-1Fear Of Dying

A Short Story By Douglas Paterson

Based On The Ian Fleming Character & Novels

It had been Tuesday morning when M had called Bond into his office. Bond, the latest 00-Agent, had been off of active duty since his assassination of a female Russian Spy one month previously, he had failed to get the necessary information. But things had been changing since then. The Russians had found out about the killing, and were retaliating.

The KGB had successfully assassinated several MI6 agents, six to be exact. Each one had been killed in their sleep, stabbed through the heart. Bond suspected he was to be assigned to the case - he had been showing remarkable progress in his training, and general consensus was that he had the potential to be among the best of the 00 section. Of course, they had not said this to Bond to his face, as this would lead to arrogance. But the rumours had made it to him anyway.

M had assigned him to the case, much to Bonds delight. Whenever a fellow agent was killed, everyone took it seriously. Even if they did not know each other, it felt like loosing a member of the family - Bond knew this was a dangerous situation to be in, an agent of Her Majesties Government should be emotionally distant, but it was impossible to turn off basic humanity. Bond saw this as his chance to do the right thing, to avenge his friends.

He was still trying to get used to his new superior, M. The actual head of MI6, before becoming a Double-Oh Bond had never met the man. He could tell he was an old naval man, and had heard his name was Sir Miles De Messervey. He was a cold man, and seemed not to care about the lives of the men. He simply seemed concerned with not looking weak in front of the Russians. Bond wondered to himself if this really was the case, or if he was just being professional. Still, the case was Bonds. He was told to wait till the next morning before starting, and so Bond had settled down that evening with a good dinner and plenty of Bourbon to settle his nerves.

The next day, after a breakfast of scrambled eggs, toast and orange juice he headed to the airport, and began his journey to New York. He still found planes unpleasant, the food was not to his taste, his tastes being very specific. Worse was the food in America itself, he found it impossible to find anything that agreed with him there.

He slept through much of the journey, far more than usual. He felt strange returning to New York, it was the location of his first kill to earn his Double-Oh number, something he tried to pretend did not bother him, but each kill he made haunted him. And always would. In time he would convince himself that killing didn't bother him. The regret would be a massive enemy he would have to fight, and if he did not win, it would defeat him utterly.

He did not waste time at the hotel. He showered and changed, to get the musk of travel off of himself. He looked at himself in the mirror, making a vein attempt at getting that single unruly comma of his black hair to slick back with the rest of it - but there was no use in it. He admitted defeat in this small aspect of his appearance and set out.

That was yesterday, this is today. And his job is almost done.

Bond walked through the building, nursing an injured arm. He had found the KGB agent who had performed the murders, getting ready to eliminate a CIA agent in this very building. They had fought, and Bond had given as good as he had gotten. The man was hurt, and bad. The building had been evacuated, every one was safe now. Bond and the assassin were alone in the building. Bonds face was bloody, and had this being during the buildings opening hours then he would doubtless have attracted attention by now. He had planned a quick, clean kill. More than the bastard deserved, and now the way he had chose to play the game meant Bond got to relish the kill.

Bond was never a man to have enjoyed killing, it was a necessary part of his job. But this time was an exception, there was a personal vendetta against this man, and Bond would smile when he saw him die.

He did not have long to wait, the assassin was waiting for him round the next corner. The two men stare at each other, the Russians eyes were calm - this was just a job for him. A momentary flicker of fear ran across his face when he sees the hate, the quiet rage in Bonds eyes. The two men were soon locked in combat, throwing each other into the walls of the hallway, punching, kicking and attacking each other with every ounce of energy in their bodies. Bond suffered the worst of it, the man was faster than he was. But that didn't matter - Bond wanted this man dead, and that meant he would die. He finally got his break, hitting the KGB agent square on the jaw with his fist. The man fell to the ground and Bond delivered a swift kick to his stomach, sending the man spinning, landing on his back.

Bond drew his berretta, and stood on the mans arm. He aimed the gun down at the man, aiming right at his forehead.

"To hell with you." he says to Bond. Bond cruel mouth morphed into a cruel smile, and he asked the man...

"Are you afraid of Dying?" The Russians eyes widened as Bond holstered his weapon, and pulled the man to his feet. He threw him out the window, thirty stories up. The mans body was discovered within moments, a bloody pulp on the ground below.

Bond leaves the building, walking through the crowd. He curses himself, the killing far too public. He let his emotions get the better of him.

Not next time.