Thirteen Years Previously:
The game was over. Blake - the other agent assigned to this mission - was dead, a bullet taken high in the chest, another in the throat. He was finished. They had found the small handgun on his ankle, removed it as they had his other weapons, he was unarmed and unable to do anything. Strong hands gripped him under the arms and hauled him through the complex, blood trailing after him, flowing from his leg - the bullet had shattered the bone, every movement was agony. He gritted his teeth and struggled, and the butt of an automatic was hit into the back of his neck. Stars exploded in front of his eyes - brilliant flashes of pain - and he swayed in and out of consciousness.
Voices were shouting in Russian over his head, but in his pain he couldn't focus on them. He was taken into a courtyard, the snow flitting around him, the wind biting into his broken body. He was flung onto the icy flagstones, stifling the scream that rose from his stomach, struggling to get up, to at least try to get onto his feet. The same strong hands held his shoulders, and another hand grabbed his thick dark hair and pulled his head back, dragging him to his knees. He looked up at the man that stood over him, expensive wool coat flapping in the wind, staring impassively down at the agent, and then pulled out a gun, and walked around him.
The cold metal barrel was pressed into the back of his head, it was an unmistakable feeling. He didn't think it would end like this. He knew it would have to end one day, but had tried never to imagine it - there were too many risks to face each day. He thought of his wife - dead for five years, and of his daughter, who would be an orphan at the age of thirteen. He looked up to the sky, watching the flakes of snow drift down, settling in his hair, on his face, and wondered. Was this emptiness what his friend and colleague had felt six months earlier?
A single shot was fired and 009 slumped forward, dead.
*********************
A Year Ago:
The taverna was set well back from the main streets, the door to it gave no indication what lay beyond it. He pushed it open, and stepped into the dim light. A bored looking barman, a glass in one hand, a cloth in the other looked over at him and nodded. Follow me, the instruction was clear. He led the man up the back flight of stairs and onto a terrace that over looked the city. The air was hot and cloying, but the woman that sat at the single table was as cold as ice.
She watched him with those cold blue eyes as he made his way across the terrace, he was slightly stiff, and walked with a limp, but he disguised it well she noted.
He sat down opposite her, and silence reigned for a while.
'So it is you.' She finally broke the silence that threatened to choke them. 'I had rather hoped that you were a bad dream.'
He remained stubbornly silent.
'Once, once I can almost understand. But my god - twice?'
Still he remained silent, jaw set, staring levelly at her.
M poured him a drink. 'So what are we going to do now?'
********************
Present Day:
Gregory Fraser raised his glass to the attractive blonde that sat opposite him. The restaurant was quiet, the food sublime, and the company...stunning.
Lucinda Eliot raised her glass in return to Fraser. A large diamond sparkled on the middle finger of her right hand, the smile confident; a woman who knew she looked good. Her suit jacket was buttoned, to show her hourglass figure to its full advantage. The aquamarine shirt turned her eyes even bluer, and enough buttons were undone to reveal her, well, killer cleavage.
