Venice, 2012
My feet pounded the pavement like my heart ricocheted back and forth between my ribs and my spine, like the ricocheting bullets from the carnage I ran from. Looking right, I daren?t jump right, not a fool would even stray right unless there was no option left. I clasp to my hat, like every outlet of breath I could manage as I tore down the cobbled pavements.
But these streets aren?t safe no more.
The flat roofed terraces above were my best bet but finding a way up there was like finding an escape route from the Pamplona bull run. I dared to look back, just for an instant, but it was enough. Enough to send my legs into overdrive. Their snarled screams bounced around the tight alleys, the shuffling of feet practically inaudible amongst their cries.
I turned once more. Mistake.
**SLAM**
The echoes were no longer the only thing bouncing off of the walls, as I fall to the floor, bouncing, before lying motionless. They stood around me for a second, knowing their duty, as it had been foretold many hours previously. They raised their guns from their sides and took aim at my forehead.
London, February 2013
The harsh winter chill was dry enough to roll right on through, ignoring you like every other moving object in this city. Pulling my jacket an inch or two higher to cover more of my face, I exhale. My ribs ruffle like the feathers of an uncomfortable bird, quivering in the pain, pleading with me to just turn back and go home. I decline the offer, however tempting.
The old familiar smell of oak, the touch of leather, the taste of whiskey; 3 senses treated, another being batter with a barrage of M.
"We need them here Bond." He says, his words blunt and brutal like a bludgeoning baseball bat. "Therefore," he pauses.
I look up from my glass. Only his silhouette is visible as the low winter sun streams through the blinds like a river around rocks. He takes a step backwards and seats himself behind the desk at which I am sat.
"You're going undercover."
"Well that does seem logical, I am an MI agent," I mused, the humour seeming to reach a barrier around halfway across the desk.
"It's a little more than the standard protocol, 007." He replies coolly as the air blowing through the trees.
I stare at him blankly for a moment, trying to figure out the agenda behind this assignment before all is revealed like an episode of Jeremy Kyle.
The scent of fresh dough and good wine filled the cool summer's eve air. Sat at the table for two alone, I gently swayed my glass, watching as the clear liquid left a mark around its edge.
"Another Vodka-Martini sir?"
"No. Thank you" I replied, gesturing the waiter away. He nodded, complying, in doing so brushing against the velvet-like dress of a modestly dressed woman. She looked around in surprise at the contact made with the waiter, who had long gone, leaving only the scent of pizza sauce behind him.
She looked over, our eyes meeting. She smiled. I didn't. After a moment I retracted my gaze, still feeling her clinging to what hope remained in her head that I may return her smile. I swigged my last mouthful and stood. Leaving a generous tip, I walked up to her.
"Meet me outside," I whisper in her ear, giving her no time to reply before continuing. Reaching the door, I turn to see her still seated but seemingly tempted. I gesture with my head for her to proceed. After a second of thought she grabs her bag from the table and heads towards me. I step outside, reaching into my pocket. Quickly attaching the silencer, I respond to the door's hinges creaking by raising the Walther PPK's cool metal head to hers. I grab her waist and pull us both towards the darkness of the side alley, away from the dimly lit signs of the main street.
Her muffled voice is soft, despite the profanities she speaks.
"I question, you answer, got it?" She nods. "Who sent you?" She struggles in my grip a little. I loosen my hand a little to allow her to make something of an audible sentence.
"How did you know?" She says sharply, her thick accent running through her words like custard through a straw. Her words are forced, projected like those of an opera singer.
"Lucky guess," "that or it wasn't sugar you added to my coffee earlier." I feel her lips transform into an evil grin against the palm of my hand.
"Well, then I guess you will know Mr Bond, and know to watch your back." She wriggles free as my grip loosens. She begins to walk, I clutch to her elbow as the lights hit her hair. She turns and laughs silently. "There's nowhere he can't find you Bond, you'll be with your parents soon."
She turns back and walks away as my hand slips back to my side. I conceal the pistol in my jacket pocket once more and walk back out of the alley. She's nowhere to be seen.
Opening the door to "my" house reveals a small brown letter. I pick up the letter before shutting the door. I tear open the letter and unfold the A4 sheet.
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