Level 13, MI6-SIS Headquarters, Vauxhall Cross Building
I return to my office to find the door ever so slightly ajar. Even before I open the door, I know that he’ll be sitting in my chair or trying to be nonchalant against the window.
“Get off my desk, 007!”
James Bond slowly gets up off the edge of my desk and smiles his winning smile. If I were younger, unmarried, and drunk it would work on me. “I have a lead on…”
“Did Q show you how to use a computer?” I ask as I take a seat. “Because that is how reports are filed, James.”
“Then I’d miss these little chats.”
I have a good mind to throttle him, but he does get results. He causes a lot of damage in his wake but he does get results. “Well…?”
“Jason Yuskovich.”
“Is he your new favourite singer? Spit it out, James, I have a lot to do today!”
He looks at me and folds his arms. “The Scales of Justice.”
Damn it all to hell! I thought that vicious little terror cell was dead and buried. Seems it is being revived or reimagined.
“Jason is the son of General Yuskovich, the original head of the group, and is trying for a more modern approach along the lines of ISIS and lone-wolf terror attacks.”
“You said you had a lead?”
“Tirana.”
I open my laptop and enter my overly encrypted seventeen character password and wait as it loads. “We have a team on the ground in Albania already. One of the lesser royals is doing official duties, you can slot in with them and go from there.”
“Prince or Princess?” He asks cheekily.
“Does it matter?” I retort. He nods ever so slightly and heads out the door. I press my office intercom. “Any news on 0020, Miss Moneypenny?”
__
As I sit in the back of Q’s Jaguar XJ Sentinel looking over papers on my chaffuered ride home, a feeling as if I’m being watched creeps across the back of my neck. Normally I drive myself home but after the shemozzle that today turned into, I requested a car. I scan around but nothing is obviously wrong. My driver is Tristan Boyce, former Special Boat Service operative who after taking a nasty wound in Slovakia decided life would be safer driving those in the upper echelons of government around.
The car itself was a work of art both in appearance and technological wizardry. An explosive resistant steel plate underneath the body, titanium and Kevlar lined cabins, armoured windows with bullet resistant polycarbonate toughened glass, front mounted M240b machineguns, an LRAD sonic generator and a dozen other doohickeys thanks to Q’s ingenuity. Yet despite that, I feel like I’m being targeted.
“All good, M?”
I nod and place my hand into my brown case to retrieve my Glock 26 upon hearing the voice. “It was…Jonathan.”
“I was wondering when you were going to realise,” he says smugly. I have half a mind to blow the back of Jonathan Hunter's brains through his remaining eye but since he somehow got into MI6 and out undetected means he’s up to something or has something of mine.
“Where is Tristan?”
He slowly pulls the car to a stop. “Your regular driver couldn’t make it. Lower your weapon, M, I don’t want to spoil the interior of this lovely vehicle.”
I calmly place my gun in my lap, his answer means Tristan is alive, quite possibly in the trunk. “Are you still calling yourself Goldeneye?”
He turns around to face me, his scarred right eye is indeed a bright yellow cybernetic implant. “What do you think?"
“Perhaps a parrot and a hook would round your look out.”
I watch a micro-snarl ripple across his face. I fire my gun into the fire extinguisher under the drivers seat. There’s a massive bang within the confined space and plumes of white chemicals fill the car which allows me the opportunity to dive out the door and make a run for it. I’m behind a desk for a reason, but I am no pushover. I fire several shots into the air. Gunfire is rare in London, thank goodness, and it’ll attract attention. Hunter is out the front door and opens fire with perhaps a MAC-10, hard to tell from behind the Volvo that is currently protecting me from being killed.
Whoever said being the head of Head of the Secret Intelligence Service was a boring job needs a swift kick.
Log in to comment