Author's note: Thanks for the reviews! Y'all are a supportive bunch! It was hard for me to write this chapter - I have like three drafts of this lying about! I hope this one is okay, not too describe-y but action-packed enough for you guys to drop me a REVIEW! Yep that's what I wanna hear... reviews! MWAHAHAHA!!! (at this level of evilness, the author looks set to replace her own villain in the story XD)

Disclaimer (hehe, HAVE to remember this!) : I don't own Bond, M, MI6 or any characters that are recognisable from Ian Fleming's universe. And, come to think of it, I don't own any Bond merchandise either! Wa!

Chapter 6: The Devil's Snare

Bond turned off the torrent of cold water and stepped out of the glass shower. He grabbed one of the heavy and warm towels that were folded neatly on the brown marbled sink, wrapping it around his waist and another towel to dry his hair with a quick scrub over the head. He glanced at his watch which he had laid on the sink counter. Only twenty minutes till the meeting.

You can do it, Bond, he told himself as he took a deep breath and began dressing himself in the only tuxedo suit he had thought of bringing along to Brighton; the only tuxedo he owned that had not been sponsored by MI6. Just as he had tucked his shirt into his pants, the doorbell rang.

What was Woodwick doing at his room so early? he wondered. Didn't he tell him that he would meet him later at the restaurant? With a frown, he shouldered his coat on and he strode out to answer the door anyway.

It was Foster, dressed in a simple strapless wrap black gown. Her chocolate curls were let loose about her shoulders and framed her angular face almost precisely. Bond had never seen any woman look that perfect and immaculate.

"Don't you look just handsome tonight," she remarked with a smile. "Aren't you going to invite this lady in and perhaps throw in an equally encouraging comment for her?"

"You look nice," was all he could say as he stepped back to let her in and shut the door. She took the liberty of removing her shoes and hiking up her dress so that she could sit cross-legged on his bed. He took the armchair. "What are you doing here? Won't you get caught by the cameras or by any of his goons patrolling the hotel?"

She smirked. "He can see everything that everyone does in here, yes, but he won't have that much of time this week to do so, mind you. Not every guest is as simple and undemanding as you, you know." She opened her clutch, a leather one that was quite big even by Bond's standards, and removed a Fort 17 semi-automatic, which she duly loaded and handed to him.

"Just in case," she said quietly.

He took it from her anyway and stowed it in the inner pocket of his coat. It fit like a charm. "Why do you think I'll need it?"

Foster laughed. Nervously. "Oh, you never know, with this organization of his. One moment you're talking and joking with Sorescu and the next you're dead. I've seen his men shoot, torture and kill. Some of them do it in front of me when he's out of town so that I can tell the boss that he's done his job, earned his bones." She looked at him directly. "Oh believe me, some will get so desperate for work that they'll torture so cruelly and slowly just to impress me, and hopefully him."

"I see," he replied. "So I'll be sitting in a room of sharks and every word I say will be like fresh meat."

She smiled. "Don't put it in such a negative light, will you? If it makes you feel better at least we know that M will be even more flustered than you are." She got to her feet and placed both hands on the arms of his chair, leaning so that their eyes were on the same level.

"Be careful. And whatever happens, don't worry," she said and kissed his cheek lightly. Her lips were soft, sending tingles along the line of his jaw, and her breath was warm, her scent heady and inviting. Bond struggled to treat it as if it wasn't a big deal. With that, she left, leaving Bond with his heart heavy with fear and dread.

Sorescu watched as his men set up the electronic equipment in the conference room for the video conference that would ensue between Romania and Britain. He considered himself, and his highly commendable and trustworthy brothers in arms, as the true leaders of Romania. They had all risen from the dankest and poorest streets and villages in Romania to culminate together in power and purpose.

A boy, no more than five years old, barreled into the room from the waiters' entrance, his little fist grasping a bunch of pencils. "Look, Pa! Pencils!" he shouted as he ran over to his father, a thin man in a smart but worn-looking suit who was arranging chairs. His eyes widened in panic, taking the pencils from him immediately and hurriedly leaving them on the table. "What are you doing here? I'm working! Where's Mama, ha? Go to your Mama. Please, Micu, go to Mama – don't disturb Papa at work or the boss will fire him! Then how will you have food to eat and a house to stay, eh? Go and wait with Mama!" he ushered the boy out of the room back through the door where he came from, then with an apologetic grin and bow to Sorescu, the man resumed his work.

Sorescu did not respond. The scene was familiar: he was the five-year-old boy, and his father was one of the 'boss's' men. But his father, the man who young Mikhail looked up to even when he came home late and drunk almost every night, had died when he was seven. His mother kept repeating that it was a car accident, but when Mikhail grew up and was accepted to work for the Crowbar, the only kind of work that a dirt-poor and unschooled teenager living on the streets of Bucharest could afford to do, the Crowbar himself revealed the truth to him. His father had died during an armed face-off with the rival gang; he had died a hero. His son deserved the treatment the son of a fallen, loyal soldier deserved. Shortly after his indictment into the Crowbar's family, the big man himself gave Mikhail a new lease life: a comfortable two-storey house for his family, monthly allowances, and most importantly education. Mikhail was sent overseas to as far as Cambridge University, on a faked A-Levels result slip, of course.

But nothing that good had ever come without a substantial price. When Mikhail returned with an honours degree in Economics, he was instantly made the Crowbar's second-in-command. That also came with a license to kill, to kill anyone who put the organization and its secrets in jeopardy.

While Mikhail grew up to lord over the streets of Bucharest, his younger brother, Tibor Sorescu, slipped through the Crowbar's fingers and became an Interpol agent. The moment Tibor Sorescu began to probe and infiltrate the Crowbar's organization, both men were no longer brothers.

Sorescu closed his eyes at the memory; the sight and feel of the cool surface of the gun in his hand, the defiant pair of brown eyes that glared back at him even as he aimed the weapon between his eyes, then the explosion that ensued when he had pulled the trigger…

"Mikhail?" Sorescu opened his eyes at the sound of his wife's voice and the pressure of her palm against his shoulder. Emiliana sat next to him as they locked gazes. Her deep blue eyes were wide and questioning. He wondered, with a small flutter of uncertainty, if there were anything hidden behind them, if she would betray him the same way his brother had.

"Are you all right? Most of your partners are here and the video conference can be initiated at any time."

He nodded, stirring himself mentally to focus to the matter at hand. "I'm fine. Where's Bond?"

"Here," the man himself replied as he approached both of them. Sorescu smiled, though humourlessly. "Speak of the devil. What do you think of the setup?"

"Good," replied Bond briskly as he took the chair next to him. Sorescu looked around to find that all of the important associates were present. He nodded at the men by the entrance to shut the doors, then indicated for Bond to make the call.

The room was tense and silent as they watched Bond dial the numbers. He spoke short, direct sentences, giving no room for anyone to find any hidden meanings among the words. In a few minutes, the connection was set up and the whole conference room were now face-to-face with a woman with short grey hair and, altogether, a shrewd appearance.

"Hello, how do you do," she began, with no hint of a polite smile at all on her face, "my name is M."

"Fine, thank you," replied Sorescu. "I think there is no further introduction to be made here. I shall go straight to the point. As you can see, I do not act alone. For simplicity, I shall say that we call ourselves the Company. So anything that you wish to say about your proposition can be made openly, as it is for all of us to know and understand. But firstly, I am a bit curious: why the independent involvement with the Company?"

He observed her expression. There was a slight widening of eyes and straightening of her back, all classic tell-tale signs of shock, but she recovered quickly by clearing her throat. "I, like you, Mr. Sorescu, do not originate from a commendable background. Growing up, I was also plagued by poverty, and in the times of the Cold War, this poverty has caused me to lose many a good opportunity. But I am not here to tell you sad stories. Quite frankly, I want justice and equality in wealth and work for everyone. And it seems that my cause coincides with Defense Minister Popescu, which indirectly led me to you. So don't worry, Mr. Sorescu, there is no infiltration here, just an offer that will profit both of us. But we are both businesspeople at heart, so you know that there won't be a deal without a good reason."

Sorescu sat up in his leather swivel chair. "The deal then, is this. The first half you know: our cause. What's left is the execution. But before that, I'm sure you understand if I ask for confirmation of your intentions, proof that you are sincere."

"Very well," replied the woman, without so much as a sign of hesitation. Smooth. Too smooth. She read out the numbers to a Credit Suisse account. Sorescu ordered Emiliana to check the validity of the account with her laptop. He observed her as she accessed the bank's database and keyed in the numbers. She did it with precision and confidence, and Sorescu thought to himself that he couldn't have picked a better person than her.

"Valid," said Emiliana, and she showed the bank account balance to him: a healthy 150 million Euros. He nodded good-naturedly. "All is good at that front. But I am afraid that I cannot reveal everything to you." Her brows furrowed in annoyance, but that was quickly banished as well, replaced with one of stony calmness. "If you do not wish to do business, then I do not as well," she said tartly. "I cannot afford to throw money into a badly-lit room, not knowing who will catch them and what they will be used for."

"Which is completely understandable," he replied. Annoyance was his intention, and the feathers of a woman were easiest to ruffle. "So I shall tell you this: we will use the money to purchase weaponry, which, as you know, is not cheap these days, as is manual labour. You need not worry about the details, that is for us to take care of."

"Weaponry? Then may I know how that substantial amount of weaponry will be used?"

Sorescu held up his hand. A feeling of self-satisfaction surged through him now. He was at the upper hand, though the woman called M may not realize it. No, she would, but it would be too late by then. "Again, madam, you do not need to know that. All that you need to know that in due time, a new order will be established in Europe, all the way from Azerbaijan to Iceland, and when that is accomplished, you, my good partner, will reap what you have sown: a handsome monetary reward and a high-ranking position in the new union of European countries. But I will, of course, keep you updated on the progress of our mission through your advocate here, Mr. Bond, as long as he remains with us."

That, ultimately, left no room for the woman to maneuver. If she insisted on knowing the true mission that was underfoot, she would have given plenty of reason for not one, but a roomful of influential men who have enough manpower to prove a serious consequence for her attempt to double-cross him. The transfer of money was made, all 150 million Euros, and, just before the video conference was ended, Sorescu noted the dissatisfaction on both her face and Bond's.

Excellent.

The infiltration effort proved disastrous. M had done her best, but Sorescu had outsmarted them all. Bond kept his eyes and ears sharp as he followed Sorescu's entourage downstairs to dinner at the restaurant. Laughter and talk was shared by everyone in the group, even Sorescu and Foster, but Bond was noticeably the most silent, and no one bothered to engage him in their conversation anyway. He was treading a volatile minefield.

Anything could happen.

Despite Bond's misgivings, Sorescu invited him to join his table. By that time, Bond had developed a serious wish to see and talk to Woodwick again, not because he had suddenly grown fond of him, but at least he could be himself around Woodwick. Masquerading was not his game.

Surprisingly, Sorescu had also reserved a seat for Woodwick at his table. But even more surprising was that Woodwick didn't turn up at all. An hour after the meal had commenced and the main course was almost done with, there was still no sign of Woodwick. Bond observed the other tables, notably the ones with the most number of glamorous-looking women, but no sign of Woodwick. Throughout dinner, he tried to catch Foster's eyes, but she ignored him as she and her husband responded to everyone who came over to their table to have a brief chat with them.

Bond began to feel uneasy. Dessert arrived and still Woodwick's chair remained empty. He could not take it anymore. He excused himself from the table with a lie that he was not feeling well. He stopped for a moment in the lobby as he tried to call Woodwick with his mobile phone. No answer.

Was he all right?

Bond went straight up to Woodwick's room, which was next to his anyway, and knocked on the door. "Woodwick?" He tried again, this time harder.

"Woodwick, are you all right? Are you in there? It's James."

No reply. He knocked again. "Woodwick?"

The skin on his neck tingled as he felt a presence behind him. He turned around and narrowly avoided a sack that was about to be shoved over his head. He barely registered two formally dressed men as he avoided a direct fist to his face and responded with a hard blow of his own. His fist made contact with someone's jaw. Perhaps it broke, because the man who received it staggered backwards, the sack in his hand. The other man slung his hand around Bond's neck and locked him in a vice grip. He coughed and choked as he felt his airway constricted. He tried to pull the hand away, but the man was bigger and stronger than he was.

Bond mustered his strength and aimed a sharp kick at his knees. The man buckled, his grip loosened at once. Bond swung around, grabbed him by the lapels of his coat and drove him, head first, into the wall next to Woodwick's door. Bond didn't know if his skull was cracked, but there was blood in his head and the man was properly knocked unconscious. Broken Jaw, however, had recuperated by then, and a silenced gun was drawn in his hand. Bond grabbed his arm and twisted it cruelly just as the trigger was pulled. A bullet escaped and lodged itself in the ceiling just as Broken Jaw cried in pain and sank to the ground, the gun dropping to the floor. Bond aimed several hard kicks to his side till Broken Jaw could no longer stand. He made a dash for the elevator, then remembered that there were cameras everywhere and there probably would be men on their way up already.

Damn Sorescu! he cursed to himself as he ran wildly for the staircase, which he found in short order. He burst through the doors and had descended a few steps when he heard shouts and yells from above him. He jerked his head up. They were pursuing him from one floor up. Steps became leaps as Bond decided skipping a few steps wouldn't hurt him anymore than his assailants would. He remembered the gun in his coat and utilized it, not hesitating to fire a few shots at the army of at least five men behind him. He didn't stop to see how many had fallen to his bullets, but from the yells and thuds as bodies crumpled to the floor, it had to be at least two.

But just as he had landed two staircases later, something big and burly burst through a pair of doors and rammed into him, sending him banging onto the railing. His knees had already buckled, but he felt the cuff of his coat grabbed. The next thing he knew, he was being thrown all the way down to the next landing. He hit the wall, hard, and his head spun, but he forced himself up on his feet anyway.

The man who had knocked him down caught up with him, hitting him squarely on his face with a full-out punch. Bond staggered as he felt his vision fade and tasted blood in his mouth. The last thing he saw was a long, black stick whose smooth surface made contact with the side of his head and his world went black.

So what do you think? If you've got an opinion, you know what to do - REVIEW! Yeah thanks!! :D