A/N - I don't own anything! including Bond! Enjoy
Chapter 1 – The Turk
Location: HAWK Safe House - 21mi south of Dedeler, Turkey: 1028hrs
Bond was cold, exhausted and dehydrate...double o seven was dying.
The price came with the job. A man in his line of work knew that his life expectancy decreased dramatically once he said his pledge to Queen and country, took his assigned Walther PPK; his weapon of choice, from the armoury and stepped out of the doors of MI6s' headquarters in London since achieving the highly sought – double o licence – his licence to kill.
How far had this orphan from Cambridge come in his thirty six years on planet earth? Bond reminiscing in the simple wicker chair he was now bound to; bloodied and beaten after eight days straight of interrogation.
He thought back to his days at Cambridge University. Flashbacks of playing for the rugby team, poking fun at the fifty something year old lecturer trying to give a speech about social dynamics, the sandy haired girl he promised to love unconditionally. What was her name? Catherine? God he missed her, it'd been so very long, and his heart ached at the thought of her death at the hands of a drunk driver. He'd had so many conquests when it came to women, but the memory of those three nights when she, Cathy was his will haunt him till the end of days.
He snapped out of his thoughts. He needed to focus, not dwell on the past. To lose focus was to lose the game. Something he couldn't afford to do now. Not when he was so close. So close to the end.
It was becoming harder however. Every interrogation bought new pain, new injuries. His life was hanging by a thread, and he knew it.
The door burst open, warm, fresh air wafted through the opening as well as the scent of cooking spices and meat, before being slammed shut again by his interrogator, snapping Bond back to reality.
"Back for more eh?" rasped double o seven, the bruising to his ribcage making it painful to deliver his one liner.
'The Turk' stood there and regarded the sight before him, smirking at his handiwork. Surely it couldn't be long now until this pig from British intelligence would spill about what he knew about his employers' pet project.
This 'James Bond' had killed four of his best men before making his getaway in a rusty red pickup truck. His remaining men soon caught up with the spy, thanks largely to the sleek, black curves of his private helicopter watching the escapees every move from above like a kestrel. It didn't take much to make the pickup to enter a violent roll once his henchmen's SUVs moved in for the kill.
They dragged Bond out of the wreck and drove him four hours, hooded, to an isolated location where 'The Turk' could begin his bloody work.
"Yes Mr Bond...I am 'back for more', I thought we could continue our little chat about what it is you know of hawk", the tanned faced man spoke in a thick Turkish accent, spoken from the full lips of a stubbled, square jawed face. His curly black hair was pulled back and greasy. The Turk was just under double o sevens height – about five foot nine and chubby; the combination of an easy life and one too many kebabs over the years.
Bonds adversary pulled out his pistol from his jeans belt and tapped it on the wooden side table placed next to where Bond sat before setting it down.
Bond sniggered, "A chat? That's what you call this is it? Remind me not to invite you 'round for a cup of tea".
With that The Turk backhanded James across the face, hard. Bonds already cracked cheekbone throbbing from the car crash days previous flared in pain from the strike. Double o seven didn't have time to recover before The Turk was in his face.
"What do you know?" The man roared, spittle flecking Bonds face.
"That you need mouthwash you bastard" Bond coughed, earning himself further onslaught from The Turk; punching, and slapping Bond in the face and in the stomach.
This carried on for what seemed like hours to Bond, but in reality was only five minutes. This kind of interrogation had gone on for days, hours at a time. The Turk was smart enough to beat James enough to intimidate, but never render Bond useless, how could he interrogate an unconscious man. The Turks patience however, was wearing thin.
Bonds mind drifted again to Catherine, her naked, milky white body pressed to his in an embrace. She was so warm, he regarded her with his ice blue eyes, pulling a strand of hair from her lips and tucking it behind her ear.
"Focus Bond" he told himself, so close, he could feel it, with one last tug, and he was there, but stayed as still as possible.
The Turk ceased pummelling double o seven to ask again, "What do you know of hawk you piece of shit!" Bond stayed silent, "Fine, it is clear to me now Mr Bond that I shall not learn anything from you...I'm afraid that now, I have to kill you", and leaned over the table for his pistol. As his fingers brushed the pistol grip, he heard something and retracted his hand. Mumbling,, he could hear his quarry mumbling something. Had he done it? Had he finally broken him? "What was that Mr Bond?" leaning closer.
"I s-ipd m r-ps", Bond mumbled
"Talk properly! You son of a bitch!" yelled The Turk. He grabbed double o sevens collar (what was left of it anyway) in his meaty fist and leaned closer still so he could hear the British Agent.
James Bond; double o seven, whispered, "I slipped my ropes".
Head butting The Turk, breaking the tanned skinned mans nose, Bond stood up, a loose rope hanging but still tied to his left wrist, his right arm free. Water filled Bonds assailants wide eyes, opened wide shear shock.
Bond had been working on prying those ropes loose for days; since the Turks henchmen re-tightened them, undoing James' subtle work first time around.
The Turk reared back, dark crimson blood running freely down his face, pitter pattering as the blood slapped the floor. Bond followed with a brutal uppercut that made The Turk think his head would be ripped off from the impact. Bond chased that up with a knee to the man's balls; why play fair this late in the game.
The Turk doubled over, trying to wretch from the impact to his sensitive genitalia, but couldn't, the blood restricting his breathing, and tried to stand up again, tackling Bond in his half standing stance, rushing him into the wall on the other side of the room, James' skull making a rounded crack as it connected with plaster.
The Turks henchmen; bored at the sound of beatings twenty hours a day for the last four days had elected to turn on the television – the world cup was on, and more than several of the group had bets on for Turkey to beat Cameroon. They were blissfully unaware of what was going on next door. If their Boss needed them, he'd come for them.
Head spinning, Bond knew he wouldn't and couldn't last much longer, he was draining his last reserves of energy, knowing he had to finish this quickly and as quietly as possible, he elbowed the man in the spine and rounded on The Turk from behind and pulled the rope; still attached to his wrist, around the chubby mans neck and pulled with everything he had.
The Turks eyes bulged, and he gasped for air. He thrashed around, trying to make a purchase on his attacker; hair, clothing, anything, something to stop the rope from digging into his neck any further. An idea flashed into his oxygen starved brain, and pushed back with all his might, the momentum toppling the duo backwards onto the concrete floor.
The two hundred pound man landed on top of double o seven with an "oof". Sharpe, stabbing pain flared up Bonds' chest, as several of his already tortured ribs finally gave way and fractured, on piercing Bonds right lung, "No No! so close!" thought double o seven, releasing his grip on the rope that paralyzed The Turk in place to instinctively clutch his chest.
For good measure, The Turk elbowed double o seven in the stomach as he got up, before kicking him in the head, and rubbed his throat "Insolent shit! You're mine now!" the man gurgled, clutching his nose to stem the continuous flow of blood from his break and stumbled towards the table, overturned sometime during the fight to find his sidearm, "Nobody makes a fool out of me!" directed at no-one in particular"
Bond stared into oblivion, dazed, drifting in and out of consciousness from his injuries. Breathing was becoming harder; the pain was like fire burning across his chest.
Everything ached, he felt like his body must have weighed two tonnes because of his exhaustion. He closed his eyes and could see Catherines' face again, she was saying something, double o seven strained to hear his memory over the sound of blood rushing through his ears. "What did you say Cathy?" asked the man, laying on the floor of a dingy safe house somewhere in Turkey, his mind believing his was back n her old flat in Magdalene Street in Cambridge, England. "I said I love you Jason".
Jason? Why did she call me Jason? It was before I joined the service, it cant be a cover name…why did that name sound so familiar? Double o seven frowned, and then it clicked. Jason. Jason Monroe that was his name, the name he was given when Ben and Maggie adopted him when he was no more than nine months old. Jason Monroe was his real name. He'd been living under the alias of James Bond for so many years that he'd forgotten.
The Turk had found his pistol, and staggered back towards the man on the floor he knew as the British secret service agent; James Bond. Why did he look so at peace? He should be cowering before him, knowing that he was about to lose everything surely. It didn't matter he thought; so long as he was dead by the end. The Turk stood over him and pointed his gun at the man's chest, the man who lay on the floor in front of him sighed.
"Any last words, Mr Bond", said the man, sneering.
He didn't know, Bond, Monroe shook himself out of his stupor. He supposed he should make it something patriotic, something worthy of a Hollywood movie, something the hero always manages to come up with before the cavalry arrived.
But why give the fat man the satisfaction. In the end he thought of something fitting. "You should go on a diet you fat piece of shit". Rasped double o seven and turned his head away.
"A joker till the end" stated The Turk. And pulled the trigger.
Pain, immense pain as the rounds entered his body. The first and second shot collapsed his working lung; the third nicked the artery surrounding his heart.
As everything faded, he was back in Cambridge, in Catherines flat. The time he was happiest. Jason Monroes'; James Bond', Double O Sevens' last thought, was leaning in to kiss Catherine one last time. Then everything went dark.
All Hell broke loose, the lights went out, an almighty crack sounded in the night air as plated steel peeled off its hinges and into the outer room of the brick walled safe house, killing a henchman sitting at the table opposite eating his dinner, crushed by the concussive force of the explosion and the heavy door, leaving a gory red streak up the wall.
The SAS team filed in one by one, moving like liquid, filling the room, each man fitted with a pair of night vision goggles, executed the dazed henchmen, still reeling from the blast in the pitch black of night. The Turks hired men never stood a chance, only one of them managed to raise his Russian made AK47. He didn't get chance to pull the trigger. Each man was double tapped; one shot to the chest and one to the head.
The British Special Forces made short work of the first room of the three roomed bungalow, killing six men in a heartbeat. The team moved to the next door and kicked it down. To be confronted with a man holding a gun, stumbling around in the dark, he was bleeding profusely from the face. At his feet lay a body, gunshot wounds to the chest the body, the teams priority extract target wasn't moving.
"Put the gun down, down!" yelled the men in unison, the aim; to intimidate. The Turk, a coward at heart, knowing that there was no way he could out gun the 6 men confronting him, raised his hands to the air, "Don't shoot, don't shoot!" pleaded the chubby executioner; the teams secondary target – capture dead or alive – preferably alive.
"Put it down!" yelled one of the Special Forces soldiers; a burly man , known to his team as Pikey. He grabbed the Turks arm, and wrestled him to the floor. Three men went to check the last room at the back of this one. Ten seconds later the fire team leader heard his squad repeat "Clear".
"Clear, building secure" replied the fire team leader.
A/N...Ok, so as you can probobly tell by now (hopefully) this isn't your typical Bond story, the aim was to make him a bit more human - less immortal.
I intend to read the orginal novels by Mr Flemming at some point, so my story is going off what I've learnt from the movies. Following chapters are aimed at sharing my idea of how we can have different Bonds/actors as well as developing its own story line.
If you can, please review, this is my first 'proper' attempt at writing a serious story. (I promis to keep these A/Ns to a minimum in the future).
Thanks for reading!
Khaki