A/N. Okay this chapter has a lot of the original in it. I did however change the confrontation with Mordic. Enjoy.

Felicia pulled herself out of her chair and watched as James talked to the Mordic fellow. What a strange fellow. She pushed her chair back and stood up. Bond had just exited the building. Now came her job. Gord had left his position at the door and had exited soon after Mordic and Bond.

She pushed her way out and saw the tall dark haired Gord follow the disappearing form of Bond, and Mordic in the distance. As expected Mordic had hired the fellow for a bodyguard. Time to "neutralize defenses". She bent down and pulled the small Beretta from her thigh holster and also pulled the silencer from her purse. It took her but a minute to get the silencer firmly screwed onto the pistol and brings it up to aim at the back of Gord's head.

Suddenly the hairs on the back of her neck rose, and a crack sounded. The sniper atop the restaurant pulled the bolt back on his rifle. "Tango two down," he said softly into his radio.

"Appreciated," came the static laced reply of Francois Gord from the ground.

During this, Felicia Phelps lay sprawled across the pavement, her eyes wide staring into nothing, a lead slug in the back of her head.

--

Bond gulped hard. The four-armed men looked at him rather menacingly behind their MP-5's. Time for one, maybe two shots, he judged. Kill Mordic, or the armed men?

"Drop your weapon Mr. Bond," Mordic said walking closer to him. "I find it interesting that you chose this place for attacking me. Your reputation suggested that you might infiltrate my operations and then go to cut off the head."

Bond had already dropped the gun. So Mordic had known the whole time. A rifle butt to the kidney dropped him to his knees. "Secure his hands."

A thick plastic cord wrapped Bond's hands firmly together. "You see, Mr Bond, I got word a week ago about your assignment. I had just that week to read your case files, and predict when you'd strike. I have to say Mr Bond, that I am quite disappointed in you. The legendary assassin 007 being this easy to trap."

"Sorry to disappoint you," Bond bit back. He had to get out of this. His Walther PPK lay in front of him, beckoning him.

"I had everything planned. After I had you on your knees, like I do now, I have Miss Phelps walk out and kill you. Ms Phelps, you see, has been working for me in French Intelligence for years. I thought that the great 007 would like to die by the hands of a beautiful woman. She's late as you can see, so I must resort to what I have." Mordic snapped his fingers and ordered something in his native tongue.

Bond felt the muzzle of the submachine gun at the back of his head and he began to sweat. "Good-bye Mr Bond."

The crack of a gun sounded. The crack repeated itself thrice more. Bond rolled over. Whatever it was this was his chance. He lashed out with his feet at the man in front of him. He fell to his knees and thudded face first onto the asphalt; blood oozing from a hole in the back of his head.

Bond examined the scene. The rest of the assault team lay on the ground dead, Mordic, still standing face bewildered at what had just happened. Hard hands lifted Bond to his feet, and a cool bladed knife cut the cords around his wrists.

"Don't turn around, Monsieur. Get your gun."

Bond recognized the voice, it was Gord. Mordic dropped and twisted, grasping for the Walther that lay on the ground. The Walther sounded and a grunt sounded from behind Bond.

Mordic looked back only once and took off down the parking lot. Bond turned and grabbed up the smoking Glock by Gord's dying body. "Thank-you," Bond said with a curt nod, before turning and chasing the fleeing Israeli.

--

Bond rested in the bathtub, letting off steam in the cool water. His conversation with M hadn't gone very well. She seemed to think that he wasn't performing up to par. Something about him getting old on her. Sometimes he just wished she would die already so they could get a replacement. Replacement. M had brought up retiring again, and every time she brought it up it seemed to look nicer and nicer to him. That would mean turning in his number. 'I almost did that anyway tonight. If it wasn't for Agent Gord, my brain would be filled with lead.' The thought of someone else wearing 007 made him hurt.

He shook off the feeling and massaged his sour shoulder. Mordic had given him a good run before he had escaped. Up the parking lot, down the avenue, Bond thought he could slow the man down by putting a bullet in his knee. No such luck. The bullet entered the leg but missed the joint entirly.

He should've known that Mordic would resort to anything to escape. Even an armed carjacking. Bond smiled thinking of the look on that woman's face as the Israeli stole her vehicle. But still, Mordic should be dead. It was his fault that he wasn't.

He let himself sink deeper into the tub. Millions of thoughts of painful injuries, and the glory of the kill flickered through his mind like a broken television. He was getting older. It was supposed to have been an easy mission. Get the man and take him out. Of course, double agent Phelps, and a quartet of mercenaries had changed the variable in the equation.

He'd been through worse. Murderous agents of SMERSH, voodoo enthusiasts, a man with a golden gun. Maybe it was time to retire.

He retrieved his towel from the floor, and dried himself off. He slipped into a white robe and settled into bed.

The airplane to London took off at five the next day. The flight was packed and the in flight movie was trash, so Bond made himself comfortable and slept.

--

It was dawn in London; the fog was beginning to lift in the morning air. The smell of gunsmoke held a terrible resonance around MI6's shooting range. It was only to be expected however. To some it was a troublesome scent but to one, Jacob Hill, it was invigorating.

He was a handsome man with short brown hair, a medium build, and an experts aim. He held the Beretta in his hand and stood sideways holding his right arm out to fire with. He figured, like many in the past, that in a real combat situation, making you the smallest target was probably a key. The target stood one hundred yards away, looking back menacingly at him. The plastic dummy was his favorite approach to target practice, giving one more of a feel for fighting a live person.

His top button on his dark blue shirt sat unbuttoned, with his tie loosened below it. It wasn't an unusual event for him to work a long hard day at HQ and then go to the shooting range and pump lead into dummies.

The Beretta came to life in his hand spitting the slug out of its muzzle. The bullet fell directly between the dummies "eyes". Hill smiled at his aim.

"You're getting better every time I check up on you."

"Well Q, practice usually does make perfect."

The old man walked up next to Hill. "Maybe you should try moving the target back a bit more."

"Or maybe you could let me into the simulator," Hill countered looking at the man.

"Yes, well, maybe it is about time for the simulation."

"Thank you, sir."

Hill watched the man turn around and walk back to the door; "Of course you'd need to find yourself a partner with the proper credentials before security will let you in."

Hill looked at the man. He was being serious. "I am security," he yelled back at the retreating man. The dummy stood still, seemingly watching him. Hill turned and unloaded the rest of the clip into the lifeless piece of plastic.

A/N. Chapter 3 due tommorow.