And In the End…
Bond sat watching his man through the scope of the Browning.
It was cold in the blind, and billowing plumes of his breath in the dim light gave testament to this. The only things keeping him warm were the thin Ronson gloves and the memories of his meal the night before at the Oyster Bar at Grand Central Station.
There were literally hundreds of people milling between him and the fat man who paced back and forth in front of the prominent, New York hotel. James Bond absently wondered how many denizens of this vast city made their way past this spot each day. Ten thousand? A hundred thousand? And they were going to attempt to pluck once fish from this sea, without so much as rippling the water.
He was just over a hundred yards out, on street level, laying flat on his stomach in the boot of his blind, a 1973 behemoth of an automobile called an Impala. The only light drifted through two small, conveniently placed, rust spots; one through which the snout of the Browning could sniff the brisk, rancid air of the city, and the other through which the scope, his eye on the street world beyond, kept him in touch with Molony's boy.
"A favour for the CIA," M had called it, but Bond had seen the disgust that wasn't buried all too deep in the old man's eyes. The Americans needed an outside team to make their mark, something that couldn't be traced back to the boys in Washington, something quiet. And, after all, the target was still a British national.
"And ye shall know the truth and the truth shall make you free," Bond muttered to himself, being careful to direct his moist breath away from the action of the rifle. He would have two shots at best, most likely only one. Hopefully, the head case Molony's men had spent several weeks in Hawaii with, and then two days of intense programming at the YMCA on 63rd, would do his work, and Bond's companion in the trunk would never have to give air to its purpose.
As he watched the fool trading congenial words once again with the doorman of the hotel, Bond thought back the brief fifteen years to a time when he'd been the one whose mind had been tampered with, made into a weapon against the old man, and the service that had been the only family he'd known since his teenage years. He felt a pang of guilt for the fool; a man who was already on the verge of a breakdown, and was sure to shatter once the day's events unfolded.
The hollow tips were tricky from this distance. They were weighted to the back, but they would still roll some, maybe too much depending on how well the air pockets had been bled. Bond was simply a precaution, a fall back, in case their patsy didn't manage to deliver the kill shot. The man, who insisted they call him Holden, would be firing a Charter Arms Special from a few feet, but Bond would have to fire from nearly the distance of an American football field away.
The night fell, and the cold became stinging. Bond would wait until he couldn't hear voices around the vehicle, which was parked in an hourly rated lot, and then he would violently beat his feet and hands against the well of the boot for a few moments, forcing the blood to pump its warmth back into his aging extremities.
Finally, as eleven o'clock neared, a white limousine pulled up front of the motel. Bond watched astutely though the scope as his fingers went through their well-practised motions of pulling back the bolt, cocking the rifle, and freeing the safety.
The target's wife stepped out of the auto, and Bond felt a brief pang of guilt. At least the man's young son wasn't with him, but even then, Bond knew that he would take the shot. He'd been killing for his country for nearly forty years, and he was little more now than a human callous.
The target was out of the vehicle and had walked past their man. The fat man, Holden, their patsy, must have said something, because the target turned back to face him. Their shooter had dropped to a police firing stance, just as they'd trained him to do.
Bond forced his world to slow as he did at such moments. He heard the Charter Arms Special bark five times, and he watched three of the rounds dig into the chest of the target, in that split moment, Bond knew that none of the three wounds could guarantee the result that they needed.
He squeezed the trigger.
The rifle spoke once, tearing apart the aorta of the man on the other end of the sight.
Bond never watched as the man turned to flee, not realising yet that he was dead. He would take the six steps up toward the hotel's front doors and then collapse.
Leaving the rifle in the trunk, James Bond kicked straight back, dislodging the specially designed rear seat, and then slid backward into the vehicle. The Impala's windows were tinted darkly enough that any movement inside the Detroit-born dinosaur would be blind from peering eyes.
He paused a moment at the small meter booth to peer up 72nd Street where a crowd was beginning to gather. He wasn't sure at this distance, but he believed he could see their fat man, sitting on the sidewalk, reading a book, as the New York night bled to hell around him.