To Die Forever
A James Bond story
It was that dream again, that living nightmare. Silva with his gun pressed into her hand, their heads pressed together. The knife in your hand flies into his back with a sickening squelch and a roar of agony. He collapses to the floor, his life ended by a small piece of stainless steel. Then she looks up, a sort of emptiness in her eyes, the dark red patch on her waist spreading. You know she won't make it. She falls to the ground, yet another "patriot who bravely died in the line of duty". Yet another good friend dead. Yet another face to haunt your sleepless nights. That is the life you choose to lead. That is the life of a double 0. That is the life of James Bond.
Bond wakes with a start, a thin layer of sweat on his scarcely clothed body. He climbs out of bed, running a hand through his close cropped blond, slightly greying, hair. His crystal clear blue eyes scan the room from left to right. He feels under his bed, and pulls out his MI6 standard issue Walther PPK/S 9mm pistol. It's cocked and loaded, with the new fingerprint recognition system in place, so only Bond can fire it. When Q had given him it, he was severely unimpressed. All he was given was a gun and a radio. He'd said sarcastically that it was like Christmas. Ironically, that gun had saved his life more times than he could remember, so he now jokingly refers to it as his best present ever. Bond removes the magazine and round in the chamber, reinserting the round back into the magazine and placing them on his bedside table.
He had forgotten to shave in the last two days, and had thick stubble around his jaw line and upper lip. He reached for the bottle of Jack Daniels he left next to his bed, pulled off the lip with a pop, and took a long gulp of the bitter golden alcohol. He'd started drinking again, and it was worse than before. He'd refused to touch any kind of pills though. The cheap Nokia on his dinner table rung, its melody waking him from his trance. He walked over and checked the number, even though he knew it would be blocked. He picks it up and answers.
"Bond here, who is this?"
"007, I need to see you." replies Gareth Mallory, the new M. At first, Bond had thought he was just another pencil neck desk jockey, but he'd proven James wrong in Westminster, saving the previous M and killing one of Silva's henchmen, although he'd taken a bullet to the shoulder and a George Cross to the chest for his valour.
"Is this another debriefing?"
"No, it's about the new 008; you need to meet him, mainly because he's coming with you on your mission to Northern Ireland." Is Mallory's reply to his second question.
"I don't need help, remember what happened last time?" He was referring to the mission in Istanbul, where he was accidentally shot and left for dead.
"Look, James, this is out of my hands. It's not my call, it's the PM's, just get your bloody arse here for 10:30 AM sharp." With that exasperated and angry response Mallory hangs up, his point made. Bond hesitates for a second, unsure of what to do. He finally decides to get fully dressed, and picks a pair of neat, ironed black trousers, a crisp white shirt and a dark grey jacket. He then grabs his PPK, loads, cocks it and places it in his inside pocket. He then steps outside his small, two bedroom, detached house and climbs into his classic Aston Martin DB5, his second since his first was destroyed two days ago. He set off for MI6 in London, unaware that he would soon be going into the most dangerous mission of his life.
DISCLAMER: I DO NOT OWN JAMES BOND OR ANY CHARACTERS OR THINGS REFERENCED
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