Author's note: Heeeey! I've completed my exams!!! YAY!!! Aren't you guys happy for me? Thanks for the reviews - much, MUCH appreciated! Hopefully this chappie will be good... not much action again, lots of speechy. But hey, just review if you found it good (or bad, whichever way works!)

Disclaimer: I do not own the usual suspects. Haha.

Chapter 8: The Living Daylights

Bond had lost all sense of time.

He had lost count of the hours, since there weren't any windows in the torture room nor in his cell. The only indication of what time it could have been was the clothes that Sorescu and Foster wore when he was dragged back into the room for his next appendix scrape. Plain three-piece suit with a tie and a pretty knee-length dress indicated it was probably mid-afternoon. Dinner jacket with a bow and a floor-length, sometimes with a plunging neckline meant that it was after dinner and the festivities at the hotel had ended. But after several times of the torturous procedure, Bond had ceased to care. The fresh pain that stabbed and pierced into his very being every time the wound on his abdomen was reopened became his friend.

And through it all, Foster didn't say a word to him, nor did she show any indication that help was coming, that somehow she had managed to contact MI6 and send in people to get him. Even the Bucharest police force would be nice. But she had merely given him the silent treatment. Sometimes she stayed behind to stitch his wound up and treat it with antiseptic when one of the torture sessions were over. Not that Bond wasn't grateful for it, but he actually preferred if she didn't do it at all, because it only gave Sorescu the pleasure of ripping the stitches apart with a blunt knife.

However, such inadequate medical attention wasn't enough to make up for the extent of the damage that Sorescu had inflicted upon him. After a few days, Bond was starting to feel feverish. His hands, his legs shivered, at first periodically, but the shivers became worse. Even when he was awake, his vision was filled with nonsensical shapes. The tangible gave way to the intangible, and even Sorescu's voice seemed to him like the drone of a bee.

And Bond knew that if he went on like this, he would die.

So he was only barely aware when the door of his cell opened and a man strode hurriedly into it. He held a gun in his hands. Bond's first thought was one of gratefulness: here was someone to put an end to his suffering. But no, the man knelt, put his gun down, drew a Swiss army knife out of his coat pocket and cut his bonds. Bond immediately reeled forward, but the man caught him and pulled him up to his feet. Another wave of pain slammed into his lower abdomen and Bond's knees buckled as he cried out in pain.

"Your wound is septic. There isn't much time left," said the man. "Come on."

Bond had just enough sense to ask him: "Who are you?"

"My name is Grigor Morena. Don't worry, my orders come from Mrs. Sorescu only."

"Ah."

Grigor Morena slung one of Bond's arm around his shoulders and proceeded to lead him out of the room. But Bond was so weak that he couldn't even put one foot in front of the other, which resulted in Grigor having had to drag him along instead. The corridor was not lit; that meant that Sorescu and his torture crew wasn't going to arrive anytime soon. Bond saw bodies strewn on the floor further up from the room where he was contained but Grigor immediately led him away from the sight and down the corridor. At the end of the corridor was a pair of double doors, and between the two of them only Grigor had the strength to push them. Then they were out, out into the living daylights.

Never had the sun been so welcoming to his senses.

Suddenly, Bond's breath shook and his limbs trembled. The shivers were coming back. Grigor felt it as well and hoisted him back up to his feet, made him stand firmly. "Stay with me, Mr. Bond. We're almost there."

There? Where? But Bond couldn't muster enough wits to ask him. He barely made out the outline of a wired fence with barbed wire decorating its crown. An open gate awaited him. Faint shouts erupted from behind them, in the building they had just left. Just as Grigor whirled around in panic, a speeding black Audi pulled up at the gate, its tyres squealing as it braked. The driver leapt out of the car and gestured wildly to Grigor, who nodded and turned to Bond, giving him a hard shake to make him focus.

"Listen here, Bond! Get in the car and get out of Bucharest. Do you hear me? Don't come back, or you'll be dead for good. Now, go!" With that he gave Bond a push in the direction of the car and darted back into the building, drawing his gun and cocking it.

The light was too bright. It blinded Bond's eyes. What Grigor Morena said only made the littlest sense to him, but the urgency was real. Shivering and dazed and in agony, Bond forced himself to move. A plod at first, then he heard his Christian name called by the driver of the car. He couldn't make out who it was, but the voice sounded familiar. He quickened his pace, but it was an uphill struggle as the shivering got to the limbs of his legs as well. He heard gunshots behind him, in the building. The driver ran around the back of his car, through the open gate and towards him just as the world began to spin.

Bond felt himself being carried again, one arm slung around the other man's shoulders. "It's all right, James, it's all right. I'm here. We'll go away," said the other man, and Bond realised vaguely who it was.

"Woodwick?" he croaked.

"Yes, James, it's me. I'll tell you everything later. Just hang on."

Then the coolness of leather seats enveloped Bond as he practically sank into the back seat of the car, head first. He let his limbs be arranged hastily on the seat, then he heard the door shut to his side. Seconds later, the car accelerated abruptly forwards, and the last thing that registered in Bond's mind before he slipped into darkness was the smell of lavender soap.

It might have been a few hours, maybe a few days, or weeks even, before Bond came to his senses again. He felt just as helpless and immobile as he had when he was in captivity, but this time his wrists weren't bound, he was lying on a comfortable mattress, he had a shirt on, which smelt clean, and there was plenty of light, natural light streaming in from the windows to his right. He still felt the pangs of pain, but they were dulled and muted.

All in all, a wonderful improvement from yesterday, whenever that was.

He thought that he was in a hospital room, but as his vision focused and he could muster enough strength to push himself up, he saw that he was in a bedroom with bright, white walls, white linen curtains and a ceiling fan that rotated lazily. The windows were open, emitting the smell of salt sea breeze. There was no one else in the room, though.

With much difficulty and a good deal of moaning and grunting, Bond managed to move his legs, which felt like lead after being useless for so long, so that they hung over the side of the bed. Then slowly, and painfully, he rose to his feet and edged gingerly towards the windows. God, his whole body ached, even his jaws. But at least he was alive.

A grey expanse of sea was visible to where he stood. The docks were close enough some distance below the windows till he could see the men loading and unloading tanker ships down to measly trawlers. Where was he?

Most importantly, what ruse was Foster up to?

"You're awake!" exclaimed a feminine voice behind him. His heart jumped; for a moment he thought it was Foster, and the thought instantly made him glad, instead of the resentment he had been harbouring towards her. It surprised him. However, a quick reassessment of the voice told him that it wasn't her. He turned around anyway to see who it actually was.

His eyes rested on a woman standing at the doorway connecting his room and the adjacent one. He hadn't noticed the doorway earlier. She had short, bobbed light brown hair, tanned skin and warm, honeyed brown eyes. And she was smiling at him with relief. Perhaps a little too much relief for Bond's liking.

She smelt of lavender soap, though.

"I'd better tell Joel; he'll be so happy to see you up and about!" she said again, turning to leave, but she stopped short and whirled around again. "Would you like me to get you anything? Some water and food? You must be starving."

"That would be nice, thanks. Where am I? And how long have I been unconscious?"

"You're in my grandmother's house in Constanza, Romania, and that's the Black Sea outside your window. You've been out for two days, and approximately seven hours." She smiled again. "Well, anyway, welcome back to earth!"

Bond merely smiled gratefully back at her and watched her leave. Her pertness was amusing. But he couldn't help but feel a little disappointed and wish that she had been Foster instead. That way, he could at least demand an explanation from her, and perhaps some assurance.

He turned heavily to the windows. Now, the path that lay before him was dark and uncertain. What other things had the disastrous dealing with Sorescu caused to happen? Was he and M in danger? Were their heads being hunted by the very people who had employed them? Bond couldn't help but feel his heart stir with restlessness. He couldn't bear the thought of anyone hurting M. As much as he enjoyed, sometimes, seeing M in trouble, he didn't have the heart to cause her to lose her job, much less her life, if he couldn't help it. Not that M had ever been particularly nice to him, but he knew that she trusted him, even if she had never, and would probably never, admit it to him.

"James!"

Bond's smile was one of genuine mirth, this time. "There you are, Woodwick!" he said as both men clasped each other in a quick, grateful hug. "Been looking all over for you, didn't you know?"

"I know you did, James. And I'm truly sorry. We both have a lot of explanation to do, so why don't you sit? How are you feeling?"

"Splendid," replied Bond. Woodwick tried to help him to get back onto the bed but Bond waved him away. "What do you mean by 'we'? You're the one who went ballistic on me."

Woodwick drew up a chair and sat facing Bond with a grim smile. "You never told me that you were with the Secret Service. I got the biggest shock of my life, short of hearing that my second ex-girlfriend had hung my credit cards up as Christmas ornaments, when Emiliana – I mean, Evelyn Foster – came to my room that night and told me that both of you were MI6 agents. Then she gave me the keys to a nice Audi, fake passports for the both of us, a mobile phone and a gun, and told me to wait for a call from a person called Grigor Morena. I'm to take you out of the country, if not, at least out of Bucharest. Once your rescue is made known to Sorescu, we're to be fugitives." He shook his head slowly. "I never imagined myself to have to run away from the police! I run a perfectly legitimate business, I have never gotten on the wrong side of the law before, and I have even served with the British army. Now I am suddenly jobless and a wanted criminal."

"Woodwick, as a rule of thumb, we try not to let civilians do our jobs for us, unless there's really no other option. She must have given you a choice. You could have said no and make a clean escape."

Woodwick laughed, but it wasn't the jovial, careless laugh that Bond was used to hearing. " I suppose I could, couldn't I? I agreed to help her, and you indirectly, because you were my only true friend." He looked out the window. "Oh sure, I have many friends in business whose company I enjoy, but none of them had ever stuck their neck out for me, nor would they want to either." He looked back at Bond with a wistful smile. "I owe you one for saving my arse in Japan, remember?"

Bond smiled back in return. "Of course I do." They had been new recruits with the British army and were assigned to be part of the British delegates at the American base in Japan. Being young and foolish and virile, both Bond and Woodwick had decided to roam the streets of Tokyo on one of the rare off-duty nights in search of pretty Japanese women. Fate brought them to a cheap brothel tucked away in some smelly district of the city. Bond had settled for one of the giggly, doe-eyed girls whose dressing left almost nothing to the imagination, but Woodwick insisted on having a foxy bartender, who happened to be the current squeeze of the brothel owner. Who happened to be a member of the yakuza. Woodwick would have been dead at the hands of said brothel owner if Bond hadn't mustered his guts and smashed an empty bottle of vodka over his head. They had ended up running away from the scene with a whole band of yakuza thugs chasing after them, spewing profanities and death threats.

There was a soft knock on the doorway frame and both men turned. The woman who had greeted Bond entered the room with a smile and a breakfast tray. She climbed lithely onto the bed and laid the tray on the mattress beside Bond before sitting near where his legs lay. As she did so, Bond gave Woodwick a questioning glance.

Woodwick waggled his eyebrows back at him. "James, meet Dr. Leda Bertram. Leda, James," he said.

"I know," she said with a disarming smile at Bond, who smiled back in genuine surprise. Never would he have guessed that someone as spry and, well, light-headed as her to be a doctor. "We've met. Conscious and unconsciously." She reached over to the tray and took a large, brown envelope that she had tucked under a plate of toast. "Well, James, food, or top secret documents first? I would advise the food first, but I suppose I can go lenient for you," she said to Bond with a touch of cheek in her voice as she held up the envelope. On a more serious note, she added: "It's from Mrs. Sor – Miss Foster, sorry – and it's for your eyes only."

Bond was hungry, not for food but for answers. He took the envelope from her and tore it open.

Keeping an impassive expression was becoming easy for Evelyn. When you were a rookie on your first undercover mission, the charades were heart-wrenchingly difficult to sit through. All it took was a pair of eyes that shone with the promise of tears, sometimes a plea to think about the children who would be left orphaned. But practice makes perfect. Sorescu and his men had executed countless people since she had married into the organization, and she was there to witness the most important and emotional ones. Over that period of time, she had perfected the art of hiding: turn a blind eye and a deaf ear. Steel your heart. Nothing can move you. Let your heart be torn to pieces, let your soul scream. But don't – move – a – muscle.

So she watched stonily, her husband by her side, as Grigor Morena, who was bound to a chair, came to consciousness. Sorescu's eyes had flared with silent rage when he had gotten the call that Bond had escaped. It did not console him that the culprit who had helped him was one of his own men. The mole had been found, but it did not alleviate the pain of humiliation.

Evelyn did, for Grigor had saved her life. His conviction would throw Sorescu off her trail. It was a necessary sacrifice. Both Grigor and Evelyn knew what was at stake when they had agreed on the plan that had been set in motion. He wouldn't blame her, and she took solace in that.

"You helped him escape," stated Sorescu matter-of-factly.

Grigor seemed to have come to himself and stared directly at his boss. "I did."

"You betrayed me. And I trusted you. Why did you do it? I gave you money, expensive clothes, a good house, a car. What did I not do enough?"

Grigor smiled. "Just kill me, boss."

Sorescu scoffed, but he held his hand out. One of the men who were standing in his room handed him an Arsenal P-M02. Suddenly, he handed the gun to Evelyn.

Startled, she could only stare wide-eyed at him. It was painful enough to have to watch his execution, but to be the one to do it…

It would positively kill her. Kill what humanity that was left.

Sorescu smiled at her in an assuring manner. It only made her body temperature drop several degrees. "Your turn, Emilia darling. In time, you will be just as important as I am, so why not start your training now?"

Evelyn drew a deep breath and took the gun from him. It felt much heavier than the identical model that she had given to Joel Woodwick. She turned to look at Grigor, willing the muscles of her face to stay as straight as possible as she pointed the gun directly at the spot between his eyes. Grigor did not plea, nor was he about to cry, but the direct challenge of his gaze was enough to make her breath tremble and her hand shake. But somehow, she manage to keep them straight.

"You can do it, Emilia," said Sorescu, his hands in his pocket.

Forgive me, Grigor.

She pulled the trigger.

The sound of the gunshot echoed in the bare room. The impact of the short-distance bullet upon Grigor's forehead tipped his body and the chair over so that both fell to the floor with a loud clang. Evelyn lowered the gun as Sorescu went over to where Grigor's lifeless body lay and peered down at him. For a moment, Evelyn seriously considered shooting him there and then while the gun was still in her hands, but it would give herself away.

Give herself away. She was sick of keeping to the story. Sick of behaving, moving and feeling like another person. Death suddenly seemed rather attractive. All she had to do was open fire on Sorescu and it would all come to an end. His life, hers; his empire would collapse.

Then she thought of his 'business partners'. They were all as powerful as Sorescu was in their own homelands, in their own empires. Without him, they would carry on the crusade anyway. Maybe their finances would be hugely crippled, not helped at all by the current financial crisis, but there would always be a way. There was liquidity to be found amongst the warlords in Africa, the ones who hoarded their wealth and were ready to barter with any Western kingpin in exchange for a taste of power and elevated status in the world of the West.

No, she thought as she lowered the gun with gritted teeth. The plan had already been set in motion. She would cripple this crusade single-handedly if she had to. She would die another time.

"Are you all right, love?" said Sorescu as he eased the gun out of her hands. Evelyn roused herself from her dark thoughts and smiled weakly at him. "I'm all right."

"This is your first kill. It is only natural to be frightened." He tilted his head to one side. "But you, darling, are the picture of calmness. You did not even ask me to change my mind. My, my, are you sure you have not done this before?"

She shot him such a sharp glare, despite her better judgment, that he laughed and drew her into his arms. "My dear, you can be so unpredictable sometimes," he murmured against her hair. "I will never understand you." He pulled away before she had a chance to reply. "Ah! I've been meaning to tell you this for some time now: we have decided to go by another name, an official one. From now on, all our dealings, transactions and action will be placed under one united identity." He scrunched his nose in distaste. " 'The Company' is too bland, don't you think?"

"Whatever the name you have chosen, I am sure it would be brilliant," she said in the most steady and reassuring voice that she could manage.

"It is," he beamed. He seemed to be in better humour than he was earlier, oblivious to the goings-on around them as Grigor's body was being removed. "We have decided to call ourselves the Strategic Plan for Equality in Constitution, Trade, Revenue and Employment. In short: SPECTRE." He grinned. "Good, no?"

Dun dun dun! (Gotta think of better sound effects!) And sooo ladies and gentlemen, SPECTRE is born! Actually, I think that what it stands for sounds pretty lame, so if you guys have any suggestions on what SPECTRE should stand for, let me know okay?

As always, do let me know what you guys think about this chappie! I felt that it was really long and, well, LONG, and pretty passive. I lengthened out the paragraphs with descriptive stuff, so tell me (honestly!) whether I should continue in this style or not.

Oh yes, I almost forgot: this author finally, FINALLY watched Quantum of Solace! Whipppeee! The chase scenes were awesome (I loved the one in Siena where they fought with the ropes!) Olga Kurylenko rocked and my heart just positively broke for Fields... and yeesh, Dominic Greene screams like a girl! Yikes! The M-Bond relationship just got taken to a new dimension and I absolutely loved to see how the ice around her heart is dissolving for him, in a motherly way of course :P In short, I thought it was amazing, but I dunno, I still like Casino Royale a wee bit better...

And oh yeah, sorry for the mini movie review. As it is, REVIEW! (This story, I mean, haha!)