A police van drove through the crowded and narrow streets of London, a
police escort consisting of four motorcycle cops was right behind it and in
front of it. The continuous whining of their sirens quickly became nauseous
to Jules, who sat huddled in the back of the van, handcuffs latched to his
wrists. He had a tremendous headache, it sounded like there was a drum
being played at the same dull monotone. Pounding its way into his head. He
tried to recall the events of yesterday. Yes, that was it. James Bond had
been there. Then they had taken him to Liverpool and had..had drugged him.
He tried to recall some more but gave up. He shivered and laid still,
finding refuge in a deep sleep. The drum kept pounding, pounding, pounding,
pounding.
Lewis Lurmache had always wanted to be a cop like in all the action movies. But driving a van through London, day after day after day was not his idea of fun. Lewis thought he could have been a detective but those dreams were immediately squashed after he was assigned to the highway patrol. Were where all of the babes, the hot cars, in his life?
He slowed the van to a stop when two Irish jaywalkers stepped off the curb into traffic. "Bloody Irish tourists," he muttered. One of them reached into the long trench coat he was carrying. "It looks like a ...suddenly the two cops in front went down, shot through the head. Lewis grabbed the nine-millimeter strapped to his waist. His day had just gotten a lot more interesting.
Tomas Bain stepped off the curb into traffic, right in front of the cops. He watched the faces of the two cops turn from annoyance to horror as he started riddling their bodies with bullets from his suppressed Iranian model 22.caliber sub-machine gun. Then he turned his sub-machine gun loose on the two cops behind the van. Their heads disappeared in satisfying clouds of pink. Spectators around him began to shout and scream, but he ignored them. He reached into his chest pocket and brought out a grenade. Pulling the pin, he lobbed it into the cab of the truck. The truck's windows blew out, scattering glass along the road. His companion in arms ran around to the back of the truck and from his satchel he drew a small bomb and attached it to the back of the truck. The explosion lifted the truck a few inches into the air. The truck's doors were blown off their hinges. Tomas' partner bundled the unconscious form of Jules into the escape car that had been following the police van. Tomas followed his partner into the car, keeping his weapon trained on the shocked spectators across the street. The entire operation lasted less then three minutes.
Alone on a small island off the coast of Ireland, was a small fisherman's hut. The winds swept over the rock, and the sea sought to wrench the hut out of the ground and carry it away. A small fishing vessel motored up along side the rock. The three men in the boat tossed their ropes to a shadowy figure dressed in a seagoing coat who quickly caught them and tied them around two wooden posts sunk deep in the earth.
Inside Jules sat down in the chair indicated by Andres. Cigar smoke fouled the air, circling the ceiling.
"Jules, you talked, you know we don't like that. Take, Babe Ruth, he was a great man but he was surrounded by a group of players that helped to make him as good as he was. It's called, teamwork. Teamwork. And when, you," the cigar pointed at Jules, "when you talk, you betray the team. You betray the family. How could you do this to us?"
"Boss, I'm sorry. You know I can do better. I know I can do better. Or, I know. Let me out, I'll live in Canada or somewhere, where no one will ever find me again. You'll never hear my name again."
"You want out, you got out, after all, we're all family." Almost lazily Andres reached into his pocket and drew out a pistol. The shot ended Jules's life and rearranged his face. Blood splattered onto the far wall, until it dripped down, forming a pool on the floor. Two guards came in, they took a look around, one of them almost fainted. They carried the body outside and tossed it into the ocean outside. Andres hated Jules, he had died pathetically, he wasn't a man. He was a coward. He wanted power, but more then that he wanted a challenge. 007 presented a challenge, but unfortunely 007 was dead. Oh well. His phone rang.
"Lance?"
"Yeah, boss. The mission got compromised. Bond is good. I mean real good. He took down the two Americans, looks like we owe Chicago some money."
"Get back here Lance. We've missed this time, we won't miss again." Damn it. So Bond was still alive. Interesting. He could use a man of Bond's talents. Bond was a survivor, a fighter, just like him.
Lewis Lurmache had always wanted to be a cop like in all the action movies. But driving a van through London, day after day after day was not his idea of fun. Lewis thought he could have been a detective but those dreams were immediately squashed after he was assigned to the highway patrol. Were where all of the babes, the hot cars, in his life?
He slowed the van to a stop when two Irish jaywalkers stepped off the curb into traffic. "Bloody Irish tourists," he muttered. One of them reached into the long trench coat he was carrying. "It looks like a ...suddenly the two cops in front went down, shot through the head. Lewis grabbed the nine-millimeter strapped to his waist. His day had just gotten a lot more interesting.
Tomas Bain stepped off the curb into traffic, right in front of the cops. He watched the faces of the two cops turn from annoyance to horror as he started riddling their bodies with bullets from his suppressed Iranian model 22.caliber sub-machine gun. Then he turned his sub-machine gun loose on the two cops behind the van. Their heads disappeared in satisfying clouds of pink. Spectators around him began to shout and scream, but he ignored them. He reached into his chest pocket and brought out a grenade. Pulling the pin, he lobbed it into the cab of the truck. The truck's windows blew out, scattering glass along the road. His companion in arms ran around to the back of the truck and from his satchel he drew a small bomb and attached it to the back of the truck. The explosion lifted the truck a few inches into the air. The truck's doors were blown off their hinges. Tomas' partner bundled the unconscious form of Jules into the escape car that had been following the police van. Tomas followed his partner into the car, keeping his weapon trained on the shocked spectators across the street. The entire operation lasted less then three minutes.
Alone on a small island off the coast of Ireland, was a small fisherman's hut. The winds swept over the rock, and the sea sought to wrench the hut out of the ground and carry it away. A small fishing vessel motored up along side the rock. The three men in the boat tossed their ropes to a shadowy figure dressed in a seagoing coat who quickly caught them and tied them around two wooden posts sunk deep in the earth.
Inside Jules sat down in the chair indicated by Andres. Cigar smoke fouled the air, circling the ceiling.
"Jules, you talked, you know we don't like that. Take, Babe Ruth, he was a great man but he was surrounded by a group of players that helped to make him as good as he was. It's called, teamwork. Teamwork. And when, you," the cigar pointed at Jules, "when you talk, you betray the team. You betray the family. How could you do this to us?"
"Boss, I'm sorry. You know I can do better. I know I can do better. Or, I know. Let me out, I'll live in Canada or somewhere, where no one will ever find me again. You'll never hear my name again."
"You want out, you got out, after all, we're all family." Almost lazily Andres reached into his pocket and drew out a pistol. The shot ended Jules's life and rearranged his face. Blood splattered onto the far wall, until it dripped down, forming a pool on the floor. Two guards came in, they took a look around, one of them almost fainted. They carried the body outside and tossed it into the ocean outside. Andres hated Jules, he had died pathetically, he wasn't a man. He was a coward. He wanted power, but more then that he wanted a challenge. 007 presented a challenge, but unfortunely 007 was dead. Oh well. His phone rang.
"Lance?"
"Yeah, boss. The mission got compromised. Bond is good. I mean real good. He took down the two Americans, looks like we owe Chicago some money."
"Get back here Lance. We've missed this time, we won't miss again." Damn it. So Bond was still alive. Interesting. He could use a man of Bond's talents. Bond was a survivor, a fighter, just like him.