flint, and you disgraced MI6. Why should I let you live? There's no point in you living. I treated you like a friend."
"James, I didn't know, he said it would be over soon. He made me help him."
"Sorry Warren, Hilton isn't here to help you now."
"NOOOOOO!!!"
Bond blasted 3 more bullets into Flint's legs, he fell silent, the blood started to ooze. He was unconscious.
Bond nudged him with his foot, he didn't move, the look of resentment on Bond's face was fearsome. He had killed the traitor, now he needed to find the terrorist. Before Bond left, he checked Flint; he had no identification or money. He had clearly been in this office in hiding. He had 2 shoulder holsters. In one, he found a Sig Sauer P226, and in the other a Glock 32. In an ankle holster he found a Smith & Wesson 686. In the drawer was a Desert Eagle .50. Bond took the Desert Eagle with him; after all, he only had one bullet left in his PK. If this was what Flint had been given for protection, Bond didn't even dare think about what Hilton was armed with.
Bond took off his watch and set the tracker on, he dropped it onto the body of Flint. Then he sent a message to Q -
FLINT IS HERE WITH WATCH SIGNAL, GETTING HILTON, ALDRIDGE WAREHOUSE 14, SEND BACK-UP.
Back outside, Bond found that the other doorman was still there; Bond put the Eagle and the Walther back inside his jacket and walked past.
"Where's Johnny?" he asked Bond, Bond presumed he meant the other goon.
"He's got a bit of a headache. He asked you to go and give him a lift." The guard ran off inside the building.
Bond looked at the gun, what a weapon, is power put the PPK to shame, yet in style and sexiness, the Walther outstripped the menacing American pistol.
Chapter 4 - Killer of the Innocents
Bond saw a black Mercedes Benz parked across the road; Bond guessed it was either Johnny's or his friend's. He elbowed the glass out of the driver's window and opened the door, no alarm was raised. He removed the Parker pen from his shirt pocket and clicked the lock pick into place, it fitted perfectly into the ignition, and the low groan of the engine showed that the car was ready to go.
The streets were wet with yesterday's rain, and the sky was pale grey. The tyres only had a fair grip on the road, but Bond drove speedily all the same. A signpost signalled the next turn off was for Aldridge industrial zone. Bond slowly moved the steering wheel around with ease. The car was spotless and smelled new, it was clear that whoever had owned the car took great pride in its appearance.
The turn off narrowed into a small road, just wide enough for a HGV to squeeze through, tracks that appeared after the puddles in the road turned left; Bond followed. The road led to an open space, surrounded by warehouses, shutters drawn across the majority of the 60ft faces. A red 14 caught Bond's eye, it was the warehouse nearest on the left; Bond pulled the car up outside and got out. He left the keys inside and the doors unlocked; he didn't know if a quick escape was in order.
As he approached the shutter, voices could be heard, arguing. Bond took to the side of the building and found a small door that was unlocked, it opened inwards and Bond pushed it slowly open. The warehouse was bare, save for chains hanging from the ceiling and boxes in the corners.
"He's wrong, we should kill them know."
"I've told you, we can get more money, and he says that the dibble are worth a million."
The two Irish men were in dispute, Bond could see the worried looking one had a beard, and a red nose; the other was bald and was wearing a woollen hat. They both had their backs to him.
Bond crept in, he was sure there would be more people here. Bond sidled down the wall online with the door, the two men were unaware. Bond pulled out his Walther, it still had the silencer attached and Bond was ready with his last shot, "Just give me a clean target".
He reached the end of the wall, and there was another door, he opened it silently, the sight that came upon him would be terrifying if he hadn't seen it so many times before. About 15 men some armed with what looked like Heckler & Koch's. One man stood on a balcony that lead from the stairs, this was Hilton, he had a handgun and his shirt was undone at the collar. Behind him in what appeared to be his office were several figures, all knelt in a corner with bags on their heads, Bond couldn't tell if they were dead or not. A gun cocked behind his head.
"Hello mate."
By the voice, Bond guessed it was the man with the hat. Bond froze, damn.
Bond was lead up to the office, jeering came from the men holding guns, some spat at him as he passed.
"Hey, what the fucks going on!" Hilton stopped in his tracks when he saw Bond, his face split into a grin.
"And who might you be?"
"The names Bond, James Bond." There was no point in disguising anymore, with any hope; Q's idea of back up would be here soon, it was 3 minutes since he had called him.
Bond was searched and his equipment was repossessed when he was in Hilton's office. "Ahh the infamous 007" Bond knew that Flint had told Hilton all about him, which was why he was being so patronising. Bond was brought back down into the main space of the warehouse, the men made a circle like wolves moving in on prey.
The man with the hat on kicked Bond to his knees and opened the cigarette packet, the nervous looking one was holding the Walther and the Desert Eagle.
"Mind if I have one of these?"
The man laughed and so did the others, Hilton kept a straight face. He took one of the cigarettes from the packet, "No!" they all looked at Bond, "Let me have one." They all laughed again. The man threw him one and a match, again, luckily a Q one. Bond didn't light it. A man from the crowd called the cigarette holder over.
"So Mr. Bond, what did you expect to do when you got here?"
Bond was looking at what the cigarettes were doing, "Shoot to kill." He answered without looking; another man just pulled a cigarette from the pack, third time lucky. The case blew up in his face, killing him and those surrounding him, Hilton and Bond were blown sideways and landed 15ft away from the explosion.
"No!!!" Screamed the nervous looking man, he raised the Walther and shot at Bond, fortunately for Bond, the last bullet was in the magazine, the explosive one, and as Q had waned against, the silencer was still on. The gun blew up in his face; at least he would see his friends again.
"You bastard"
Hilton was back up, and pointing a revolver at Bond's face, "You're going to pay for that" Bond quickly put the end of the cigarette he was still holding against the flaming corpse of the man with the Walther, then he through it at Hilton, it fell to the floor.
Hilton looked at it, burst out laughing and raised his gun; the cigarette exploded, and blew Hilton back against the wall.
"See, cigarettes will kill you in the end."
Bond collapsed onto the hard floor.
He woke up in the MI6 doctor's ward; M, Q, Moneypenny, Tanner and Doctor Ovene were sitting around his bed. Moneypenny screamed when she saw he was awake.
"Oh James!"
"Excellent job 007, all the hostages were retrieved unharmed and the money was found at the warehouse. Super work, and Q, well done with the gadgets, they saved everyone's lives this time."
Q grinned, "Thank you Sir."
"Did the cigarettes work well Mr. Bond?" Dr. Ovene's face was full of anticipation and curiosity.
"Please Doctor; he's trying to recover" said Q. "Well . did they?"
"In the nicotine of time, you'll have to shorten the fuse on those things Q, I nearly died."
Q looked abashed, M gleeful and Moneypenny ecstatic.
M spoke again, "Now lets leave 007 in peace, he has 2 days to recover before he is put before the board of ministers as to why he blew up a perfectly usable storage facility." M looked totally serious. Bond hoped he was joking.
THE END
SECRET AGENT JAMES BOND WILL RETURN
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Intelligence Services Act 1994: "The purpose of MI6 is to obtain and provide information relating to the actions or intentions of persons outside the British Islands, and perform
other tasks relating to these in relation to the interests of national
security".
Flirting With Danger
By Dean Flisst
Chapter 1 - The Man with the Briefcase
Deale walked down the road inconspicuously, there was no danger, he tried to laugh in his head but his nerves were choking him. Every moment he looked over his shoulder in anticipation and fear of a tail. Nobody knows! Nobody even knows who I am; thinking positive thoughts gave Deale a glimpse of the peaceful future. In 10 minutes the money would be safe to drop off, and then nobody had a reason to attack.
But Deale still had the money; the silver briefcase was handcuffed by the handle to his right wrist, the chains covered by his jacket sleeve. He walked down the busy street with his left facing the traffic road. People didn't notice him, he was just another nameless face going somewhere, and with the dozens of people hurrying past him, he seemed the least suspicious in the crowd. But did he, he noticed his slow pace and sped up.
The weather was clear for December, snow was forecasted but the grey skies showed know signs of obeying. Music blared from a passing Black cab and Deale started, don't worry, be calm, his self assurance was all he had. Contact with HQ was forbidden, if the money was intercepted, MI6 would be linked to the mission, and the national security's priorities and trust would be slandered. No, if Deale was to go in, he would go in alone.
His possessions were stripped, his driving licence was taken, and his wedding ring was removed; MI6 took no chances in their agent being the link between them and a top secret mission.
Deale could see the drop off point 50 metres away on the opposite side of the road, he needed to cross now, if it looked like he wasn't going there, he would feel more secure in himself.
He was doing well, third mission since he became an agent, they had all been similar, just surveillance or dropping something off somewhere. Usually agents didn't need to know what was in the case they were carrying, but M himself had summoned Deale to his office.
"Listen closely, we don't want any fuss with this one Deale, simple mission, drop off the case, don't look shifty. I would give this assignment to a 00 agent, but we can't risk them being recognised; you are the ideal man for this job.
Normally, the contents of a drop off would remain classified, but the importance of your success is immense. 2 days ago, a group of four men, who had been under Scotland Yard's observation, were found buying illegal weapons from an unknown source, they met at a chosen destination: the buyers' house, and carried out the transaction, the seller remained at the house. Scotland Yard followed them back to their residence and set up a watch on them.
When the go ahead was given, twelve police officers stormed the house, armed with Sub-Machine guns and came face to face with around 20 not four men. There was a tragic shooting within the house, and police outside were unaware of what was happening inside. The officers were taken as hostages in the house, the armed men shouted out to the two unmarked police vans across the road that four had been shot, and the others were captive. Whether this is true or not, we do not know.
What happened next was despicable and horrific, an assailant of the terrorists who was across the street, and the police were unaware of, pulled two silenced pistols from his coat and shot the four men stationary in the unmarked vans.
When reinforcements arrived, the vans were gone and the house being used by the kidnappers was aflame, a ransom note was left on the pavement where the vans had been, inside a police mans hat; DNA tests have confirmed that the hat belonged to Officer Kevin Blake, one of the charred corpses found in the wreckage of the house.
Now listen here Deale and listen well, Scotland Yard have passed the matter onto MI6, we run the investigation from here. As the head of Scotland Yard is a very good friend of mine, she has requested that I take up the matter personally. The families of the missing officers have been informed and instructed that as long as they remain silent to the media, they will be updated daily on the case.
So far though, we have no leads on the kidnappers, only that there are around twenty people involved in the kidnapping; Scotland Yard believes that the seller of the weapons is in on the act, and that he led the police to the house purposely, and the kidnapping was planned.
"And the note?"
"Those bastards demand £50,000 for each of the eight hostages. But as you know Deale, MI6 does not bargain with terrorists. It never has, and as long as I am in charge, it damn well never will.
Deale respected M, he was brave, and even though he was rarely seen in the field, from behind that desk, he had just as much of an impact as any 00 agent there.
Deale was going over the mission plan in his head, he had the money here in the briefcase, all £400,000 of it. The terrorists instructed that it be left in the women's toilets in the Harrod's store in Knightsbridge, London. He was told by M to do as instructed, and MI6 backup would be ready to arrest. Deale was 10 metres away from the store. The streets were busy, one lane of traffic was moving slowly, cars had to swerve to miss the kerb- mounted saloon, Deale looked inside but the driver wasn't there.
Ha, he laughed to himself, he probably had to go to the toilet stuck in this jam.
The parked car exploded almost instantly, Deale didn't even get time to think about what the noise was. The force of the bomb ripped through the metal body of the car like paper, the windows of the Harrod's store blew out and the glass flew backwards into the store in shards, following the already dead customers in mid-air. The cars in the lane by the bomb were flipped by the might of the blast, and they rolled across each other and pedestrians as though they were weightless.
Pedestrians 100 metres away had chance to duck to avoid pieces of jagged metal and brick. Those 10 metres away were torn into parts unrecognisable anymore; they were hauled from the pavement and into the air. The many customers inside Harrod's were scarred by the glass, some lucky enough to survive the blast.
Deale however was dead, he was the closest to the bomb when it went off.
A man from inside the store walked across the debris and over the casualties, unperturbed; he was leaving. He stepped out of the entrance doors and covered his mouth with his sleeve to stop the thick black smoke harming him. He knelt down where Deale was stood and looked around, 30 metres down the street lay the silver briefcase now scorched black by the fire and force of the bomb. He picked it up and carried on walking down the street, leaving the scene of chaos, death and destruction behind him. The smouldering car and burning building made smoke 100 metres high. Maybe it was this the police saw as a sign of turmoil, but the police Land Rovers and screeching sirens of the ambulances only arrived as the coat of the man holding briefcase swept around the corner of the road.
Chapter 2 - Twice as Sweet as Sugar
"We're in a state of emergency here Bond. Police dead, an MI6 employee murdered, and we have 8 members of the anti-terrorism branch of Scotland Yard being held hostage God knows where. The ransom money Deale had was enclosed in a titanium case, as requested by the kidnappers; at the time we thought nothing of it, our main concern was a clean trade. The bomb destroyed the store, killed Deale and humiliated MI6; now the money is in the hands of the kidnappers and they still have the hostages."
Bond remained still and silent, leaning forward on the auburn chair in M's office. The odds were that if you opened a dictionary you'd find an emotion shown on M's face. He was more frantic than Bond had ever seen him. Bond took another sip of the Conjak M had already poured for him when he arrived. He relished the taste, drinking it reminded him of every meeting he had had with his boss. Drinking his preferred beverage was an indication of a successful mission or the beginning of a new one.
M's face was prominent, he was staring hard into his glass, for the first time Bond had seen, M had his jacket over the back of his chair; through his white shirt Bond could see he was sweating.
The clock on the wall to the left read ten past ten; Bond had been awoken at nine by a phone call from Moneypenny, she spoke urgently and stated that MI6 had a crisis on their hands. A phrase Bond had heard a great deal too often. His morning with the Swiss miss was cut short, Bond felt deprived, he was going to ask her name when she awoke as well.
"Right.."
M didn't look up while talking to his favoured agent, he kept is eyes on the Conjak he was swirling around the bottom of his glass.
"Listen here Bond, you know the case so far, and you have been briefed on the situation by Mr. Tanner. Yes? Good. This morning, the Scotland Yard police matched a fingerprint, found outside the house where the police were first taken hostage, on a bottle, with a database profile. The man has been identified as "the weapons dealer", going on a description of the man given by the police before they stormed the house. His name is Daniel "TK" Hilton; does this name mean anything to you Bond?"
Bond's eyes were fixed on M, he didn't look away when he answered, the exact opposite of what M was doing to him.
"Daniel Hilton, a.k.a Trevor Kinnock, hence the TK. An Irish terrorist, born in 1951, now 32; he has been linked to the IRA frequently but has never been caught in the act; an ex- British army solider, killed his commanding officer in 1975 on campus. He fled to Ireland where he became a key member of the terrorist act. Has expert knowledge on the British army, knows the ins and outs of more or less every gun we use.
He was sighted in France last year, on unknown business, presumably arms dealing. So we - well you - sent an agent to kill him. The trouble is, Hilton was reported dead, shot by 001 outside a bank in Cannes." Bond finished in a sense of confusion.
"Yes Bond, all correct .
God damn it! Hilton was never shot; we sent 001 to France, working through a list of assailants he found that Hilton was currently in Cannes. This was a lie, 001 never spoke to anybody, as soon as he got off the plane he went straight to Hilton's hotel and told him MI6 were onto him.
I am sorry to be the one to tell you this Bond, 001 is on Hilton's side, he is an insider for the IRA, and of course the Irish government deny any knowledge of this at all."
Bond was furious, fury didn't even stretch far enough to express the hatred he was feeling. He had trusted 001, he trusted everybody at MI6, and to have that trust betrayed, and spat upon by a traitor, that was an insult to her majesty's government. Bond always saw national security and any other upholders of the law as a representative of what the world is good at and needs so much, fighters of crime. To let a conspirator get within the secret service was disgusting. Never had such a thing happened at MI6 before.
"So where is Flint now?" Bond didn't regard Warren Flint as a man worthy of the 00 status anymore.
"Our only guess is with Hilton, and the terrorists. That bomb that was set off was to kill Deale and hopefully escape with the money unnoticed. MI6 doesn't stand for this sort of humiliation, Bond. I need you to go and find Hilton, you have worked with Flint before, get inside his mind, and it could be Hilton's only slip up recruiting him.
Bring back the hostages, kill Hilton, and if necessary Flint. Don't get caught or MI6 will deny all knowledge, all we need is the IRA finding out we have spies in Ireland. And Bond, do try and find the money, the prime minister will want to know what happened to it.
Q is in the lab, ask him for your armoury supplies and passport, you leave from Heathrow at 1:00 to Ireland, the database has found one Thomas Dean, a former associate of Hilton's from the 70s, persuade him to help us. As you know, MI6's job is to work on cases in places out of the British Islands, MI5 should be left to handle Hilton, but as they think he is dead, we'll keep this one for ourselves. I should think Q will have some gadgetry for you to take with you as well."
Bond set down the glass and walked from the room without bidding M farewell, a mission in Ireland was hardly comparative to the likes of Japan or Las Vegas, but Bond knew that the job would take him around the world form the beginning. An agent alone in the midst of a terrorism crisis with England was hardly relaxing, but Bond didn't complain; he wanted to get hold of Flint, him even more so than Hilton. Both deserved to die, they had both betrayed their own nation, and the crime of that in Bond's mind was unforgivable.
The door closed silently behind Bond as he walked into Moneypenny's office, she looked up and a smile spread on her face. He returned the gesture with a forced grin; he had nothing to smile about.
"Do bring me something back, won't you James? I always envy the way you tour the world, while I am here answering phone calls." Her smile remained exposed.
"I'm sorry if your days in my service aren't as appealing as 007's, but please keep it to yourself, Bond has places to be. Well, what are you waiting for Bond?"
The sketchy voice coming out of the worn looking speaker on Moneypenny's neat desk was M's; his sarcasm was unswayable even facing the prospect of an investigation into MI6's careless handling of cases; Moneypenny tutted.
"Don't forget James, I expect a present." She winked.
"Don't worry my Moneypenny, only the best for you."
Bond got a hold of himself in the corridor, as he leant against the wall, his mind swimming with thoughts, he realised that this was just another mission, find the contact, establish a location on Hilton, move in to finish the assignment. After this, Bond felt a little jubilant, he needn't make anything personal by regarding his and Flint's relationship as an obstacle.
Bond's walk began to lighten too, by the time he was down the stairs and outside Q's lab; it was nothing short of a swagger. With his left hand in his trouser pocket, he pushed open the glass door with his right.
"Ahh 007, nice of you to join us. This is Dr. Ovene, my new assistant; he is here to test his knowledge on science and weapons to help MI6 agents in the field. Ovene, this is James Bond, agent 007."
Dr. Ovene nodded politely to Bond, Bond greeted him kindly. Q turned to the Doctor and told him to fetch something from the other side of the room; Bond looked around the lab; as always it was full of mishaps and curious experiments Bond would prefer to keep a safe distance away from.
"Ah, thank you Doctor." Q put the silver briefcase onto a paper ridden table and clicked the number locks into the correct place, they read 102.
"Oh Q, that's a bit silly, what if somebody knows your age and works out the lock?"
"Oh grow up 007, and pay a little respect to your elders!"
Q opened the case like a genius revealing the world's development. Inside was a layer of softened sponge with hollows for objects. A German-made 7.65mm holding six shots Walther PPK, black and glistening under the coat of polish lay there; opposite was a black silencer, a piece of equipment vital for stealth focussed missions. Bond had grown attached to the gun; it seemed like another life when he carried a Beretta model in his shoulder holster. Underneath the Walther sat a wristwatch, the logo on the watch authenticated it as a genuine Seiko timepiece. A box of matches, a packet of Benson and Hedges cigarettes and a Parker fountain pen finalised the case of paraphernalia.
"Now Bond, it is essential you listen, for once" Bond smirked, Q frowned, the wrinkles on his face showed stress and evidence of eternal clashes between him and Bond.
"This is your new Walther; it carries 6 shots still, an addition to the usual 6 though, the last bullet is a highly explosive capsule; it has power enough to unhinge a metal door, or to pierce body armour. This is a run of the mill silencer, which must be removed before the final bullet is fired, the bullet's diameter is too large for the barrel of the silencer, and we don't want you exploding yourself along with a perfectly fine weapon now do we.
This watch is a Seiko Premier SMA165P, useable in any terrain, any weather and 1000m water proof. Now thanks to me, it has a built in homing device, twist the face of the watch 180° clockwise, 180° back to initiate the signal; it can be seen anywhere on the new Q branch Signal Finder.
Bond, take heed closely here, these cigarettes are not for smoking, and God forbid what should happen if you tried. There are 10 cigarettes in this pack, 5 are genuine, and the other 5 are duds. See the little brown Q on the but of some of them, that means they can be used by you; remove one of the Q cigarettes and light it, the tobacco has been replaced with a fine and extremely flammable dust, it will burn down to the butt in around 4 seconds.
Now, the stub of the cigarette has a C4 component, any sense of fire and it will explode, so I suggest throwing a lit one away. The other 5 are triggers, and when pulled from the casing, it will detonate the entire packet; and seeing that there are 5 cylinders of C4, I wouldn't want to be the one doing the pulling."
Bond raised an eyebrow, "I'm sure you wouldn't Q."
Q paid no attention.
"These last 2 items are also not what they appear to me. The simple household box of matches has been transformed into a Morse code pager, open the outer shell to reveal the button, use it to key in your message, which will be received by Q branch.
And finally, this ordinary ball point Parker pen has been transformed into a handy tool. Keep clicking the pen to reveal a lock pick, able to open over 75% of the world's locks.
That's all Bond, have fun in Ireland.
Chapter 3 - The Winner takes all
On the plane, Bond read and re-read the briefing Tanner had wrote back at MI6. It contained a list of names and photographs of everybody involved in the assignment. Hilton was at the top of the page, a young smiling face represented his untroubled childhood, who knew if they looked at this picture, that now he was a murderer, a terrorist, a kidnapper and was on the run from the law. His age and facial descriptions were noted underneath his name. Bond had never met him, but he was sure that the small tattoo on the inside of his index finger would still be there. It read - TK, Bond presumed he had it done when he was a youth, as he had changed his name to the alias Hilton around his 20th birthday to avoid recognition.
Flint was second on the list, but most important overall. Bond recognised the gaunt eyes of Flint from this MI6 photograph, he and Flint had laughed about how surprised he looked in the portrait. Bond wondered then, when they were close friends and joking, was Flint working for the IRA?
On the back of the file was a list of the hostages. One name stood out. Joanna Brestluck; he had met her at a party last Christmas; she looked stunning in that radiant red silk dress. Her hair fell cleanly over her face, and Bond remembered that she had the most beautiful eyes. Blue, blue and silver, sparkling like polished sapphires.
As the passengers began to leave the plane, Bond remained seated, he wanted to wait and see if everybody else got off safely, there was a gentleman that looked remarkably like Bond, and as long as he walked out of the airport freely, there was no reason Bond shouldn't. It was just a precaution in case the meeting with Dean was a set up.
He was depicted in an MI6 photograph as a young man, with long blond hair and a handle bar moustache. Bond was sure he would have changed since the 1970s, at least the fashions certainly had. Bond looked around, his briefcase in his right hand.
Sat in the airport lounge was a man, reading a newspaper and drinking from a pint glass of ale. His hair was short but still blindingly blond. Surely it was him, so Bond approached.
"Do you know the score in the England v Ireland match?" Bond quizzed.
"Yeah . were whippin' your arses." He had a strong Irish accent, sounded like a Dubliner.
"Come on lets go."
Dean led the way away from the chairs towards the men's bathroom. The door with the man on it was at the end of a long corridor, Dean just had his hand on the knob when Bond brought the briefcase down on his head with supreme force, making a dull thud and resulting in Dean being knocked out.
Bond dropped into a squat and examined Dean's hands, and sure enough, on his left index finger was a small tattoo - JN. Bond had noticed it while Dean was drinking, and was sure that either the real Dean was killed and replaced or that this was Dean and he was still an active IRA operative.
Inside Dean's coat pocket was a note with the name of a street on it. Bond quickly went outside and hailed a taxi.
"Munford street, please."
The driver took 2 minutes to get there, and guessing by his 60 year old build, he had been around these streets for years. On Munford Street Bond exited and paid the driver, across the road, through the mist Bond could see a house, its entrance flanked by 2 callous looking men, each 6 foot tall and muscular.
Bond took the Walther from his briefcase and slid it up his sleeve (silencer attached) until it reached his elbow, and then he put his hand inside his jacket. The cigarettes and matches he put in his back pocket, the watch on his wrist and the pen in his shirt pocket. He looked represent able and business like when he approached the building.
"What do you want?"
One of the guards demanded. The other was silent and staring.
"To see HK." He put on a thick Irish accent.
"And what business do you bring, Mr .?"
"Hurst, John Hurst." Bond thought it not wise to use his real name when Flint and Hilton could be in the building he was trying to enter.
"Very well Mr. Hurst, I will escort to Mr. HK's office. That is if you don't mind a quick frisk first?"
"Not at all, what's the score in the footy?"
"2-1 to them Blighters"
"Damn it, wish they'd stop being so cocky. Argh, please, be careful with the arm, its fractured."
"Oh sorry sir, If you would follow me."
The goon led the way while Bond followed; the other doorman took his eyes back to the foggy road. There was a lift around the corner, the whole building was pretty old, and the wood was rotting on the ceiling. Two more men defended the lift. They made a gap for Bond and the doorman to get through. In the shabby elevator, the man pressed 3 on the keypad. He was just about to say something when Bond pushed the gun into his face.
"Stop it at 2."
He dropped the Irish voice and the man looked scared, but he did as he was told.
"Where's Kinnock? Is he here?" The man shook his head.
"What about Flint?" The man nodded his head. "What floor? 3?" He nodded. "Is he heavily guarded?" The man shook his head.
"Where's Kinnock? Does he have the hostages?"
"Yes, he's at Aldridge warehouses, Number 14."
Bond whacked the man in the back of the skull with the base of his Walther, rendering him unconscious. Bond pulled the gun from the man's holster. A Beretta 92 Brigadier FS, 15 bullets in a magazine; not one of this gun was spent. Blood began to seep from his head, Bond didn't know if he was dead or not, he presumed the latter. Bond took the magazine and emptied it over the lift floor.
Bond pushed the safety hammer from the left side of the gun up. He started up the lift again, the light moved quickly from number 2 to 3. The lift pinged and the doors opened.
Behind his desk, Flint looked up towards the lift; it was directly ahead of him. He saw Bond and didn't even have time to register he was there. Bond's hand pulled the trigger once, Flint fell backwards off his chair and the papers he was reading went everywhere.
Bond stalked across the room, his gun raised at head level, there was nobody else here, and it seemed the defences were below. There were pillars holding up the ceiling, and there were boxes scattered over the dusty wooden floor. Bond walked behind the desk and saw Flint with his hand in the drawer, he heard the sound of a gun cock, and Bond shot him in the arm.
"Stop!" Bond ignored Flint's pleads, he stamped his foot down on the shot arm. Flint screamed.
"No one can here you up here. Now, are the hostages safe?"
"Argh . yes, yes . 4 died in the shooting, Hilton has the rest. Please, James, I was just following orders, I didn't know-"
"Don't you dare speak to me like a friend, you betrayed me Flint, and you disgraced MI6. Why should I let you live? There's no point in you living. I treated you like a friend."
"James, I didn't know, he said it would be over soon. He made me help him."
"Sorry Warren, Hilton isn't here to help you now."
"NOOOOOO!!!"
Bond blasted 3 more bullets into Flint's legs, he fell silent, the blood started to ooze. He was unconscious.
Bond nudged him with his foot, he didn't move, the look of resentment on Bond's face was fearsome. He had killed the traitor, now he needed to find the terrorist. Before Bond left, he checked Flint; he had no identification or money. He had clearly been in this office in hiding. He had 2 shoulder holsters. In one, he found a Sig Sauer P226, and in the other a Glock 32. In an ankle holster he found a Smith & Wesson 686. In the drawer was a Desert Eagle .50. Bond took the Desert Eagle with him; after all, he only had one bullet left in his PK. If this was what Flint had been given for protection, Bond didn't even dare think about what Hilton was armed with.
Bond took off his watch and set the tracker on, he dropped it onto the body of Flint. Then he sent a message to Q -
FLINT IS HERE WITH WATCH SIGNAL, GETTING HILTON, ALDRIDGE WAREHOUSE 14, SEND BACK-UP.
Back outside, Bond found that the other doorman was still there; Bond put the Eagle and the Walther back inside his jacket and walked past.
"Where's Johnny?" he asked Bond, Bond presumed he meant the other goon.
"He's got a bit of a headache. He asked you to go and give him a lift." The guard ran off inside the building.
Bond looked at the gun, what a weapon, is power put the PPK to shame, yet in style and sexiness, the Walther outstripped the menacing American pistol.
Chapter 4 - Killer of the Innocents
Bond saw a black Mercedes Benz parked across the road; Bond guessed it was either Johnny's or his friend's. He elbowed the glass out of the driver's window and opened the door, no alarm was raised. He removed the Parker pen from his shirt pocket and clicked the lock pick into place, it fitted perfectly into the ignition, and the low groan of the engine showed that the car was ready to go.
The streets were wet with yesterday's rain, and the sky was pale grey. The tyres only had a fair grip on the road, but Bond drove speedily all the same. A signpost signalled the next turn off was for Aldridge industrial zone. Bond slowly moved the steering wheel around with ease. The car was spotless and smelled new, it was clear that whoever had owned the car took great pride in its appearance.
The turn off narrowed into a small road, just wide enough for a HGV to squeeze through, tracks that appeared after the puddles in the road turned left; Bond followed. The road led to an open space, surrounded by warehouses, shutters drawn across the majority of the 60ft faces. A red 14 caught Bond's eye, it was the warehouse nearest on the left; Bond pulled the car up outside and got out. He left the keys inside and the doors unlocked; he didn't know if a quick escape was in order.
As he approached the shutter, voices could be heard, arguing. Bond took to the side of the building and found a small door that was unlocked, it opened inwards and Bond pushed it slowly open. The warehouse was bare, save for chains hanging from the ceiling and boxes in the corners.
"He's wrong, we should kill them know."
"I've told you, we can get more money, and he says that the dibble are worth a million."
The two Irish men were in dispute, Bond could see the worried looking one had a beard, and a red nose; the other was bald and was wearing a woollen hat. They both had their backs to him.
Bond crept in, he was sure there would be more people here. Bond sidled down the wall online with the door, the two men were unaware. Bond pulled out his Walther, it still had the silencer attached and Bond was ready with his last shot, "Just give me a clean target".
He reached the end of the wall, and there was another door, he opened it silently, the sight that came upon him would be terrifying if he hadn't seen it so many times before. About 15 men some armed with what looked like Heckler & Koch's. One man stood on a balcony that lead from the stairs, this was Hilton, he had a handgun and his shirt was undone at the collar. Behind him in what appeared to be his office were several figures, all knelt in a corner with bags on their heads, Bond couldn't tell if they were dead or not. A gun cocked behind his head.
"Hello mate."
By the voice, Bond guessed it was the man with the hat. Bond froze, damn.
Bond was lead up to the office, jeering came from the men holding guns, some spat at him as he passed.
"Hey, what the fucks going on!" Hilton stopped in his tracks when he saw Bond, his face split into a grin.
"And who might you be?"
"The names Bond, James Bond." There was no point in disguising anymore, with any hope; Q's idea of back up would be here soon, it was 3 minutes since he had called him.
Bond was searched and his equipment was repossessed when he was in Hilton's office. "Ahh the infamous 007" Bond knew that Flint had told Hilton all about him, which was why he was being so patronising. Bond was brought back down into the main space of the warehouse, the men made a circle like wolves moving in on prey.
The man with the hat on kicked Bond to his knees and opened the cigarette packet, the nervous looking one was holding the Walther and the Desert Eagle.
"Mind if I have one of these?"
The man laughed and so did the others, Hilton kept a straight face. He took one of the cigarettes from the packet, "No!" they all looked at Bond, "Let me have one." They all laughed again. The man threw him one and a match, again, luckily a Q one. Bond didn't light it. A man from the crowd called the cigarette holder over.
"So Mr. Bond, what did you expect to do when you got here?"
Bond was looking at what the cigarettes were doing, "Shoot to kill." He answered without looking; another man just pulled a cigarette from the pack, third time lucky. The case blew up in his face, killing him and those surrounding him, Hilton and Bond were blown sideways and landed 15ft away from the explosion.
"No!!!" Screamed the nervous looking man, he raised the Walther and shot at Bond, fortunately for Bond, the last bullet was in the magazine, the explosive one, and as Q had waned against, the silencer was still on. The gun blew up in his face; at least he would see his friends again.
"You bastard"
Hilton was back up, and pointing a revolver at Bond's face, "You're going to pay for that" Bond quickly put the end of the cigarette he was still holding against the flaming corpse of the man with the Walther, then he through it at Hilton, it fell to the floor.
Hilton looked at it, burst out laughing and raised his gun; the cigarette exploded, and blew Hilton back against the wall.
"See, cigarettes will kill you in the end."
Bond collapsed onto the hard floor.
He woke up in the MI6 doctor's ward; M, Q, Moneypenny, Tanner and Doctor Ovene were sitting around his bed. Moneypenny screamed when she saw he was awake.
"Oh James!"
"Excellent job 007, all the hostages were retrieved unharmed and the money was found at the warehouse. Super work, and Q, well done with the gadgets, they saved everyone's lives this time."
Q grinned, "Thank you Sir."
"Did the cigarettes work well Mr. Bond?" Dr. Ovene's face was full of anticipation and curiosity.
"Please Doctor; he's trying to recover" said Q. "Well . did they?"
"In the nicotine of time, you'll have to shorten the fuse on those things Q, I nearly died."
Q looked abashed, M gleeful and Moneypenny ecstatic.
M spoke again, "Now lets leave 007 in peace, he has 2 days to recover before he is put before the board of ministers as to why he blew up a perfectly usable storage facility." M looked totally serious. Bond hoped he was joking.
THE END
SECRET AGENT JAMES BOND WILL RETURN