Five Years Later...
Grozny, Chechnya
2235 Hours
The UAZ-469 carrying the lead Chechen rebel, Khalid Murat, and his second in command, Hasan Arsenov, rolled in an armed convoy through the bombarded streets of their capital. In front of them was a GAZ-33097, carrying the majority of the rebel soldiers. Two BTR-60BP armored personnel carriers rode with them, one stationed behind Khalid's vehicle, the other in front of the GAZ carrier.
The convoy was on its way to Hospital 9, a Chechen rebel outpost in Grozny. Khalid looked out his window, viewing the abandoned, ravaged streets of his beloved home, covered in rubble from smoking buildings.
"Compliments of the Russian wolf," he said with his arm pointing to the view. "Once Grozny was a beautiful city and a beloved home to many of my people." He shook his head. "Look, Hasan, how the Russians have crushed every-thing that was good and fine!"
Hasan Arsenov nodded in accord.
"One day, Hasan," said Khalid, "I tell you, Chechnya will be free from the Russian yoke."
"Tell me, Khalid," said Arsenov, "as the moment of truth is upon us, what reservations you have."
Murat raised his eyebrow, not understanding what Arsenov was asking. "Reservations?"
"Don't you want what's rightfully ours, Khalid, what Allah decrees we should have?"
"The blood runs high in you, my friend. I know this only too well. We've fought side by side many times - we've killed together and we owe each other our very lives, yes? Now, listen to me. I bleed for our people. Their pain fills me with a rage I can barely contain. You know this better, perhaps, than anyone. But history warns that one should beware what one wants the most. The consequences of what's being proposed - "
"What we've been planning for!"
"Yes, planning for," Khalid said. "But the consequences must be considered."
"Caution," Arsenov said bitterly. "Always caution."
"My friend." Khalid smiled as he gripped the other's shoulder. "I don't want to be misled. The reckless foe is easiest to destroy. You must learn to make patience a virtue."
"Patience!" Arsenov spat. "You didn't tell our citizens, our people, the men we ride with today, to be patient! You gave them guns and ammunition. You set them against the Russians. Each day we delay is another day that these men and thousands like them risk being killed. It's the very future of Chechnya that will be decided by our choice here?"
Murat rubbed his forehead. "There are other ways, Hasan. There are always other ways. Perhaps we should consider - "
Seconds Ago...
The figure of a Russian assassin was prone on the rooftop of Hospital 9, straight ahead of where the Chechen convoy was approaching. He was dressed in a snow-camouflage jumpsuit with a kevlar UTG Tac vest. He aimed down the sights of the scope attached to his modified Finnish Sako TRG-41 bolt-action sniper rifle with a silencer attached. In his left hand was a detonator with two buttons. Two buttons, two blasts.
Now...
The front BTR-60BP and the GAZ-33097 drove down the beginning of a ramp that led to the parking lot in Hospital 9.
"Perhaps we should consider - "
Bang! C4 charges suspended over the arched entrance to the parking lot blew, sending down piles of rubble that separated the armored BTR and the GAZ inside the parking lot from the UAZ and the other BTR still stuck outside.
Now that the GAZ was out of the way, the Russian assassin had a clear shot at the vehicle with Khalid and Hasan inside. The assassin exhaled as he began squeezing the trigger...
The driver of the UAZ-469 was panicking as he turned the wheel, trying to back out from the entrance. Phutt! The bullet of a silenced rifle penetrated the bridge of the driver's nose, straight in between his eyes. Arsenov looked over to Murat and saw that he was bracing himself against the corner between his seat and the door.
Murat looked to Arsenov one last time with a face of defeat. Phutt! The assassin's second bullet penetrated Khalid Murat's trachea. He was dead.
Arsenov quickly pulled the handle to his door and exited the vehicle, running to the BTR behind. As the rebel soldiers began exiting the back of the armored carrier... Phutt! The assassin's third bullet pierced Arsenov's right knee as he was running for cover behind the BTR. He yelled out in pain.
One of the soldiers dragged the injured Arsenov behind the cover of the BTR while the others quickly aimed and fired their AK-74Ms at the peak of the building where the shots originated. After seconds of continuous shooting, the rebels stopped to insert new magazines and waited for returning fire. There was none.
"T'eghurtu," shouted a rebel. It meant they were advancing on the building.
The assassin changed the channel that the detonator was set to. He readied his thumb on the trigger.
The Chechen rebels reached the access door to the building's staircase that led to the roof. Two rebels positioned themselves on the two sides of the door, readying to breach. Another rebel kicked the door in and they began sprinting in.
When the assassin heard sound of the rebels' breach, he waited one second and clicked the trigger.
The C-4 charges in place by the staircase went off, surrounding the rebel soldiers in fire and concrete debris. Hasan Arsenov, nearly unconscious, was the only one left from the convoy. He still hid in cover from behind the BTR, thinking that another convoy would soon come.
The Russian assassin took out a cell phone from a pouch on his tac vest and pressed redial. He began disassembling the rifle and inserting it in its carrying case.
A man answered the phone. "Is it done?" he asked. His accent was British.
"It is," confirmed the assassin.
"And Arsenov?"
"Still alive. A shot to the back of his knee. Nothing more."
"Good," said the voice on the phone. "The money has been transferred into your account... along with a bonus."
The assassin paused. "That was not expected, ...but it is not what I asked for. Did you get it?"
"Yes. The files have been sent to your laptop profile."
As soon as the voice on the phone said this, the assassin removed his laptop from his backpack and booted it up.
"I was beginning to think he was dead," said the assassin.
"In a way," the voice said, "he has been."
The computer finally powered up. The assassin clicked on the sent file. It opened a photo of a zoomed-in view of Georgetown University in Washington D.C. taken by a drone. Behind a window to an office, there was a man holding a folder filled with papers. He was dressed in khaki pants with a dark brown leather belt and a green-brown sweater. The assassin had hardly recognized him after nearly six years.
He clicked on another tab in the file that showed the profile of the man. "David Webb" was the name it displayed, but to the assassin... to Kirill, that man was still Jason Bourne. Kirill rubbed his scarred face, left over from his pursuit of Bourne in Moscow. Bourne ended up driving him in his vehicle into a concrete divider. Kirill was nearly killed, but now, he was ready. He had a score to settle.
"I hope the information in the file is helpful," said the man on the phone.
"Thank you," said Kirill. He hung up.
The man on the phone with Kirill hung up his phone and placed it down on his glass desk.
"Ms. Stacy," he called to his secretary outside his office, where the only light in the room entered through.
"Yes sir?"
"Book me a flight back to Barcelona, won't you?" he asked. The light from Webb's photo on his desk computer reflected on his reading glasses. "I have business to attend to."
"Yes, Mr. Praxus."
Georgetown University - Washington D.C.
1440 Hours
It was spring. Students at Georgetown University were leaving their classes after their professors ended their lectures. One student in particular was anxious to leave the area near his class as fast as he could. His name was Rongsey Siv, a Cambodian student.
He had his hybrid backpack-laptop case slung around his right shoulder. He gripped it tight as he walked fast, fearing confrontation with a few thugs he saw around campus since a couple of days ago. They were discretely waving pocket knives at him. Rongsey didn't see any. That was a good sign... but he then felt a hand grasp his left shoulder and what felt to be the handle of a non-erect switchblade knife digging into his back.
"Alrigh' gook," said the thug behind Rongsey, "you see that lil', narrow alley by that corner? Well we 'bout to go there to socialize, righ'?"
Rongsey's heart beat continuously faster as the thug guided him in the direction of the alley with his hands. When they reached the alley, the thug pressed him against the wall as two more figures in hoodies emerged.
"You got any goods, gook? Show us what ya got so we can trade 'em in."
Rongsey stood, scared stiff.
"You hear what he say?" demanded another thug to the ring-leader's left.
"Nah, I don't think gook here wants to," said the thug on the right. Rongsey looked to the thug on the leader's left and saw that he was sliding a wooden baseball bat down his right sleeve.
"So you want your knuckles broken all at once, or one at a time," the bat-wielding thug asked while brandishing his blunt weapon.
"Man, he don't get to choose," the leader said.
As the thug began raising the bat to strike, Rongsey closed his eyes, waiting for the pain. Just as the thug's arm was swinging the bat downward to strike, another hand caught the bat. Rongsey opened his eyes, wondering why he wasn't hit. The man who grabbed the bat had approached so silently and so suddenly that no one noticed him until after he grabbed the bat. He proceeded by hitting the thug holding the bat's handle in the nose with his elbow and kicking the side of his knee in.
The thug let go of the bat in pain as he fell to the floor, holding his nose and knee. The leader holding the knife quickly aimed the switchblade to the man, but the man flung the bat into the bridge of his nose. He dropped the knife and backed away as he held his nose.
The last thug began pulling out what looked like a colt pistol out of the inside of his jeans. The man quickly kicked the bat as it was settled on the toes of his shoe after it fell, and it connected with the thug's sternum. He then held the thug's arm holding the gun upwards and he twisted his wrist with a simple snap. The thug yelped as he dropped the gun. The man finally punched the thug in his ribs at the same time as kicking the gun away with his heel.
The thugs, all injured and afraid, exited the alley, out into the streets. Campus security passed the student as well as the man in the alley, chasing after the thugs. Rongsey stood in shock after witnessing what just happened, as well as who was the one responsible for it.
"Professor Webb?" Rongsey asked, stunned and confused of the savagery of his linguistics professor. David Webb stood silent for a few seconds, abashed that one of his very own students had to see him regain the Bourne persona once again, but quickly, his attention turned to Rongsey.
"Are you alright?" Webb asked. Rongsey looked around, still confused.
"I suppose," he replied. They walked out of the alley, back onto the university's campus. They came across a manila folder with spilt term papers that Webb dropped when he heard the commotion in the alley. "Let me help you with those."
"Thanks," said Webb as he and his student placed the papers neatly back into the folder. "I was just on my way to Barton's. Listen, Rongsey, ...do you want to talk about those guys? About what just happened?"
Rongsey shook his head. "I'm fine, Professor Webb. It's not the first time I've been threatened because of my race." The Cambodian student walked away. Webb felt bad for Rongsey, and he was upset on the events of the day. What just happened would probably be reported to Theodore Barton, his department's head. Webb was sure he would want to have a talk with him.
London, England – United Kingdom
Same Time (1945 Hours Time Zone-Converted)
A silver Audi R8 LMS Ultra pulled up to the sidewalk outside Club Stompanato. The nightclub emitted flashing rays of neon pink and violet lights as well as the booming sound of the dance music's bass. A man wearing a grey trench coat, black leather gloves and a fedora, stepped out of the vehicle. He was Arthur Bermire, the owner of the club.
He walked passed the line of visitors waiting entry in the club. The bouncer of the club saw his boss approaching and gave a small nod that it was okay to enter. Bermire pushed through the crowd of his club and made it to the back, where there was a steel door guarded by two tall men. He opened it and walked in.
The door led to a white-stone corridor with another steel door at the end. He walked down the corridor and opened it.
In the center of the room, a man wearing a white shirt, loosened black suit and tie, and a cloth sack placed over his head was having his head held into a trough filled with water by a muscular man in a black shirt and pants. Another man was standing in the back of the room, darkened by shadows.
Bermire tossed his fedora to the man in the shadows and approached the man in the trough. "Pull him out," he said. The man holding the drowning man's head in pulled the collar of his suit, pulling him out of the water. The covered man was gasping for air.
"Where did you find him?" asked Bermire.
"He was in storage, where the merchandise was," said the henchman holding the covered man. He pulled a box-shaped object that was no bigger than a matchbox out of his pants' pocket. "Caught him trying to place one of these on the cache." It was a tracker. Not activated.
"This all doesn't seem the kind of thing that would happen to you," Bermire addressed to the covered man. "But, then again, everyone has their off-days." He approached the man with the sac on his head, who was still breathing heavy. "Both, my previous competitors and employers alike have warned me about you. I have looked forward to this day, when I would have finally met, face to face, the famous James Bond!"
As Bermire finished speaking, his hired man removed the sac from the man's head, but the face revealed was not the one Bermire was expecting to see.
"I really hate him," said the drenched Q.
"This is not the right man," exclaimed Bermire. "Kill him!" However, just as the hired man took out his garrote wire from his pocket and readied it around Q's neck, Bermire raised his hand as a signal to stop. "Wait," he looked around. "When I was called here for this, who's voice was that on the phone?"
"That was the new guy you hired," said the man holding the wire. He pointed his eyes to the man in the shadows, who had tucked the fedora behind his belt.
"...I didn't hire another man," said Bermire.
The figure in the shadows removed a Walther PPK from his Berns-Martin shoulder holster, wrapped around his white shirt. He aimed it at the man holding the wire and fired a bullet through his skull. Bermire quickly ran out the door of the room and sprinted down the hallway. The man stepped out of the shadows, towards Q.
"Hello, Q. How's the holiday coming?" Bond asked.
"Not very well, 007, seeing as you just used me as a distraction and nearly got me killed," exclaimed Q.
Bond gave a light smile. He had called Q to the back of the club, saying that the tracker he had was faulty, but the reality was that Bond didn't see any way to get past the guards, so he used Q to distract the guards so that they would detain him while he placed the tracker on the weapons' crates. He then subdued a guard and made himself look like one, slipping into the room with the torturer.
"Where's the car?" Bond asked as he cut the binds wrapped around Q's hand.
"It's in the alley," said Q. Bond nodded, acknowledging.
"Good," he replied. As he began to walk out, "Oh," he said as he stopped and turned back. "First things first." He pulled of Q's black suit and slid off his tie. He began putting it on as he left the room.
"Why did I go into espionage," Q asked to himself.
Bermire burst through the door that led into the club's main area. It was crowded with several people, dancing to the booming music. It would take forever to walk past them all, so he quickly pulled out his concealed Glock 17 and fired two rounds in the air. The civilians shrieked in fear as they cleared a path for Bermire to push through.
Bond sprinted through the door not long after, his PPK pointing up in his right hand. He looked through the crowd and saw the path that they made for Bermire. He then saw they grey trench coat-wearing Bermire nearing the entrance. Bond sprinted after him.
Bermire quickly exited the building and opened the door to his Audi. He reached into his coat for the keys and started the car. As Bond pushed through the door outside and aimed his pistol, Bermire sped off. Bond quickly ran to his right until he reached an alley by the club.
He reached into Q's suit pocket and pulled out a set of keys. He pressed the unlock button and as he looked ahead, he saw the headlights of a beautiful, storm grey Aston Martin DBS V12 flash on. He grinned.
Bermire sped through the streets of London in his Audi R8, constantly checking his rear view mirror to check for any pursuers. He let out a sigh and laugh, believing he evaded confrontation with who he could only guess was an MI6 agent. But in a second, he saw two headlights turn around a corner in his rear view mirror. It was catching up fast.
Bond drove behind the Audi as it began to serpentine. With the narrow road, Bond didn't see a way to drive next to or past the vehicle. Inside Q's jacket, a phone began ringing "Rule Britannia." Bond reached into the jacket and saw that it was Bill Tanner calling, the Chief of Staff at MI6. Bond answered.
"Q," Tanner said after Bond picked up. "What is the current sta-"
"It's Bond," he interrupted.
"007? What's going on? Where's Q?"
"I'm afraid he's a little indisposed of at the moment. I'm in pursuit of Bermire and the tracker has been placed on the caches. They've just been shipped."
"Wha-" Tanner tried to get in a word.
"Sorry. Can't talk right now, Tanner. Driving." Bond hung up the phone. He saw the Audi take a right, and just ahead of the two was the Lambeth Bridge. They were near the south bank of the River Thames. Thankfully, the bridge was closed due to refurbishments being made so almost everyone would have to use the Westminster Bridge.
Bermire continued straight on and slammed through the "Closed" signs placed out before the start of the bridge. Bond had enough room to pass, but Bermire continued to serpentine. His Audi had too low a suspension for Bond to get a good shot with his pistol to hit the tires. Looks like I'll just have to improvise. Bond thought.
Behind the shift was a compartment that bond slid back. In it was a chilled bottle of champagne and two glasses. Bond grabbed and lifted the bottle out from the compartment. Bond then pressed the car's cigarette lighter into its socket, waiting for it to heat up. He then took out the pocket square from Q's jacket and shoved it into the already uncorked bottle.
The lighter's handle popped out and Bond grabbed it. Bond was about to light the handkerchief but quickly turned the bottle to see the label. It was a bottle of Moet & Chandon Dom Perignon Charles & Diana 1961 priced at about £ 2,576. "Very nice," Bond commented.
He pressed the lighter to the tip of the pocket square and it began to catch fire. He placed the lighter back in the socket and opened his window. He waited until Bermire swerved out again, and finally, he did. Bond threw his expensive molotov cocktail out the window. The bottle crashed and shattered just next to the bottom of the back right tire to the Audi, and the champagne burst into a cloud of flames that engulfed the Audi's rear, blowing the back two tires.
The Audi spun out of control and the back end crashed through the side railing of the Lambeth Bridge. Half of it was suspended over the Thames and the other was just barely touching the road. Bond stopped his car and got out, walking to the front of the Audi. Bermire, dazed from impact, looked out of his cracked windshield. Bond was looking down at him.
"If you want to live," said Bond, "you will have to follow everything I have to say."
Bermire nodded and said "Yes."
"You stop your shipping business. Arms, drugs, and anything else, shut down."
"Alright," said Bermire as he discretely reached for his holstered Glock.
"Second, you leave England. If you attempt to re-enter, MI6 will be there."
"Anything else?" Bermire asked, his hand now on the pistol's grip.
"One last thing," Bond replied. "A word of advice:"
Bermire pulled out his pistol and aimed, but Bond was fast and pushed on the hood of the car with his foot. The back end of the car tilted over and brought the shouting Bermire and the rest down with it.
"Never try to play a game of bridge with me," said Bond.
Big Ben began to strike, signifying that it was now 8:00 PM. Bond looked at the clock, lit up at Westminster Palace, just across the bridge. Bond grabbed Bermire's fedora he kept in his belt and tried it on his head.
"Nice hat," he said before driving off.
Author's Note: Hello, Readers. It's been... quite a while since I published the first chapter, hasn't it? I am sorry about the wait, but the thing is I was pretty busy during summer break. I went to New Hampshire for a bit and I've just been held back from writing more of the story for a while. I hope I should be able to post things more regularly now. When I wrote the first chapter I had a few ideas on what to do with this story, but I hadn't clearly thought out the plot until now. For those of you who have possibly read the Bourne novels, you may recognize the beginning of this chapter. I actually got the bit with the Chechen rebels and Bourne as a Georgetown professor from the the Bourne Legacy (novel version) because hardly anything from the Bourne Legacy novel was used in its film adaptation and I thought it would be a pity if it wasn't used for anything else. Not to mention it was a well-written sequence. I changed the character of the assassin from the book to Kirill, who you may recognize from the Bourne Supremacy movie, played by Karl Urban.
P.S. I have also used the time in between these chapters to think of other projects I could work on. So far I have thought of...
-a Hunger Games prequel all about the Second Quarter Quell in which it all revolves around Haymitch
-an Expendables-ish story in which some of the best action video game characters have to fight a powerful villain (which would include Commander Shepard from Mass Effect, Master Chief from Halo, Max Payne, and others)
-and possible sequels to this story that would reunite Bond and Bourne and potentially add another/other famous espionage character(s).
Leave reviews on this story and comment if you are interested in reading any of my future story ideas.