The park disappeared, and so did Anna. His head began to swim. The light
blinded him, adjusting his eyes he saw several faces loom up at him. There
was a cold, frosty silence in the room. Jules's heart beat sounded
extremely loud, he was wearing white cotton trousers, sweat droplets
dripped down his face. Damn, they had drugged him and he had sung like a
canary. But what hurt him most was that he had just lost Anna for the
second time. The first man, the one with the Northern accent said, "Wakey,
wakey Mr. Jules." His voice contained no life what so ever. It was ice
cold. They all wanted to kill him. "Thank you for your cooperation with His
Majesty. Your new residence is in the London Prison. Take him away chaps,"
he said to the other four men surrounding him." The entire group walked
outside. One of them slipped to the side and whipped out a cell phone. He
had a call to make.
In a deserted building on the Irish coast, miles away from civilization, Andres picked up the phone.
"Boss,"
"Ya, Tap."
"MI-5 got Jules, he just sang like a canary. He told everything he knew."
"Gotcha Tap, you're getting a bonus for the call. How'd they get him?."
"Bond was put on it. At the moment he's heading to London. Jules is also being transported there."
"Adios." Ah, so that's how they got Jules.
Andres' mother was from Peru but his father was an Irish terrorist of the ICRA. Andres' had inherited his mother's olive complexion. From his father he had inherited his father's uncontrollable temper and a position as boss of the ICRA terrorist cell, though he had inherited none of his father's ideas about a unified Ireland, separate from Great Britain. Andres thought his father's ideas were stupid but he had been a man and a fighter, a man who could pick off an enemy at five hundred yards and had taken out half of a British swat team before they got him.
This Bond was well known to Andres. He was the one who had taken out most of Andres's men. Andres liked Bond, he was a survivor, a fighter, a professional at what he did. Too bad he had to keep getting in the way. He called in one of his security guards.
"Lance, come in here."
"Ya boss?" Lance was a broad shouldered man, German, and something like six foot three, two-fifty pounds of muscle. A Uzi was slung across his shoulder. Despite his slang and casual talk, Lance was an expert on modern warfare, including the latest technological weapons.
"I need Bond removed. This is your personal mission. Set up your men at intervals between Liverpool and London to track his movement. You need to take two men with you, take the two new Americans on loan from Chicago, arm yourselves and take one of the credit cards to get two cars to form the hit squad. Also, send Tomas and one other with explosives, to London. The target is Jules, whom you know. He's talked. They are transporting him to the London Federal Prison by truck convoy. Take out the convoy, and then tell them to bring him to me."
"Yes, boss." Andres leaned back to wait until the first reports came in. He would be the man who took down James Bond, a legend in the criminal underworld.
In a deserted building on the Irish coast, miles away from civilization, Andres picked up the phone.
"Boss,"
"Ya, Tap."
"MI-5 got Jules, he just sang like a canary. He told everything he knew."
"Gotcha Tap, you're getting a bonus for the call. How'd they get him?."
"Bond was put on it. At the moment he's heading to London. Jules is also being transported there."
"Adios." Ah, so that's how they got Jules.
Andres' mother was from Peru but his father was an Irish terrorist of the ICRA. Andres' had inherited his mother's olive complexion. From his father he had inherited his father's uncontrollable temper and a position as boss of the ICRA terrorist cell, though he had inherited none of his father's ideas about a unified Ireland, separate from Great Britain. Andres thought his father's ideas were stupid but he had been a man and a fighter, a man who could pick off an enemy at five hundred yards and had taken out half of a British swat team before they got him.
This Bond was well known to Andres. He was the one who had taken out most of Andres's men. Andres liked Bond, he was a survivor, a fighter, a professional at what he did. Too bad he had to keep getting in the way. He called in one of his security guards.
"Lance, come in here."
"Ya boss?" Lance was a broad shouldered man, German, and something like six foot three, two-fifty pounds of muscle. A Uzi was slung across his shoulder. Despite his slang and casual talk, Lance was an expert on modern warfare, including the latest technological weapons.
"I need Bond removed. This is your personal mission. Set up your men at intervals between Liverpool and London to track his movement. You need to take two men with you, take the two new Americans on loan from Chicago, arm yourselves and take one of the credit cards to get two cars to form the hit squad. Also, send Tomas and one other with explosives, to London. The target is Jules, whom you know. He's talked. They are transporting him to the London Federal Prison by truck convoy. Take out the convoy, and then tell them to bring him to me."
"Yes, boss." Andres leaned back to wait until the first reports came in. He would be the man who took down James Bond, a legend in the criminal underworld.