"For England, James?"
"No. For me."The two laughed as they clinked their pint glasses and took a hearty swig from each of their respective pints. Opposite the burly, rough, but charming James Bond sat Alec Trevelyan - his oldest friend, if you could call him that. They were much closer to brothers than they were friends. Both grew up under the same, extremely strange circumstances - both orphaned at a young age and quietly folded into the machinery of the British state before either of them were old enough to properly understand what that meant.
What began as scholarships, tutors, and 'opportunities' gradually became assessments, evaluations, combat training, psychological conditioning and eventually service.
By the time they were old enough to question it, the path had already been laid out for them - not that they were aware. And the path had been walked to perfection, like a a platoon doing a drill display. They had been molded into Britain's new generation of professional killers - or at least that was what his test was due to prove.
"So just how did you get your double-oh before me, Alec? Whose gears did you have to grease to cut the queue?"Alec looked back at him with a wry smile. His features were thin and handsome, with high cheekbones and a pointedly slavic look to him. "What's that old phrase? Age before beauty? Maybe it was the other way around this time."
"Oh, come off it. You're seriously not going to tell me how it went, even after I bought you a pint of that piss you call beer?""Definitely not. Classified information, my friend. Need to know basis." He made a finger gun and pointed it at James, closing the mock trigger of his thumb down and pretending to shoot him - right through the eyes. "Maybe if you manage to keep yourself alive for this one the top brass'll let you be privy to my adventures."
Alec laid a brown manilla folder down on the grotty wooden table between the two. James stared it at wide eyed, glancing between it and Alec.
"You're taking the piss, right? Is this really it?"Alec raised his hands. "Open it and find out for yourself. Oh, and be quick, the message is set to self destruct as soon as you open it." James raised an eyebrow. "Just kidding."
There was an icy chill on the wind blowing through the streets of Kraków, one that necessitated an overcoat and set the young agent on edge. He'd killed before, but this was different. There was more on the line now, maybe anything at all was more than before. He was a man who came from nothing and moved through life like a spectre - drifting from event to event, location to location, like he barely existed at all. Now was the time to change all that, to be brought into the fold of a small, selective, elite cabal of operatives with a licence to kill. If he couldn't be a normal human he'd become something more - a myth.
And yet, it all felt too much. For once he had something to lose.
Enough of that. Compartmentalise those feelings, push them down far below the surface. There was no room for emotion on a job like this. Emotion makes a man week, makes him sloppy, makes mistakes.
He adjusted his tie, approaching the inconspicuous black door, stained with graffiti that almost worked as a repellant for anyone silly enough to go knocking on doors at this time of night. No, the only people who would knock on a door like this were those in the know.
James knocked thrice and waited, sliding his hands into his jacket pockets and glancing around the winding cobbled streets, with its old street lights casting an orange glow onto the pavement. For a moment he allowed himself to be lost in thought - as we all do, even the most hardened of killers - imagining himself settling down in a place like this. Finding someone and retiring to a normal life in a fairytale city like Poland's previous capital. But such life wasn't for someone like him.
Finally, the sliding peephole opened to the noise of metal hitting metal and a pair of eyes stared out at James. He turned casually, leaning forward slightly as the voice called out in Polish:
"Password?"
How delightfully cliche thought James before replying.
"The girls are late."There was a grumble and the slide shut close again, the noise of a key turning in a lock signifying his correct answer as the door swung open and James stepped through and down the narrow staircase. He was met at the bottom by a woman, dressed in evening wear sitting behind a desk lit by a sombre lamp. A deep purple strip of carpet lead the way through a pair of heavy wooden doors to her left.
"Hello, sir. Please may I take your name?"
James smiled back at her, had he not been on the job he'd have extended his stay in Poland, if only to take this beauty out.
"You don't recognise me?""I'm afraid not, sir."
"You wound me. Jan Kowalczyk."She flipped open a small ledger beside her, tracing names with one painted fingernail. "Ah, Mr. Kowalczyk, I'm sorry for my rudeness. Your table has been reserved and the bar staff will have your drink ready for your arrival. The auction begins in 20 minutes."
"Thank you, dear." He began to walk away, only to be stopped in his tracks at the sight of a large metal detector blocking his path into the hall. He could feel the cold steel of his Walther PPK pressing against his ribs. It seemed he was going to have to do things the old fashioned way.
In one movement he unclipped his shoulder holster, took off his jacket, wrapped the holster and gun underneath it, and turned back to the receiptonist.
"Excuse me, my love, you wouldn't happen to have a cloak room would you?""Erm, sorry Mr. Kowalc-"
"Please, call me, Jan.""...My apologies, Jan, but we don't."
"Hmm, that is inconvenient. Could I trust you to hold onto my coat then Mrs...""It's Miss, and you can call me Oliwia. Don't worry, I can keep your coat until you return."
"My deepest thanks."The heavy wooden doors opened into a haze of cigarette smoke, amber lighting, and hushed conversation drifting beneath the crackle of old jazz records.
The club beyond was decadent in the sort of exhausted, joyless way only truly wealthy criminals could achieve. Velvet booths curved around polished tables crowded with crystal glasses and silver trays while waitresses drifted silently through the room like ghosts - not daring to say anything other than their usual canned phrases for fear of what it could result in for them.
Bond moved through the room effortlessly, barely turning a head as he made his way to the table reserved for him. There was something unsettling about assignments like this - how easy he found it blending into a room full of predators.
Arms dealers masquerading as businessmen laughed over whisky beside politicians pretending not to recognise them. Women hung from their arms like expensive accessories, some smiling sincerely, others with the hollow detachment of people enduring the evening rather than living through it.
There were very few times all this glamour wasn't hiding something rotten. James sat down, a martini arriving at his table shortly after. He recited the key facts from the document Alec had given him in his head.
Former SHIELD operative.
Elias Blackwell.
Missing six months.
Multiple confirmed kills.
Stolen experimental technology currently unaccounted for.
Termination authorised.
His first official kill as a double-oh. The thought sat heavier in his mind than he expected. Something about this humanized him more than he'd thought. Just why had this man - a former officer from MI6's friends across the pond - decided to defect and leak information to the worst types around the world? The thought pursued him like a cruise missile.
A passing waitress offered him champagne from a silver tray. "Champagne, sir?"
James took one with an appreciative nod.
"Thank you.""You seem nervous, sir."
He looked at her properly then, breaking the doubts in his mind. She was young, pretty, with intelligent eyes. He spotted faint bruising near her wrist hasitly hidden beneath makeup.
"Is it that obvious?""Only a little."
He took a sip from the champagne.
"Perhaps I'm worried I've dressed too formally.""The worst men here usually dress the best."
Before he could answer, the atmosphere inside the club shifted subtly, the same way it does as an Opera is about to start. The curtain parted and out onto the stage strutted a short man wearing a ridiculous suit with a ponytail.
"Gentlemen, I am proud to welcome you to tonights event. Please have your auction paddles at the ready, the bidding for our first batch of beauties starts at 2500000zł."
Following behind him walked a line of women, each in various states of undress and distress. Bond could see that some of them were used to this charade - being pranced about like show ponies - while others were entirely new to the concept. He felt a sick feeling in his stomach, how he wished he had his gun now. How grateful he was that he didn't. It would take everything within him to resist putting a bullet straight into the heart of the little rodent on stage taking delight in these poor girls misery.
He had a job to do.
He scanned the room, glancing from sweaty oligarch to ugly arms trafficker over and over again until he spotted him. He'd changed his appearance a bit - shaved his head and made an attempt to grow a beard - but it was definitely him. Blackwell. He was being led out of the hall by an imposing looking man in a suit roughly pulling along a scared looking girl by her wrist.
Bond took a sip of his martini and grimaced. It had definitely been stirred, not shaken. With that he rose from his seat, giving sheepish smiles and ducking his head as passed through the eyeline of those around him and followed the three into the backrooms.
They disappeared behind a door in a hallway full of them. James took a deep breath, approaching the door and readying himself. He wished he could have prepared more, scoped out the next room for the layout of this one and maybe entered through the window or another unexpected avenue. But there was a girl in there, and he had no time to waste.
He gingerly opened the door and was greeted with a disgusted look from the tall man.
"What do you want?!"
"My apologies, I'm actually looking for someone.""Can't you see we're busy?!"
"Well yes, in fact..." He opened the door and waved an arm through.
"Excuse me, dear. I believe they need you on the floor."The girl took her opportunity and ran out, to the bewildered expressions of the two remaining men. He quickly took in the room. Not much room for maneuvers. There was a filthy looking bed, a bureau, a chair, and a stripper pole in the centre of the room. He could see that Blackwell was keeping his stolen goods both figuratively and literally close to his chest - it being hidden within a suitcase handcuffed to his wrist and being clutched to his mid section.
James locked the door behind him, turning back to the two.
"Now, chaps, this isn't exactly the kind of threesome I was hoping for." He smiled.
The room exploded in a cacophony of movement. James surged forward, grabbing the top of the wooden chair and violently swinging it across the face of the taller man. In response the brute let out a series of explitives, grabbing hold of one of the chair legs and yanking it out of James' hands.
James reacted quickly, letting go of the chair as quickly as the man grabbed it causing him to stumble back into the wall as the agent positioned himself behind the pole. For every swing and jab with the chair, James dodged low and high, causing the chair to splinter and split as it collided with the metal. Finally, Blackwell joined the fray, trying to pincer James who blocked a one handed punch with his forearms and narrowly ducked under another swing of the chair which collided with the wall and burst into the sum of its individual parts.
Bond rolled forward and to his feet, turning on his heels as the two pursued him. He took a grip of the bureau with both hands and spun it on its side straight into Blackwell's midsection. The thug continued his advance, sending heavy punches to James' midsection and arms as he tried desperately to defend himself. Finally he spotted an opening through the onslaught, and turned his hips shooting an oblique kick straight into the knee of the man which sent him wincing in pain and falling to the floor. He followed this up with an axe kick to the throat which left the man gasping for air and struggling to hold on to life.
Now unbothered by being outnumbered, James straightened his tie and turned towards Blackwell - who to his surprise was pointing a pistol at him. James slowly raised his hands in surrender.
"I thought this was a no-shooting party.""You thought wrong."
"Seems so.""Now, whoever you are. You're going to tell me exactly who sent you and what info they gave you about me and then we're going to take a quick walk to my friends in the main hall. I'll let them deal with you."
"Hm. A coward as well as a traitor.""Neither are relevant in this business, we're all deadmen serving a higher power. Me? I just decided to go where the money is."
"I've no time for mercenaries.""Well you'll have no time for anything at all shortly."
James nodded.
"Well, if this is to be the end, do you mind if I have a smoke before I'm hung, drawn and quartered?""Fine, you can smoke while you tell me everything."
James reached into his suit jacket pocket. No gun, of course, he'd have to improvise. Slowly he began to pull something from the inside pocket, and all at once tossed it at Blackwell.
The fountainpen flew through the air and embedded itself directly into his shoulder. James cursed his aim, he had been aiming for his throat. Still, just enough to offset his aim. A bullet fired and punctured the wall - James acted quickly grabbing the bottom of Blackwell's wrist and forcing it upwards to a shower of more gunshots.
James forced a headbutt into Blackwell's nose, breaking it and smearing blood over his face. In the struggle they wrestled over to the window and James quickly backed off slightly before sending a forceful kick to his midsection. The glass cracked and finally broke against the pressure and Blackwell tumbled out backwards.
The case opened just in time, wedging itself between the remaining shards of glass and wood and groaning against the weight as Blackwell hung from the window by his wrist. Inside a glowing gem, one that could fit comfortably into the palm of James' hand stared back at him.
"Please! Save me! You can have the stone just let me live!"
James stood for a moment, that same cold chill blowing in from the street. Finally, gently, he took the gem from the case and slid it into his pocket. With a sneer that encapsulated the disgust he felt for this man - a man who would betray his institution and side with scum who would run an operation like this - he punched the case shut, and Blackwell's only leverage slipped and sent him tumbling through the air down to the concrete below.
"Case closed."
RPM,
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