Never Send A Man

The first fan fiction short story by Devin Thomas thrusts James Bond into FBI territory in New York, and into the life of a beautiful brunette hell bent on revenge... Excerpt He handed the lighter to the girl, and she lit the cigarette. Then he noticed the bands at the mouth of the filter: two gold bands, a speciality cigarette. The final part of the password. “James Bond?” the girl asked in a low tone after taking a long puff. Agent 007 nodded. “And you are...?” Bond replied. Discuss "Never Send A Man" You can discuss "Never Send A Man" and post questions to author Devlin Thomas in the Keeping The British End Up forums: "Never Send A Man" discussion thread Fan Fiction Authors Have you written a piece of James Bond fan fiction, either a novel or short story? Interested in getting you work published on MI6? Contact our fan fiction editor who can guide you through the easy process: Submit Fan Fiction   (click to enlarge) Author Devlin Thomas Released May 2003 Format Short Story Cover Art Odd Job

"Never Send A Man" by Devin Thomas

The yellow taxi cab slowed and turned off the main street, pulling up to the curb. It was rush hour, and the commonly crowded streets of New York City were even more swamped than usual. There was honking of horns, screeching of tires, and use of vulgarity.

James Bond waited on the curb as the taxi pulled up to him. He wasn’t use to this kind of traffic. Sure, there were crowded streets in London. But nobody used vulgar language. There was an occasional honking of the horn. And some screeching of tires. But nothing like this.

Besides, Bond hated New York. It and cities like it, like Los Angeles, Detroit, and Washington, D.C., had an industrial smell they wore like a cheap perfume. Bond preferred American cities like Houston, Raleigh, and Miami, which, unlike their sibling big cities, had a relaxed, easy-going atmosphere.

Bond remembered the first time he’d been here, when he was younger, working on an SIS case. He’d promised to meet a British woman agent who didn’t know she was dating a KGB spy. But she herself was a double agent, working for both sides. It was a mission Bond had long wanted to forget.

As his flagged taxi came to a halt, he took a quick evaluation of his belongings. He carried only a brown leather briefcase, a present from Q Branch before his departure from London, and a black duffel bag. The briefcase contained an advanced security system, an x-ray proof hidden compartment with an AR-7 folding sniper’s rifle, and a concealed throwing knife contained on the side.

Being a chilly day in early March, he was dressed in a russet suit, light blue button-up shirt, and a pair of brown leather Oxfords. Over which he draped a light brown trench coat he had purchased in London a few weeks before. Underneath everything, though, he wore his chamois shoulder holster that contained his trademark Walther PPK.

His hair was combed back finely, with the tiny comma of black hair dangling precariously just above his left eye.

He climbed into the back seat and told his driver to head for Times Square. He needed to be at the Crowne Plaza Times Square hotel in ten minutes for a two o’clock check-in. The driver, who appeared to be from Eastern Europe, nodded and pulled back into the mainstream traffic.

It took them eight minutes to cross two blocks to Times Square. James Bond thanked the driver, handed him a few loose American bills, and exited the cab. He headed into the hotel and walked up to the front desk.

Had it really been less than a week since he had stood at the entrance to that ungodly building in Regent’s Park, the skies dark and gray with the onset of a London summer? A week since he looked into the singularly clear grays of M, his chief at SIS? Since the thin dossier marked FOR YOUR EYES ONLY slid across the glass-topped desk straight into his fingers? Yes, indeed it had.

Bond had been aroused early that Sunday morning by the incessant buzz of a telephone. But it wasn’t his public line. No, the noise was coming from the red telephone, the government-issue article he was directed to keep in his home. He reached over to his nightstand and grabbed the receiver.

It was Bill Tanner, M’s chief of staff. The old woman wanted Bond there by eight. What it was about, he didn’t know, just be there on time, Bill had said. Bond groaned, then thanked Tanner and rung off.

What is it that she wants?, Bond had wondered afterwards. A new case? There had been mountainous amounts of paperwork collecting on his desk in the days and weeks before. He hadn’t been out of England for a good six months, though he would be glad to be shipped off to the Bahamas or Jamaica or somewhere tropical where he could relax. No doubt, though, that the mission she had prepared for him would take him somewhere dismal and boring. But it would get him out of London and away from the paperwork nonetheless, so Bond was glad.

Bond was there by eight, with the thick London fog encircling the stoic headquarters building. He was ushered into the office and took a seat across from what appeared to be an excited M.

“We’ve got clearance,” she said. “From CIA. Just received it last night.”

Bond was confused. “Clearance for what?”

M leaned back in her chair, crossed her legs, and whipped out a thick dossier. “I’m sure you’re familiar with Alexander Dramond, 007?”

Bond nodded. Alexander Dramond was the most famous drug dealer in the world, at least to all government agencies concerned with him. He had been the primary dealer of opium and heroin in the North and South Americas, Europe, and Asia, for the past five years. He had first been noticed as a top lieutenant in a European drug ring. However, Dramond had quickly usurped the top position within the group, and had turned the little-known drug ring to a chain of great influence and power.

“Of course,” Bond replied. “Dramond has been a problem for years now.”

M was obviously pleased, and her face showed it. “Yes, and a problem that had always been out of our reach. Until now.” She tossed a dossier over to Bond, and it fell into his lap. “That tells all about Dramond, and all his known warehouses,” she explained. “Wired over fresh from the Americans last night. They’ve given us clearance to take over the Dramond case. Ministry of Health and International Opium Control people in Geneva want us over there right now. The American FBI has several agents working on his case as well, and they want to meet up with you. Your cover and arrangements for a meeting are all in there.” She motioned to the folder. “Their agent is in New York right now, as is Dramond. They’re staying at the Crowne Plaza in Times Square. Your room’s already been booked.

“Dramond’s been the top supplier of opium and heroin for the past five years. The worst thing, though, is that he doesn’t sell it in large quantities to private clients. He’s pushing it on the streets, 007. To our children. On the streets, in the schools, at the malls, everywhere. Ministry of Health’s been noticing it with our kids too. Used to be only the Americans. Not anymore. This guy’s pushing drugs on our kids and he’ll keep pushing them until we take him out.”

Bond lifted an eyebrow at this. Had she said, ‘until we take him out?’ An assignment to kill? There hadn’t been a direct order to kill for a long time, what with government bans and sanctions. He liked the sound of this.

“Luckily, these chaps from the FBI and CIA have ferreted Dramond out of his hole. For some stupid reason he seems to keep a stringent schedule, going to the same places at the same time every day. Which gives us the advantage.

“Now, we’re sending you to New York City, 007. The FBI agent will brief you on the day’s schedule, and a list of all the equipment. I’ve been assured by Washington that this agent is one of the best.” Bond noticed a slight grin on M’s face when she said that. “Any more questions? No? Good. Well, good luck 007. Oh, and Major Boothroyd wants to see you downstairs before you go. Read the dossier too. His entire profile’s in there.”

With that, Bond left the room and headed downstairs. Major Boothroyd had given him the briefcase, and thirty minutes later he was packed and at Heathrow, on his way to the States. His flight landed at JFK International and he proceeded directly into the city. His reservation at the Crowne Plaza had a check-in time of two o’clock, and his meeting with the FBI agent had been arranged at the hotel’s lounge at two-thirty. Which is why Bond was in a great hurry to get to the hotel, check-in, and get unpacked.

The receptionist at the front desk was pleasant, and made his registration quick and easy. She was an attractive young girl with curly brown hair and an agreeable smile. She handed him his key. “Thank you,” she said. “Enjoy your stay.”

Bond’s room was number 340 on the seventh floor. The front room was fashioned with a couch; two armchairs; fine Persian rugs; two lamps; a coffee table covered in a plethora of the world’s newspapers; a large double-doored stand which opened to reveal a TV; a minibar; and a table for flowers by the door. French glass doors opened onto the veranda with a commanding view of the cityscape.

The second room was the bedroom. It was fashioned with a cushiony king-sized bed with warm sheets, another armchair, a nightstand, another TV, a small chest of drawers, and a spacious walk-in closet. A door opened into the bathroom, which contained a marble sink, commode, and a bath with frosted glass panels that turned it into a shower.

Bond had a porter bring his bags to the room, tipped him, then gave him an extra twenty to keep fresh flowers in every morning. For the mission, Bond had been given an envelope of hundreds and fifties confiscated from a known Dramond fund. Given by the FBI to SIS for their agent’s funds, Bond had been informed that it would be considered very rude if he didn’t spend it all.

Bond unpacked, then took a shower, once with streaming jets of hot water, and then again with a freezing stream. Then he dried off; dressed in a tan suit, navy button-up, and brown Oxfords. Then he adjusted his chamois Berns Martin shoulder holster, checked the magazine in his Walther PPK, and then slid the weapon into the holster. He slapped on his gold Rolex, checked the time, and saw that he had less than five minutes until his meeting downstairs.

The lounge in the Crowne Plaza was a posh bar and restaurant that gave an imposing view of the city streets. In the center was a floor-to-ceiling tank that contained specimens of fish from all different parts of the world. Bond was especially interested in the Jamaican tiger fish that darted between the whipping strands of algae, pursuing the smaller guppy that was seeking shelter under the cleft of a jutting rock.

The fight between the two fish seemed pending, and Bond was excited by the action. He desperately wanted to stay and watch, but he had a duty to fulfill. Perhaps their table would be near the tank.

He spotted a tall gentleman seated at a table in the corner. Was this the agent? He had been given no photos to judge the agent by. Just the password, which had been agreed upon by both SIS and the FBI. Bond moved in.

Just then, a lovely young girl with jet-black hair breezed past, slightly touching Bond’s elbow. It was enough to make him turn after her, and he found he was staring straight into two deep pools of warm green. He suddenly realized how attractive she was.

But it was enough for her. “Oh, excuse me, do you have a light?” She pulled a packet of Marlboros from her pocket and slid one from the box.

The beginning of the password. Was it a coincidence? Surely M would’ve told him if his contact was to be a female agent. He had to find out.

“I use a Ronson myself,” Bond finished the password. Reaching inside his jacket, he retrieved a gunmetal cigarette case and a silver lighter. He handed the lighter to the girl, and she lit the cigarette. Then he noticed the bands at the mouth of the filter: two gold bands, a specialty cigarette. The final part of the password.

“James Bond?” the girl asked in a low tone after taking a long puff.

Agent 007 nodded. “And you are...?” Bond replied.

“Vicki Vale. Pleased to meet you.”

She was quite beautiful. Her silky black hair streamed down onto her shoulders. Her slender, healthily pale face was smiling back at Bond. Her green eyes were the same distance apart, separated by her exceptionally small nose. As she smoked, her nostrils flared, which Bond found somehow attractive on her. Her mouth, from which the cigarette hung, was petite and much too small for Bond’s tastes. Her body, on the other hand, was slender and petite—and appealed very much to Bond. She had sacrificed her hourglass figure for a more muscular, fit tone, which was just as alluring to Bond. She was clothed in a black pants suit, white blouse, and five-inch Stilettos. There was no scent of perfume, and Bond assumed that the woman was more comfortable wearing the ‘strong female’ aura that surrounded her. Around her wrist she wore a silver watch. Bond noticed there was no ring on the fourth finger of her left hand.

“Pleased to meet you as well. Shall we?” Bond motioned to one of the tables, then escorted her there. They found menus already sitting there. A waiter arrived a few seconds later, welcomed them, and asked if they would like anything to drink.

“I’d like a dry vodka martini, shaken not stirred,” Bond ordered customarily.

“White wine spritzer,” Vicki said simply, then handed her menu to the waiter. Bond followed suit, and the waiter said he’d be back in a few minutes with their drinks.

“Boy,” Vicki said after he’d left. “You sure are meticulous.”

My, she was forward, thought Bond. Actually, it was quite refreshing to see somebody who was that self-assured. But Bond remained cool and calm.

“I don’t think so. It’s just the way I am. Kinda like the way you like to twist the ends of your hair.” Bond smiled assuredly as the girl looked back mystified.

“You twist your hair. The ends are split, the way they get when somebody twirls them all the time.” She touched the ends, twirling them slightly. Then she blushed.

“You’re good, Mr. Bond,” Vicki admitted.

The waiter returned with their drinks. “So,” Bond said once he had left. “What do you have for me?”

The girl grinned as she sipped her drink. “Good news, actually,” she replied. “There’s a club Dramond frequents, Six Feet Under, in Harlem. They’re quite respected, as far as clubs go. Anyway, Dramond’s got a known Manhattan dealer meeting him there tonight. The Director says we’ve got reservations there tonight. Under the name McMillan. You’re McMillan, and I’m your mistress. We probably won’t have to use them, but just in case they’ve been arranged. Have you had a chance to read Dramond’s dossier?”

Bond shook his head. Vicki sure was a take-charge kind of person. Probably used to being in charge. M had said she was one of the best agents within the FBI. Bond was interested in working with her, but he wasn’t going to let her take over. That wasn’t her place.

“No,” Bond said, finishing off his drink. “I haven’t.”

“Well you ought to,” Vicki said matter-of-factly. “There’s plenty of good stuff there. You’ll need to know it for tonight. We’re meeting here at nine. I’ve arranged for a rental car. The place is in a dark area, and the streets are kinda confusing, so you may want to take a little time to drive around. Check out the surroundings. Get a feel for them. We’re going to be out late, so you might want to get some rest too.” She looked him over, then added, “And get some new clothes. Nobody goes to a club dressed like that.” She motioned distastefully at his suit.

“That all, mother?” Bond asked sarcastically.

She didn’t think it was very funny.

“Just be ready. Nine. Right here.” She got up, and headed for the door. “Oh, and I trust you’re getting my tab. Thanks.” With that, she left.

As the waiter brought the check, Bond groaned. Who did this woman think she was? The CIA handed this mission over to Bond. Hadn’t the FBI? He needed to call M. But only after he got some suitable clothes. Macy’s was just down the street. He’d pick out a few things and be ready by five. Maybe time for a short nap after calling M. He supposed it would take him about an hour or so to get ready. He’d have to take a short drive over to the club and check the place out. He needed to be prepared. This guy Dramond was tough, and they’d only get one shot at him. Bond’s mind wondered, and he mused about the kind of security Dramond had.

Of course the man had bodyguards. Probably two or three close guys with guns and huge muscles. Wearing suits and ties. They were easy to spot.

But was there anybody else? Snipers? Probably. Watchers, across the street in big cars with small-caliber guns ready to blow a hole in an attackers head? Maybe. Would anything be rigged, like explosives or poisons inside the club itself? Most likely not. But Dramond did frequent the place quite often. What arrangements had he made with proprietors? Or was he himself the proprietor, the title hidden under a set of misleading covers and disguises?

Bond’s musings were ended by the waiter, who suddenly asked him if he’d like something else. Considering the fact that he hadn’t eaten for several hours, he quickly ordered a char-grilled hamburger, French fries, a garden salad with Thousand Island dressing, and a glass of soda pop. Classic American lunch. The waiter hurried off to get his meal.

Bond sat back and wondered. Where was Dramond now? Pushing heroin out on the streets? Selling opium to gang-bangers? Teenagers were being attacked by the drug smugglers; the dope sellers that were just in it for the money. What did they care that their drugs killed? What did they care about the families that were torn apart, the lives that were ruined?

Bond finished his lunch and returned to his room. He checked everything, grabbed his briefcase and jacket, and headed off. He flagged down a taxi and took it one block north to Macy’s. He paid the driver and hurried inside.

He made his way to menswear, where a friendly blonde attendant helped him pick out two Polo shirts, one red and one forest green, a pair of tan khakis pants, a light blue button-up, a comfortable navy fleece sweater, a new pair of brown socks, and a shiny set of black Oxfords.

As he left the store, thanking the attendant and purchasing his merchandise, he thought about the evening ahead. He’d wear the sweater on top of the button-up, and the tan khakis. His PPK wouldn’t be accessible under the sweater with his current holster; he was lucky he’d brought along the waist holster. The compact plastic rig would be easily hidden underneath the sweater while Bond was seated. If he kept his jacket on until he was at the table, nobody would ever notice the hidden weapon. Lucky for him.

These thoughts passed through his mind as he retired to his hotel room. It was just past five, which gave Bond just under four hours to scope out the place and get ready for the evening. But first he had to call M.

He dialed the proper numbers, spoke to the right people, and was connected to M’s office. She answered with exhaustion.

“Hello?”

“007 here,” Bond said.

“Ah,” M said. “007. How are things?”

“Fine, ma’am. I was just wondering about this girl from the FBI.”

He could almost hear M smile over the line. Of course! The girl! She wondered how they were getting along and silently laughing because she had tricked him into a mission with a woman agent. “Ah, yes, Miss Vale. What about her?”

“I was just wondering if she was completely reliable. I mean, what do we know about her?”

Oh, Bond knew M was thinking, now he’s trying to get her taken off of the mission. Why was he such a chauvinist? Couldn’t he even work with a woman? “She’s top of the line, 007. The crème-de-la-crème. I’ve had everything confirmed with Washington. She's completely reliable. She’ll be an important asset.” There was a pause as she let her words sink in. “Anything else, Commander?”

Bond frowned. No such luck. “No, ma’am. That’s everything. Thanks.” She thanked Bond, and then he rang off. Five-thirty. He’d better be getting downstairs.

Bond took a cab north to Harlem. Luckily, the driver was local and knew exactly where the Six Feet Under club was, though he insisted the place didn’t open until after eight. Bond persisted, however, and the driver reluctantly agreed to take him there.

The club entrance itself was quite small. The building that contained the club wasn’t large, so Bond thought it would be quite easy enough to keep an eye on. When he was satisfied with the place itself, Bond decided to take a quick trip across the street.

The building directly across from the nightclub was a run-down hotel with three floors. The rooms were old and dilapidated, and the owner looked even worse. Bond spent a few bucks and rented a room overlooking the street, straight across from the entrance to the club.

His room was small and quiet. The creaky bed sat in one corner, and a dresser missing a drawer sat against the far wall, right beside the dark, malodorous bathroom that Bond refused to enter. A chair and lamp by the window served Bond’s purpose well.

The agent opened his briefcase, pulled off the fake top, and pulled the folding sniper’s rifle from the secret compartment. He used the scope, concealed in the hollow butt with the rest of the rifle’s components, to range the interval between the two buildings.

Bond saw the front entrance of the club—a set of heavy double-doors that would be guarded by some kind of bouncer. Places like the Six Feet Under club always made sure their patrons were well respected. Not just anybody was allowed in. Bond guessed that Dramond and his crew would use this front entrance only if they wanted to make broad public appearances. Rear exits would be used for fast getaways, the kind they would make if threatened inside the club. He wondered if the FBI had a layout of the facility, its access points, and countermeasures to keep them closed. Dramond most likely had some sort of agreement with the management for quick access or escape.

The side exit was the one that would most likely be used in the event of an attack. Along 5th Street, the exit would be the one most easily reached due to its proximity to the street. A car could easily be parked nearby to aid in a quick getaway. There was a blind spot, especially if Bond had to shoot from there, but he would have just the slightest chance for a shot before Dramond would climb into the car.

Moving the chair over to the bed, Bond flicked on the light and spread the components of his rifle across the bedspread. He slowly, meticulously, put the weapon together, taking painstaking precision to assemble the rifle. When he was done, he checked the automatic weapon, slid on the sight, and moved the chair back over to the window.

He sat so that the end of the weapon was just within the window’s frame and wouldn’t be noticed by anyone on the ground. He slid the scope’s magnification to the 3x mark, and he could make out the minute details of the club door’s knob. Perfect. As he put the weapon down, he imagined the shot. He could almost see it, the dark bullet racing from the barrel with a loud crack. It would pierce the skin, causing it to pucker, then pop back out, leaving a small hole and a ring of pink bruises. Then the bullet would continue on its way, carving through arteries and veins on its way to the red pulsing organ known as the heart.

Bond hated killing. Cold-blooded murder was a filthy business. He only killed when he had to, and only because his government had authorized him to. When he killed it was on the order of Her Majesty’s Secret Service. Only when he had to.

But for some reason Bond was having a problem with this assignment. Why was he killing this man? Sure, Bond knew the facts. This man was the biggest dealer of opium and heroin in the United States. He sold these drugs to children, didn’t care that they died, blah blah blah. Yes, indeed, Bond knew the facts.

But what had this man ever done to him?

Had Alexander Dramond ever done anything to James Bond? Of course not. The Americans had handled his case for five years. He’d never been in contact with the man. So why was he going to kill him?

Needless to say Bond knew the answer. It was his job. He would come here tonight, watch Dramond make the deal, then leave the club, cross the street, pull out the gun, and kill Dramond. A quick job. Clean, effortless. The FBI and the NYPD would handle the media and the public. This wasn’t a crowded place, and very few would hear the gun go off. Most people living in this part of town were used to hearing gunshots at night. He was covered.

Bond shook his head, and forgot his misgivings. There wasn’t time for this. It was seven now. He had two hours. He would have just enough time to clean up here and get to the hotel. The large autumn sun was just beginning to drop behind the skyline. It would be dark before Bond knew it.

Time to get back to the hotel. Vicki would be waiting for him. He had an hour to shower and dress in his new clothes.

Bond closed the briefcase, but left the rifle out. He put the rifle underneath the bed sheets, dissembling the components one by one. As he did, he wondered about who might be accompanying Dramond this evening. There would be bodyguards, Bond was sure. Luckily for him, his rifle was of a boltless model that had been designed by Q himself several years back. It provided several shots in rapid succession. The ten-round clip was loaded into the cavity in front of the trigger, and delivered semi-automatic precision with the power of a full-blown sniper’s rifle.

Bond left the hotel and flagged down a taxi. For a moment, the thought that the manager would enter his room and snoop around had been considered by Bond, but he quickly dismissed the idea due to the fact that the weary old man had moved less than five inches since Bond had been in there. He was safe.

The taxi had him back at the hotel by seven-thirty. He hurried upstairs and hopped into the shower, first with the cold then with the warm. When he was finished, he slipped into his khakis, the blue button-up, the fleece sweater, and the Oxfords. When he was comfortable with his appearance, he rolled up his sweater and attached the black hip holster to his belt. When he had slid the Walther inside, he looked at himself in his bedroom’s floor-to-ceiling mirror. The weapon was barely visible, and, as he soon learned by grabbing the weapon in and out, quite easily accessible. It would only be used, of course, in a last-ditch effort, but it made Bond more comfortable knowing he had a useable weapon within his grasp.

By eight-thirty, Bond was dressed and ready. He decided he’d go downstairs and have a quick drink at the lounge before meeting up with Vicki. The hotel was getting crowded with the weekend’s influx of travelers, so Bond had to wait for a table. When he was seated, he ordered his martini.

By nine, the lounge was full. There were people waiting to be seated at the door. Through the crowd, Bond saw Vicki speaking with one of the waiters. Was she staying at the hotel? Or was there an FBI safe house nearby? Bond assumed she wasn’t part of the state branch. M had said she checked things through Washington, where the Bureau was headquartered. Was that the branch she was part of?

He supposed it didn’t really matter. M said she was a qualified agent. She wouldn’t be on this case if she weren’t. Bond would have to put up with her attitude and work on the case impassively. He’d done it before.

She was beautiful, Bond had to admit. He watched her cross the room, dressed in a tight black spaghetti-strap dress. The back, Bond saw as she turned, was open except for a criss-crossing ‘X’ string pattern that climbed up to her neck. Her hair was tied up behind her head in a tight bun. Bond guessed he was carrying some kind of weapon, most likely in a small holster on the inside of her thigh. She wore the same Stilettos she had worn that morning.

Vicki sat down at Bond’s table, taking him out of his ponderous reverie. “Well, if nothing else you’re punctual,” she said smartly, with a smart grin. “We’d better get going.” She stood up. “C’mon.”

Bond grudgingly stood and followed Vicki outside the hotel to the sidewalk where a bright, beautiful BMW Z8 was parked. The silver automobile was sleek, stylish, and above all suave. The convertible auto, which Bond had used before, contained a powerful V-8 engine and a sophisticated technological ensemble, including a heads-up forward display, six beverage cup holders, and all the goodies Q Branch could shove into a small car like the Z8.

“I’ll drive,” Bond said before she could. He knew she wanted to, but she silently permitted Bond to drive, lowering her head and waving to him to take the wheel. Being in America, the driver’s wheel was on the left-hand side. When he had first come to the States many years before, Bond had had to remember to drive on the right side of the road instead of the English way on the left.

Bond keyed the roaring engine and hit the gas. The car screamed down the street, until he met up with the customary New York traffic and was slowed. It was almost quarter after now, and the nightlife would soon erupt from their daytime slumber to prey upon the good times New York nights had to offer. Bond sighed. This was going to be a long night.

He tried to make small talk. “So, how long have you been working on this case?” He tone oozed with false congeniality, in an attempt to be friendlier than the coldhearted woman sitting in the seat beside him.

She sort of laughed, not looking at him. “Four years,” she replied, almost with regret in her voice. “Four long years.” She stared hard at the dashboard, as if there was something there. She seemed to be going through things in her mind, contemplating the time she had spent chasing this horrible man across the United States.

Suddenly, Bond thought of something. Did she have a personal angle in this case? Was there something personal that had brought her into this assignment? Perhaps he’d ask. “What do you know about this Dramond fellow?” Perhaps later.

“He’s a horrible man,” she said with great hate. “Horrible.” She looked at the dashboard once again. There was silence for a long, tense moment. Then she looked over at Bond, realized she was spacing, and coughed uncomfortably. “Um, yeah. He’s a real piece of work. Pedals drugs to kids. Little kids. Teenagers. The so-called ‘future of America.’ ”

Bond contemplated the facts running through his mind. There was definitely something personal in this assignment. What was it? What had Dramond done to this FBI agent? And if he had done something to her, would he recognize her? Was she going to complicate his work here?

“So what’s his plan here tonight? Does he know anything?”

She laughed, then shrugged her shoulders. “No. Well, at least I don’t think so. The FBI have backed off lately. CIA too. They think they’re luring him into some kind of false sense of security. Maybe it’s working. Maybe not. It won’t complicate the mission. He doesn’t know either of us, and we’re not conspicuous.” She looked over Bond, then continued. “No. We’ll be okay. Did you get everything in order for tonight?”

Bond quickly explained to her his activities this afternoon, with renting the hotel and setting up the shot. She apparently consented.

The car pulled four blocks from the club, and Bond turned to the girl. “Nervous?”

She shook her head. “Of course not,” she replied, but Bond knew she was lying. “You?”

Bond told her no. “I never get nervous before a mission. Used to. Not anymore.” Thousands of images flashed through his mind; assignments that had gone off well. Others that had failed. Assignments that Bond would never forget.

The car pulled up to the front of the club. There was quite a line assembled for such a small place. Bond tossed the BMW’s keys to the valet, who jumped inside and took the car around. The bouncer at the front was shocked to see them skip the line at first, then realized that they had reservations. He let them in, to the anger of those standing in line.

The inside of the club was a ‘techno’ theme, with the hip gray walls that sparkled with bright, terrific light when the bright colors came out. The main room sloped in, with the main dance floor down several flights of stairs from the tables, which were above on raised landings. Bond and Vicki were helped to table K on the third level down. To Bond’s amazement, several tables were already filled. The bright lights were still on. The performers were setting up on stage down on the dance floor. Waiters were preparing tables all around them.

When their waiter had taken their order, Vicki leaned over to Bond and said, “He’s not here.” Bond looked around and didn’t see Dramond either.

He stared at the girl, whom was herself marveling at the place. What was her story? Was she a former druggie, lured into the dark world of narcotics and hallucinations by the same type of people that Dramond was? Or had she known someone, someone close to her, that had been lured into the drug world by Dramond himself? Was there a connection, or was it just Bond’s senses playing a trick on him?

Finally, he needed to know. “What’s your deal with this guy?”

“Huh?” she asked.

Suddenly, their waiter returned. He was a pleasant young man with a nice personality. He was trying to make pleasant conversation. Bond and Vicki both blew him off.

When he had gone, Bond pressed on. “With Dramond. There’s something about you...like you know him. Something personal. What is it?”

She drew back, taken by surprise. Now it was Bond who was forward. She had mellowed out significantly since their first meeting hours before. It was the onset of the mission. The closer the mission got, the quieter she became. Was she nervous?

“I-I,” she started, but didn’t finish. She looked for a moment like she was going to cry. She stared hard at the white tablecloth. Then, suddenly, she regained her composure and looked up at Bond. Her eyes were glistening with fresh tears. But she wiped her eyes and remained firm.

“I’ve been working on this case for four years. Four years of following leads, grilling suspects, and doing research. Four years of hard knocks and dead-ends. I’ve been part of this man’s life for four long years. Or at least he’s been part of mine. And tonight I’m finally going to get him.” She wiped her eyes again.

“But you didn’t answer my question.”

She looked up into his eyes pleadingly, almost saying, please don’t make me tell. Please just leave me alone. But Bond wouldn’t.

“Four years ago,” she said very lowly in a quiet, subdued voice. “He came into my life four years ago. My brother and I had both recently graduated from the FBI Academy. We’d promised each other we’d try and get a job working together, but it didn’t end up that way. He got an opportunity to work in Miami, and I was transferred to the Bureau office in D.C. That’s where it all began.”

So there was a connection! Bond knew there had been. Why had M done this? The FBI was supposed to screen their agents. If she had a personal agenda on this case, she wouldn’t – or shouldn’t – have been assigned. She’d lied, obviously, to get this case. Blast her, bloody girl.

“Anyway, I hadn’t talked to my brother in a few years. I knew he was working on some cases involving a drug smuggler, but I didn’t know any of the details. I had been too busy with my own work to bother myself with my little brother’s work. Maybe I should’ve been…” Her voice trailed off and her eyes shot back down to the tablecloth. She was trying to regain her composition. Bond could tell she wasn’t completely comfortable revealing all this in front of him. But it was important. He needed to know her story. He couldn’t let her emotions get the best of her. She was crazy! Didn’t she realize that not only was she putting her life in danger—by clouding her perception and congesting her judgment—but she was also putting Bond’s life and the lives of all these patrons at risk. She was crazy!

Vicki looked back up at Bond.

“Well, I got the call when I was at the office,” she continued. “There had been a bust, and some of the officers had gone down. The target had escaped, but was being pursued. Well, my brother ended up being one of the officers that went down…”

“…and Dramond had been the target,” Bond finished the story for her, finally putting all the pieces together. It made sense now. “And he was never caught.”

She shook her head. In his head, Bond let out a sigh of frustration. She should not be on this case, he thought to himself. Her emotions would get the better of her, he knew. What if she tried to kill Dramond herself? Even worse, what if she missed? Bond couldn’t let that happen.

Just then, Vicki looked up, her green eyes glistening with the tears, her mascara beginning to smear, and the single small tear sliding down her cheek, all thoughts of the evening’s mission absconded from his mind. There was only one objective: her. His hand moved from her shoulder to her cheek. She smiled, swallowed hard, and reached up herself and put her petite hand on his.

“I saw the pictures of my little brother lying on the floor, his body ridden with bullet holes. He’d been shot fifty-seven times. Fifty-seven.” Clearly the frightening experience was replaying slowly in her mind. Her voice, though she was still crying, was firm and strong. She hit each syllable hard and meaningfully. Passion for revenge burned in her voice. “I saw the surveillance video of the bust. I watched as my brother was blown away. The shots rung out, blowing holes in his body. They continued, and continued, and continued, and I watched as his body was flung up in the air by the shots.” Her eyes seemed to have drifted somewhere else. She was replaying the horrible image over and over in her head. “I will never forget watching that video.

“I actually didn’t found out until later that it was Alexander Dramond. Because of my position within the Bureau office, I knew who he was. I knew he was big. I knew he was international, and now I knew there was an open spot in his case.

“Lucky for me, the Bureau had been looking for someone from the Bureau headquarters to help with the case as a national liaison. I was chosen out of twenty-five agents for the job, the best pick for the position. Top shooting, top intel, top research. I wanted so bad to be on the case.” For the first time since it had arrived, she touched her champagne glass and slid her fingers over the thin glass stem. Bond sipped his martini while he waited.

“I guess when you want something bad enough it happens eventually. I’ve worked hard on this case.” Her voice was firm again. “And now I’ve gotten here, with you, tonight, and we’re about to kill this man.”

Bond blew out a long breath. So that was it. She was after this man who killed her brother four years ago. She was going to kill him tonight if she died doing it. Was she safe? She wasn’t thinking rationally. Would she put others at risk? Would she risk her cover? Would she risk Bond’s cover?

He didn’t know. But he wasn’t taking any chances. He had to think of some way to get rid of her before he killed Dramond.

Suddenly, Bond heard the doors open above him. He turned around and watched as a group of people entered the club.

The lead was tall and dark. He had brown hair, a brown beard, and a slim face. His eyes were cool and calculating, though somewhat dark and hiding. He wore a black suit, white button-up, and red tie. He walked down the aisle in the lead, in front of two tall men Bond sized up as bodyguards. His gait was slow, regal, and demanded attention. He wore the aura of a proud, self-righteous man who commanded attention from those around him. He seemed, to Bond, to be the kind of person that expected everyone to drop to one knee and praise his works and follow his every word as if it was the word of God. Even the smug little smile that his thin lips had warped into supported Bond’s assumption.

“That’s Dramond!” Vicki whispered. Revenge flashed in her eyes, but she remained seated. Well, at least she knew what she could and couldn’t do. She watched him calmly and coolly as he and his bodyguards headed down to the bottom level and sat at table A.

All of a sudden, a thought flashed through Bond’s mind. Did Dramond have a list of the people in this place, and their table settings? Did he know that Bond and Vicki, even though he didn’t know that they were secret agents, were sitting at this table? Did he know their names?

The lights slowly dimmed, and the strobes on the stage began to flash rapidly. A rock group appeared on stage, screaming their music so that the surround-sound speakers blasted it at an alarming volume. One man, a guy with spiked black hair, strummed an electric guitar while singing backup. A drummer in the background beat out a fast, rapid, catchy rhythm that, despite Bond’s stoic musical tastes, he found himself tapping his foot along with. Two levels down, Bond watched Dramond order a drink and continue watching the band, one he apparently enjoyed.

Vicki was not paying attention to the band. She was staring at the stem of her now-empty champagne glass, pondering the various pains and tortures that Dramond might go through during his assassination. Bond turned away from her and continued partially enjoying the music.

The pace stayed the same for the next hour or so. Couples got out onto the dance floor and started partying. Half way in, Bond began to get bored. He continued focusing on Dramond, who was eyeing a few women across the room. Bond guessed he was quite the ladies’ man.

Eventually, as the musical pace changed and mellowed out into a slower set, Bond’s attention turned to the bodyguards. The two men that had entered with Dramond had split up. One was at the bar, on the far left side, leaning a sipping what appeared to be a Budweiser beer. The other was standing behind Dramond, leaning on the rail that separated the levels. Dramond paid little attention to the two men. Perhaps he was overly self-confident. All the more to Bond’s advantage.

By eleven, Bond was utterly bored. Vicki, on the other hand, was beginning to enjoy the music. When the band took a fifteen-minute intermission, and one of the bodyguards followed Dramond towards the bathroom to the right of the bar, Bond stood. He asked if Vicki would like a drink; yes, please, another glass of champagne. Bond smiled, patted her on the shoulder, and headed down towards the bar.

He took a detour at the bathroom, and saw that the stark-white hallway was bare except for the bodyguard, who was staring at a vent on the roof. Bond saw his opportunity.

“Excuse me?” Bond said. The bodyguard turned, and was greeted by a firm fist right in his face.

But either the punch wasn’t as strong as Bond had expected or the bodyguard was exceptionally tough, because the man only fell backwards and then returned the favor. This punch fell in Bond’s stomach, knocking the secret agent down to the ground. The man lunged, but Bond was too quick. He rolled out from under his attacker, then delivered a sharp kick directly into the man’s stomach. The guard toppled in agony.

Bond’s next attack was a swift, powerful blow to the bodyguard’s neck. Bond heard a crack, and decided it was enough. The man wasn’t moving. Bond had knocked him out. Possibly broken his neck? No, he was still breathing. Good. Bond grabbed the burly man and drug him the rest of the way down the hall to the door marked ‘sanitation.’ He closed the door and, satisfied, returned to the bar.

When Dramond came out, Bond saw him pause for a second, then shrug and return to his table. Perhaps the bodyguard had gone back to the table.

Bond took the two drinks back to his table. “Do you know what time Dramond usually leaves?” Bond asked Vicki.

She nodded her head. “Around midnight, usually with a woman.”

Bond sat back, satisfied. There was another good half-hour until midnight. Dramond had returned to his table, though he looked a little confused as to the whereabouts of his bodyguard. He was making eyes again at the woman across the way, and he soon went across the floor and spoke to her.

Bond wanted to make small talk with the agent sitting beside him. All they had in common was shoptalk. He had been thinking about it, and he almost regretted asking about the woman’s connection. He felt he’d overstepped the boundary between them. Now he was involved. Great.

“It’s been going through my mind,” Bond asked. She looked up. “How’s he do all this? How does he smuggle?”

Vicki looked up and rolled her eyes. “I see you didn’t read the dossier,” she replied smartly. Bond smiled. She was back. She dramatically flicked back her head and downed half the glass of champagne. Boy, could she stomach it! When she was done, she sat the glass down and turned to him.

“He’s a tricky one,” Vicki began. “That’s why it took so long for us to track him down. He uses these lieutenants, or so he calls them, as covers. Most of them he’s never met. There’s one yacht he uses, one we’ve tracked down at least, that carries the drugs. The Mantacore, a small private job that has a permit to travel between Spain and the Bahamas. We caught it in Nassau about nine months ago, with a load of heroin and opium. The captain killed himself before we could ask any questions. Cyanide in a little capsule.” She smiled with amusement.

“Well, we didn’t impound the ship. The crew, which was a small skeleton crew of about fifteen, were kept in Nassau under DEA arrest. No word got out. The log was on board, and we took the drugs, under cover, to the arranged drop point. Two of us followed the pickup back to a shellfish fishery a couple miles outside of Nassau along the beach. Little place, but it takes in a lot of shellfish and ships them up to Miami every other weekend. This is where it really gets interesting.

“One of the fishermen at this fishery took the drugs, which were disguised in a small crate, to the storage basin where they kept some of the mollusks they fished out. The drugs had already been melted down until they were in this liquid form, and the fishermen—two locals who had been paid of by the yacht captain—covered the shellfish in this substance and let it dry in the cooler. Luckily, nobody took notice because these guys were the top fishermen on the boat and apparently nobody bothered them. These guys took the shellfish up to the mainland on Saturday and sold them to a market where these were the only mollusks sold. People came in and took the shellfish. We trailed a few of them, and only about two threw the shells out. The other ones had the shells vaporized. For some reason, the vapors made the drugs come off the shells, and these people were the druggies. They took the drugs to the malls and the arcades and the street corners.

“These guys are slick. Smuggling the drugs on the seafood, right under the noses of the inspectors at Customs. Oh, and for some reason they didn’t give off an odor. It was weird. But that was the first shipment we caught. We don’t know much about the other parts of his operation.” She finished off her drink and turned back towards the band, who were back to their hard rock antics.

“Fascinating,” Bond said as he himself finished his martini. Then he slipped out his gunmetal cigarette case and put one in his mouth. He used his Ronson to light it, took a long puff, and blew out a long thin stream of smoke.

Dramond was laughing with the woman across the way. She rose to leave, but he pulled her back down. Dramond motioned towards his still-available bodyguard. The other one was absent. Bond observed Dramond having a word with the bodyguard, and mused about what they were saying. Did the bodyguard know where the other one went? No, of course not. Hmm. Interesting. What was going on? Dramond shrugged. Maybe he went out to the car. Go see. Bond watched the man leave. Another down.

Bond touched Vicki’s arm. He motioned behind them. Dramond and his men were getting ready to leave, and Bond needed to get to the room across the street. She smiled, touched his arm, and let him leave. He dropped his cigarette in the ashtray as he did.

Dramond and the woman paused before they stood. The band was finishing up their last set. By the time the song was over, Bond was across the room in the bedroom, his chair sitting by the window, the agent himself loading the clip of .400 ammo into the cavity in front of the trigger.

The doors of the club slowly opened. The bouncer held the handle as Dramond, his arm linked with the feisty-looking blonde he had left with, exited the club, laughing and joking. From the fifty-yard distance between buildings, Bond used the night-vision scope to watch the couple. Dramond’s limo, driven by his personal chauffer, pulled up to the front.

Bond’s finger slid onto the trigger. His eyes focused on Dramond, the playful smirk crossing the drug dealer’s deceitful mouth. The bodyguard stepped out of the rear driver’s side seat, crossed around, and whispered something to Dramond as the woman entered the car. The other bodyguard wasn’t there. Where was he?

Bond didn’t care. Dramond shouldn’t. He was about to die. Suddenly, a phrase popped into his mind. Never send a man where you can send a bullet. This was so much safer. If Bond was to shoot the man up close, the way poorly planned assassinations normally went, his chances of escape were bad. Luckily, everything had been planned out. The shot would go off, and Bond would drop down. The only sound would be the crack of the muzzle as the shot blazed into Dramond’s body. It would take the bodyguard a while to realize what had happened. By then, Bond would be gone. He’d dismantle the gun in ten seconds, the same time it would take for him to cross the room and leave the room. A crowd would assemble outside the club, so Bond would use the hotel’s rear exit. Vicki would take the BMW to the parking lot behind the hotel, where Bond would be waiting beside a refuse bin. They would leave the area, go to the hotel, where Bond would quickly pack and be out by three. His ticket would be waiting at the desk at terminal eight of JFK International Airport. He’d be back in London for brunch. M’s requests for an operational assessment would be waiting on his desk. He’d be there for a few days working on those, until the wire would come over from the FBI and give him the remaining information and the clean-up details. Of course, the FBI would have spoken to the NYPD and had told them of the assignment. They would tell the media they were investigating, throw those who cared a few leads, and shut the case up. No cause of death, of course.

The FBI would finish taking down Dramond’s remaining operation. He was the key to shutting everything down. Most of his associates would know it was a government job, and back off a little. If the FBI could take them down when they were weak, it would work much better. And it would be all thanks to Bond.

His finger tightened on the trigger. The bodyguard moved to the front door. He smiled. Vicki was about to get her revenge. She was lovely girl. Bond wanted to do this for her. He’d killed her brother, and numerous others. He provided drugs to kids. He was sick. He deserved to die.

Bond’s eyes narrowed, his crosshairs focused on Alexander Dramond’s forehead, and his finger jerked the trigger back.