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GoldenEye: Rogue Agent (Epilogue on page four)
First of all, thank you if you decided to take a look at this.
Second of all, let me provide a bit of a background. Back on the old forums, Chanandler Bong (some of you may remember him) posted a novelization of Agent Under Fire, which - after he decided not to do so himself - inspired me to do the same for NightFire, and later Everything or Nothing (not the greatest, I'm afraid), so I might have Bong to thank for getting me into this. After that, I took on GoldenEye: Rogue Agent. One of my main concerns with adapting it was to change what I thought was wrong with the video game (or at least what wouldn't jibe in printed form): too much mindless killing and action, too prevalent science fiction elements, cliched, convoluted, underdeveloped plot elements and characters, and - perhaps more of an issue than anything - too little character exposition of the protagonist. I would like to think that the majority of this was amended in the version I wrote, even if I would have liked to change the scale and/or frequency of some of the action later on in the story. That said, I hope that those who found issue with these and other aspects of the game find them "fixed" here. I know many people believe that a Rogue Agent novelization would not work, but I truly believe it's simply a matter of changing things in the story, and hopefully those people end up feeling that it does work.
Third of all, if you don't enjoy the writing style from the get-go, please bear with me. I think the writing improves as you go on, so I would highly appreciate your patience. That said, I'm probably being overly apologetic about it or otherwise overly critical of myself, but just thought I would address that.
I should be posting the prologue later today, but if anyone would prefer it earlier, let me know! Also, if anyone has a preference of how frequently I post a new chapter, I would love if you shared that. (For example, when I posted this on the old forum, someone wanted two chapters a day so he could finish reading it once he returned to school.) I'm willing to follow whatever reasonable pace people are comfortable with.
Thank you again!
Second of all, let me provide a bit of a background. Back on the old forums, Chanandler Bong (some of you may remember him) posted a novelization of Agent Under Fire, which - after he decided not to do so himself - inspired me to do the same for NightFire, and later Everything or Nothing (not the greatest, I'm afraid), so I might have Bong to thank for getting me into this. After that, I took on GoldenEye: Rogue Agent. One of my main concerns with adapting it was to change what I thought was wrong with the video game (or at least what wouldn't jibe in printed form): too much mindless killing and action, too prevalent science fiction elements, cliched, convoluted, underdeveloped plot elements and characters, and - perhaps more of an issue than anything - too little character exposition of the protagonist. I would like to think that the majority of this was amended in the version I wrote, even if I would have liked to change the scale and/or frequency of some of the action later on in the story. That said, I hope that those who found issue with these and other aspects of the game find them "fixed" here. I know many people believe that a Rogue Agent novelization would not work, but I truly believe it's simply a matter of changing things in the story, and hopefully those people end up feeling that it does work.
Third of all, if you don't enjoy the writing style from the get-go, please bear with me. I think the writing improves as you go on, so I would highly appreciate your patience. That said, I'm probably being overly apologetic about it or otherwise overly critical of myself, but just thought I would address that.
I should be posting the prologue later today, but if anyone would prefer it earlier, let me know! Also, if anyone has a preference of how frequently I post a new chapter, I would love if you shared that. (For example, when I posted this on the old forum, someone wanted two chapters a day so he could finish reading it once he returned to school.) I'm willing to follow whatever reasonable pace people are comfortable with.
Thank you again!
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Prologue:
Single Blow Out
Crab Key
Jamaica
12:39 A.M., EST
The water was murky, that was for sure.
What should have been crystal clear, Caribbean water was corrupted by mud, seaweed, and, worst of all, pollution. It was not simple wine bottles and discarded cigarettes, however. No, this was toxic waste, used up fuel, acid, and reactant simply dumped into the ocean now that it held no further purpose.
Agent Jonathan Hunter, age thirty-one, of MI6, British Intelligence, combed his neoprene-enclosed hand through the muck.
Disgusting, he thought.
But at least he could not experience the toxicity through his airtight, completely closed-off wetsuit. As he reached the facility, he reached his hands up and grabbed a hold of the red, corrugated metal. Using his strength, he pulled himself up. He turned and helped his fellow agent up, making sure he was in place before removing his diving gear.
His fellow agent was James Bond, age forty-seven, of MI6’s much talked-about Double-0 division. This night, Hunter could hardly ask for a better colleague.
Free of the clunky air tanks and flippers, both men pulled down their wetsuit zippers and peeled off the second skins to reveal black combat fatigues. From a waterproof bag, they procured army boots, utility belts, and side arms.
Hunter checked his pistol, not wanting his anxiety to show, before following Bond across the docks.
Within minutes they were able to bypass the security system. They subsequently infiltrated the facility and began investigating.
The facility was owned by one Dr. Julius No. He held the locals in the palm of his hand, unexaggeratedly owning the whole of Crab Key. No had been connected to the death of a Service man and the failures of several American rocket launches. For that, he was under official government investigation.
M, the head of British Intelligence, had deployed her best man, Bond, and who she had described as “a suitably competent fellow”.
It was now that Bond, silenced Walther in hand, finally cracked the electronic security system of No’s main reactor room. As he slowly opened the door, he and Hunter could see No, standing on a gantry above a vat of toxic waste.
“Commander Bond,” whispered Hunter, “I see the doctor. I’m going to sneak up on him and arrest him.”
But Bond shook his hand.
“No,” he replied silently. “You can’t just-”
But Hunter ignored him, proceeding through the door and leveling his silenced pistol.
“Hunter,” Bond hissed, “Hunter! Come back here!”
Hunter stepped softly onto the gantry, keeping his gun trained on No. He finally reached the doctor and pressed the end of the pistol to the back of his head.
“Dr. No,” he announced brashly, “you’re under arrest for-”
Bond stared in dread. He dashed out and aimed his weapon.
But it was too late.
No turned and, in a flurry of motions, procured a pistol, aimed it at Hunter, and fired.
Hunter cried out in agony. It took him a minute to realize where he had been hit. But he soon found out as blood trickled out of…his eye.
Hell, his eye?
As he crumpled to the ground, Bond completely ignored the retreating doctor and leant over Hunter to examine in the wound. The eye - it was awful.
But still, Bond did the best he could given the surroundings.
He just prayed it would be enough.
And we're off! I'll post more tomorrow, and I hope you enjoyed the start! Again, if you didn't love it, I do think it improves, so your patience in that instance would be greatly appreciated. Thanks, and there'll be more of this tomorrow!
Chapter One:
Blind Warfare
Two miles from Fort Knox
Kentucky
7:32 P.M., EST
Three years later
The convoy of five black Sikorsky helicopters over-flew the city of Louisville. They soared through the tangerine evening skies of mid-April, ignoring completely everything below.
On the third of these sat Jonathan Hunter, wearing his seldom-ignorable eye patch and omnipresent grimace that seemed to express a permanent scar and a painful memory. He fiddled with his M4 Carbine assault rifle, more out of irritation than nervousness.
In front of him stood James Bond, holding his own weapon firmly without a hint of anxiety. There were two other men in the body of the helicopter, who, like the British agents, wore black army fatigues and bulletproof vests. The display screen mounted on the wall quickly flashed to life.
M appeared onscreen, a faint, blue glow on her face.
“Gentlemen,” she said, “Auric Goldfinger has seized the US gold depository at Fort Knox. He’s a member of SPECTRE, the most powerful criminal organization in the world.”
A digital image of Goldfinger popped up, next to an image of an octopus (SPECTRE’s emblem) and a three-dimensional layout of Fort Knox.
“He plans to irradiate the gold reserve with a nuclear weapon, an ‘atomic device,’ as he calls it, thus rendering it valueless for years. Mr. Hunter, you and 007 will work in concert with United States Special Forces to neutralize Goldfinger’s forces. You must then locate and deactivate the bomb. Good luck, gentlemen.”
The screen cut to black.
Bond turned to Hunter.
“How are you feeling?” he asked over the beat of the rotors.
No answer.
“Goldfinger’s taken his Midas fixation too far this time,” Bond continued. “Just follow my lead and we’ll get the job done.”
Hunter glared back at him.
“We’ll see,” he said.
The answer was smooth, cold. Not in the way as it should have been - calculating, prepared - but rather ruthless.
Bond shook his head. He had never been the same since the Crab Key incident. He had swayed from procedure, even grown insubordinate. M had put him through several evaluations, only to find the same product time and time again. The verdict would soon be reached.
There was a sudden quake, and the pilot tightened his grip on the controls.
“Whoa,” he muttered, “looks like a damned hornet’s nest. Hang on, gentlemen!”
Another shake, and Bond watched the tanks outside as they fired off shells. There was a spark followed by the soldiers being knocked against the wall. There was a war brewing outside, and neither side was completely sure what they were aiming at.
“Hold, hold,” yelled the pilot through his headset, “watch your fire!”
“This thing’s not gonna last,” said one of the commandos. “We’ll have to jump!”
They were now over Fort Knox. The commando slid back the door just as a rocket struck the helicopter’s tail, knocking the machine off balance. Many slid about, but Hunter just managed to leap onto the roof. He landed hard on his heels, but he bore the impact and moved from the path of the now-falling Sikorsky.
It was like a gigantic star being dropped from the sky. It finally rammed into the roof, smashing through the concrete and creating an enormous gap. Hunter fell through and landed on his side.
By the time he got up, he rubbed his arm and examined the sight in front of him.
There was James Bond, dangling on a helicopter, forty yards above the floor of Fort Knox.
And, the first recognizable part of the game. Will continue tomorrow!
Chapter Two:
The Job at Hand
“Jonathan,” Bond called, “give me a hand! Here, just grab my hand….”
“Sorry, friend,” replied Hunter. “I do hate to leave you dangling, but I must focus on the job at hand.”
Bond glared back at him.
“Damn it, Hunter! How many times have I saved your life?”
“If I recall, none of those times involved nuclear bombs! Excuse me.”
The helicopter began to slide from its perch. Metal scraped against metal, and the giant beast soon dislodged.
Bond yelled out.
“HUNTER!”
The giant weight dropped to the floor. Bond screamed, but nothing saved him as he was crushed by the helicopter.
Hunter looked down without regret.
Oh, well. He had a job to do.
Retrieving his assault rifle, he headed through the nearest door. Here was the control room that operated bullion transport, entirely by means of rail. Hunter shot at a rack of compressed gas cylinders, and three enemy soldiers were blown away. An American Soldier had been caught in the blast as well, but it would be simply a sacrifice for “those great United States”.
He proceeded on, leaping down into the main rail area. He dodged a few bullets, but subsequently rushed their source to push them onto the bullion transport track. They lay on their backs like a pair of pathetic turtles. Hunter, deciding to make short work of them, activated the gold transporter.
The gates opened up, the six-ton cart was rushed through, and the two turtles were quickly turned into grotesque, bloody road kill. Hunter smiled.
Two down.
He continued through the complex, shooting any potential opponents he came into contact with. When finally he reached the gold depository, he opened the vault door, stepped onto the polished marble, and observed happenings through an iron bar gate.
There were two soldiers fighting off some unknown menace. Said menace quickly came into view, wearing, of all things, a manservant’s uniform. He appeared to be Korean, but Hunter was not sure. The man removed his hat, held it like a discus, and let fly.
It flew across the room as if a spinning shuriken. Hunter soon discovered that it was more than what it seemed, however, as the odd device embedded itself deep within the soldier’s neck, completely snapping it before falling to the floor. The manservant ran into the other man, picking him up and tossing him into an electrified gate.
Hunter stared in disbelief.
Well, there were two men dead: one with a broken neck, and the other charred.
The Korean bent to retrieve his hat. He glanced at Hunter, a curious look on his face. Was there something in his eyes? Some message?
But that did not matter. As the Korean dashed away, Hunter managed to get the gate open and ran over to the bomb. He tried to get it open, but to no avail.
Unbeknownst to him, the time coding read 00:00:03.
In three seconds, the weapon was activated.
What was first a microscopic flare became a nuclear menace in under two seconds. There was a bright light, and the fiery, living beast ripped through Fort Knox, flattening everything and killing everyone within its radius.
A cool, female voice sounded from out of nowhere.
“Simulation terminated. Reset program. Reset program….”
More tomorrow.
Chapter Three:
No Excuses
MI6 headquarters, Vauxhall Cross
London, England
8:05 P.M., BST
The cold, steel bubbles parted in their centers.
Bond shook his head and rubbed his eyes. This new virtual reality evaluation the Service was using…sometimes it was just too much. That helicopter drop had been more than enough to instill real fear. Besides that, the bright lights and colors gave one a headache.
It was, in his opinion, just another waste of the taxpayers’ money.
Hunter stood in the next bubble over, calm but as arrogant as ever.
“How did I do?” he asked smarmily.
There was M, standing in a glass room overlooking the agents. She had observed both points of view via video feed.
“I believe you and I both know how you did, Mr. Hunter,” she replied coldly. “You were directly responsible for the death of 007. Explain yourself.”
Hunter chuckled.
“Look, M, with all due respect-”
“Frankly, Mr. Hunter, I’m not looking for your respect. I’m looking for an answer.”
“I had to get the job done. I thought the Service welcomed ‘sacrifice,’ and all that rubbish.”
“Yes, well, in the field, ‘all that rubbish’ will not bring my best agent back. Nor will it make up for the amount of unnecessary bloodshed you seem to be so thirsty for.”
Hunter glared at her.
“Get on with your point,” he managed.
“I evaluated you,” said M, “because you’ve been abusing guidelines of active service. If you don’t care to abide by them, I don’t care to have you around.”
Bond watched closely Hunter’s signs of anger: the clenched fist, the squinted left eye, the vein pulsing over the temple.
“Well,” said Hunter, “if you’re going to cut me loose, why not say it officially?”
M looked back at him dispassionately.
“I’d be delighted to, Mr. Hunter. Your blunt brutality, anger-driven tactics, and utterly renegade attitude are inexcusable, and have made you unfit for further service. There’s no place at MI6 for an agent like you. You are dismissed.”
Redder than he had ever been, Hunter stood in place for a moment before stiffly turning towards the door. Once there, he seemed to considered something, and once again faced M.
“Tell Moneypenny goodbye for me,” he said. “I know she’ll miss me. And as for you, M, and you, James; I’ll see you in Hell.”
Jonathan Hunter turned and, for the last time, left the halls of British Intelligence.
M stared at the door that had closed behind him.
“Thank you, Mr. Hunter.”
More tomorrow.
A Heartfelt Goodbye
Hunter sat in his office, swinging tensely, tightly from side to side in his chair. He slammed his fist on the table.
Damn it, they couldn’t do this to him! He had served for practically three years, and now they were just going to dump him like a rock in a pond? He deserved to stay on. So what if they didn’t like his tactics? So what if they thought he was “a little rough”? He got the job done, and that was what mattered.
Shaking his head in a fruitless attempt to calm himself, he looked into his desk.
He was not a nostalgic man, and had never preferred to dwell on the past. For good reason, he thought grimly as he ran his hand over his eye patch. The Service had always told him never to keep personal affects that told of his intelligence life; it would only serve to compromise him. Well, he had not, but solely for reasons of its uselessness.
What lesson would an old watch teach him, or a bullet shell? Remember what it felt like to find an associate dead? There was no point.
It was with this in mind that Hunter retrieved both personal objects from within his desk: his personal side arm and his switchblade. He looked at them longingly, realizing the actual finality of the moment.
He was about to give up his intelligence life for good.
Well, he thought with a sigh, he had better leave his mark.
He loaded the Walther and then released the magazine, sliding the rail back once and letting it go. A single, copper bullet was ejected. Ejecting the blade from his knife, he went to work.
It took a good five minutes, a concentrated five minutes. Hunter worked delicately, making sure every cut, every line was exactly precise. When he was finally finished, he held it up to his desk lamp and admired.
Yes, it was good; impressively good.
Holding the projectile between two fingers, he picked up the firearm and switchblade, deactivating the lethal portion of the latter. He walked the short distance to M’s office. Walking inside, he found Miss Moneypenny, M’s personal secretary. She looked up, and suddenly seemed concerned.
“Jonathan,” she asked, “what’s wrong? What’s happened?”
Cocking an eyebrow, Hunter avoided her delicate transfixion. He placed the Walther and switchblade on her desk.
“I’ve been given the boot,” he explained lightly.
Moneypenny held her mouth to her hand.
“But…but, why?”
Hunter shrugged.
“They think I’m too good at my job.”
Moneypenny looked at him with a “not-funny” look.
“Jonathan,” she said seriously, “I want you to answer my question.”
“Alright,” Hunter said, sighing. “They think I’m too brutal when I’m on assignment. Evidently, the taxpayers’ money does not account for me un-holstering my weapon. I suppose it doesn’t account for a successful mission, either.”
Moneypenny shook her head.
“Well, Jonathan,” she said, sounding desperate, “I have written reports about you. Frankly, I…can’t say I disagree with them.”
Hunter’s temper was about to flare, but he somehow managed not to allow his anger to get the better of him. He breathed deeply, and exhaled sharply.
“Right,” he said, “well, I thought I’d just come by to give my ‘farewell to arms’ that all the bad little boys in the Service do. Here’s my pistol, and my blade. I’ll expect them to be delivered to M at the next available time. But besides that…here’s something you can keep.”
He dropped the bullet upon Moneypenny’s wooden desk. Moneypenny picked up and examined it curiously, and a look that seemed both concerned and saddened appeared on her face.
She shook her head.
“Jonathan…”
Hunter put a finger to her lips.
“Shh,” he said gently. “I know it isn’t easy. I know you’ll miss me. So, please, let me give you one last thing.”
He leaned in an, softly, gently, pressed his lips to hers. He held his hands to both cheeks, growing more passionate. Through her labored breaths, Moneypenny gently pushed him away, lightly shaking her head.
“Jonathan…”
“Jane,” Hunter interrupted softly. “I’m going away now. I can’t change that. I’m sure you’ll hear of me again someday, but, until then…remember me.”
Perplexed, Moneypenny nodded soberly.
As Jonathan Hunter left her life, Moneypenny just remembered something. Picking up the bullet he had given her, she examined closely to read it. When she did, a tear rolled from her eye.
Jane:
A little something to
remember me by.
Please think not
ill of me.
Love always.
Jonathan.
Chapter Five:
Think, Drink...
Lewis Street
London, England
2:03 A.M., BST
Jonathan Hunter sat on the light blue sofa in the living room of his flat, situated in front of the coffee table; "the coffee table," if it could be called that.
Hunter thought; he almost never drank coffee. It wasn't that he didn't like the stuff, he had just never had it much. On occasion, sure, and he had liked it just fine, but otherwise he seldom prepared it for himself. Why was that, he wondered? It just never occurred to him to. Even if he were to take to it, there was little chance it would become a habit.
Well, he figured, it could be worse. He could be the archenemy of tea: tea, a cuppa, the British civil servant's last line of defense (who the hell had told him that one?). No, no, it was England's drink, Her Majesty's drink.
And no one would dare oppose Her Majesty's drink if he was a member of Her Majesty's secret service.
Ex.
Ex-member.
The words ground themselves into Hunter's brain, threatening to shatter his skull. He would have thought them an empty threat months, weeks, days ago, but now they were the truth, an unchanging, irreversible part of reality. Whatever had been a veritable part of his life several hours ago, it was not and could not be altered to be so again.
It had not been deserved, and (he felt) it could not have been foreseen. Perhaps it was an effect of his rage-driven stupor, but he failed to see how he could have possibly expected the night's happenings.
Hell, tea wasn't strong enough....
"Well," said Hunter loudly to no one, slapping his knees, "the Queen's drink's out of the question. Let's see about Her Royal Distillery...."
He made his way to the first-floor wine cabinet (though, in truth, it had come to hold much more than wine) and extracted a bottle of Jack Daniels. He passed through the kitchen to collect a shot glass and returned to the living room. Still standing, he poured the bottle's amber contents into the crystal glass. Deeming both containers to have their appropriate measures of alcohol, he set both down on the "coffee table".
You know, he might just have to change that to "whiskey table"....
Suddenly, a thought occurred to him. He ventured upstairs, and returned moments later carrying a Walther P99 pistol in his hand. He sat back down on the sofa and placed it on the mahogany table in front of him.
Any average person who might come to observe the scene would most likely think it was a drunken suicide attempt. But no; it was a man playing a game, if anything. And not Russian Roulette, either, but rather a game in which he could laugh at the authorities that had done what they had.
Whatever power they had over his occupation...they could not control him.
The gun had been one that he had never used, but had kept in his bedside for both practicality as well as a sense of security. His choice of model, specifically, had been a product of his being used to his standard-issue weapon of the same make. And they had that now....
But he had his. They could take his gun away, but in a sense, he had never lost it. It was there in front of him, of the same model and the same caliber. No matter what others could think of it, it was an act of defiance; small or large, that was what it was. It was a reflex to the injustice done to him by the poisonous folks of the British Secret Service.
Hunter reached forward and picked up the shot glass. He shut his eyelids, braced himself, and knocked the whole of its contents back into his mouth.
The swirling liquid poured down his tongue and, as he forced it, began to burn his throat. He squeezed the now-empty glass in his hand almost to the point of shattering as the liquid flame continued to linger. Eventually, the heat passed, the pain subsided, and Hunter replaced the used glass on the table.
He rose to his feet and picked up the Walther. He fingered the pistol, admiring the gleam from the moonlight shining through the window. As the full realization of his non-operative status came over him, so, too, did a sense of power from holding the weapon. He raised it up, aiming at the spot on the table where the glass stood. He took the safety off, steadied his aim, and...
No. Not only would it accomplish nothing, but there would be trouble. Imagine the outcome when the police, investigating noise complaints, found out he was an ex-Service agent playing with a gun. That would hardly do....
Instead, he emptied the clip and ejected the round already in the chamber. He walked around the flat, twisting on his heel and doing several draws at random objects in the house: the tap, the bedside clock, the television. Eventually, he returned to the living room and sat on the sofa.
Damn. What was he doing?
Hunter tossed the empty weapon onto the carpet. Whatever the devil it was that he was trying to do, he sure as hell wasn't getting there by playing Cowboys and Indians with the appliances.
So what could he do?
Well, he asked himself, what are your problems?
First of all, he was out of a job. That was hardly a problem, however; he could almost certainly find employment elsewhere.
But that was it. Employment in another field didn't pose a problem; it was a problem. In his time at MI6, Hunter had been the type never to turn down a thrilling assignment. It was in his nature, he supposed, that he needed some extraordinary stimulation for him to be anything other than dulled out of his mind.
And where would that stimulation come from, that stress that he nursed himself on so dependently as if a drug? If not in the Service, he would be hard-pressed to find the exact variety so easily: the fear of being caught, the threat of being killed, and the pulse-pounding adrenalin that came from those moments when you were on the run for your life, or for somebody else's.
The question could not be answered easily; not in a practical manner, anyway. So, his next objective?
In a word, - so overtly simple that bloodshed crosses the mind at the mention of it - payback. Of course, Hunter had no immediate desire to drop an atom bomb on the Vauxhall Cross headquarters, but he did feel that, after what he had been put through, surely he deserved some retribution. As a necessity of his job, his exploits could never be publicly commended; he understood that. But even taking into account the multiple feats he had accomplished for Old Blighty and for the world, he would receive no object, physical or not, that could at all constitute compensation. No letter in the mail, no memo on the wall, no notice in the post would come. Once you were removed, you were removed, and that was it.
But that could not be it; that would not be it. Not for Jonathan Hunter, formerly of the British Secret Service. As he thought about it, he felt very nearly like the philosophers' depiction of God in this concept: If he did not get satisfaction from those who had wronged him, he would take it from them himself.
Looking at the gun on the floor, Hunter told himself that this was exactly what he planned to do.
So, living the life of adrenaline, and getting retribution from his former employers. In one climactic moment that brought everything together in his mind, Hunter realized that he could very well do both.
Looking down at the empty glass, he thought about it. In a way, it would be like a spirit. He would mix one drink, payback, with another, thrill-seeking. Get them wrong, and the whole damn thing would put a terrible bloody taste in his mouth. But get them right, and he would be rolling high.
Mentally, Hunter smiled at his analogy. He might just put that in his memoirs....
But, like with any good drink, there was the danger of drinking too much. One would get drunk, and wake up in the morning, wondering just what the hell he's done to himself, what poison he's filled himself with.
But he was determined that it would not happen. He would get his fill and get out before closing time, pull out while he was on top. If he just kept his balance and walked in a straight line, he would be fine.
So that was it.
Hunter half-nodded to himself, finally being able to marshal his thoughts. He looked at the dark room before him, physical evidence of his mental struggle.
He was damn glad he knew how to make a cocktail.
Chapter Six:
Welcome In
Rinalsky Auto Repair Centre
London, England (East End)
10:52 A.M., BST
Jonathan Hunter, wearing a heavy leather jacket in the unseasonably gusty conditions, walked up to the gloomy, gray brick building. Narrowing his eyes, he tilted his head to the side.
Was he really prepared to do this? Would he actually turn his life over to this?
He shook his head of the combating thoughts.
Of course he was. He had been mulling it over for more than a week. He had anticipated that the final turning point would be more than a little sprinkled with inner conflict. But he had already, after long periods of thought, devoted his mind to it.
He had already made the decision. Now was just to follow through with it.
The Rinalsky Auto Repair Centre had been founded in 1949 by a Jewish scholar and his family. The scholar, by the name of Davio Rinalsky, had traveled to England with his wife and teenage son after attempted Nazi revivalists had assaulted his village. With the help of his orphaned nephews, he had opened his own auto repair shop and the cash began flowing.
Thirteen years later, however, in 1963, a group of English gangsters had gassed and Tommy-gunned the place, killing all who worked there. No one had disagreed that it was a tragedy, but that had provided just enough distraction for a group of seemingly Polish “immigrants” to move in for business.
The Darius crime family had occupied the space for more than forty years.
Now, they continued servicing vehicles, keeping several Jewish attendees on hand to keep up appearances. Many illegal dealings continued to be made, mostly blood money involving unauthorized transportation of commodities.
Fifty-four years after its original founding, Hunter still debated his entry.
Grimacing, he squeezed his eyes tightly shut, clenched his jaw, and exhaled sharply. He wished he could simply vanish.
Banging his fists into his temples, he finally forced his jelly-like feet to move him over to the door. Agonizingly, he opened the door and entered.
Inside was much the same as a typical car repair “reception,” albeit perhaps a tad bit more upscale, adorned with oak wood and cherry. Behind the desk sat a bored-looking man, clearly of Jewish blood. Hunter walked up to him.
“Hello,” he said cordially.
The man stared back at him.
“Hi,” he replied flatly.
An irritated silence.
“Can I help you with something?”
“Yes,” responded Hunter, “I would like to meet with someone here about the possibility of fitting my car with white paneling.”
It was a phrase whose meaning was known only to Rinalsky customers. It was used by those interested in inserting crystal methane, cocaine, or any other illegal substance into their car’s paneling or flooring for means of smuggling.
The man at the desk only demonstrated the slightest interest.
“Alright,” he sighed. He depressed an intercom button, and a voice, elegant but also coldly ruthless, came through the microphone.
“Yes?”
“A man to see you about white paneling.”
A pause, and then:
“Alright. I’ll have Daniel bring him in.”
The deskman looked up at Hunter.
“I do hope you’re worth it,” he said almost enthusiastically. “Probably ten to fifteen men like you come in every month, and about two-thirds of them end up getting shot or sent to prison.”
Hunter raised a nervous eyebrow.
“I see you don’t care much about keeping quiet on a man’s business.”
“And why should I? I see no one around, do you? Besides, I already know your business. Why keep silent?”
After about a minute, a gentle-looking, olive-skinned man of New York descent walked into the room, seeming much kinder and more enthusiastic than the “welcoming” man.
“Ah,” he said, smiling, “you must be our customer. The first today, I should think. Oh, I’m sorry. I am Daniel Salzmann; my friends call me Danny. And you are…?”
“Hunter; Jonathan.”
The men shook hands.
“How nice to meet you, Mr. Hunter! Follow me, please.”
Salzmann led Hunter through a halogen-lit hallway, making several twists and turns. It was non-decorative, very much plain throughout. Eventually, they arrived at a door plainly marked BUSINESS. Salzmann held the door for Hunter, who padded in gently.
There was a wooden table in the center of the small room. There were a few suited men sitting around the table, and, at the center, a muscular, calm man somewhere in his forties or fifties, wearing a blue Armani suit.
“Sir,” said Salzmann delicately, “this is Mr. Hunter.”
“Sir” smiled viciously as he stood to full height.
“So,” he said brightly, “you’re the voluntary piece of meat.”
More tomorrow.
Extra Rare
Hunter squinted at Sir inquisitively.
“Piece of meat?"
Sir simply chuckled. He then held his hand out, gesturing towards an empty chair.
“Please,” he said with a somewhat husky voice, “sit.”
As Hunter did so, Sir studied him. There was an analytical gaze, making one feel as though one is an animal, and a hunter is debating whether or not to attack.
“So…” said Sir calmly, “…you are Jonathan Hunter. I do believe I’ve heard your name before.”
“I should think you have.”
“That’s a nice piece of cloth you’ve got there.”
“Thank you.”
“And how did that come to be?”
“I was shot in the eye by Dr. Julius No.”
For the first time, Sir showed surprise. Everyone at the table did, in fact. Several gasped, clearly mesmerized by the “feat”. When, finally, Sir calmed himself, the analytical gaze returned.
“And, er…you’re interested in getting your vehicle outfitted with goods? Marijuana? Weapons? You know, I’ve got a nice little collection of AKs in the back.”
Hunter simply stared darkly back at him.
“Huh,” said Sir. “I guess not. So what can I get your car outfitted for, Mr. Hunter?”
“I’m not interested in illegal commodity transportations, Mr. Big,” replied Hunter.
“Then, if you don’t mind my asking - what are you interested in?”
“I understand your men are particularly brutal.”
“Yes….”
Sir cocked his head, his curiosity ever-growing.
“Well,” said Hunter, “I’m an ex-Service member.”
“Your point?”
“I was removed from duty for severe brutality.”
A moment of silence.
But it was not broken. Sir continued his curious stare, now one entirely of interest, of pursuit. One could almost see the cogwheels turning in his mind.
“Gentlemen,” announced Sir, puncturing the tension, “I would like to ask everyone who arrived more than two minutes ago to please leave the room. You too, Danny.”
The addressed departed, leaving only Hunter and Sir. Again, there was a brief silence.
“Perhaps you should introduce yourself properly,” suggested Hunter. “Right now, I have you in my mind as ‘Mr. Armani’.”
Sir laughed.
“A man who takes the initiative,” he remarked. “I like that. Come here.”
The men met halfway across the table, pausing only to shake hands. Sir proved to have quite a firm grip.
“McClaren Darius,” he introduced himself proudly. “Nice to meet you, Mr. Hunter.”
“Nice to meet you, Mr. Darius.”
“Thank you. Please, have a seat right there.”
Darius returned to his original seat, and Jonathan sat away from and to his right. He adjusted his angle to view the man more clearly.
“So,” said Darius joyfully, “I think I’ve got this right, but I want to be sure. What are you here for?”
“I would like to become a member of the Darius crime family.”
Darius looked at him; then he laughed ferociously.
“It’s hardly as easy as that!” he exclaimed between laughs. “What, what have you got to offer me? Are you gonna shoot me? Is that it?"
Hunter simply clenched his jaw as Darius roared with laughter. It wasn't the humiliation, not exactly, but rather the fact that he was not being taken seriously.
"I said..." Darius asked.
And then the laughter stopped. Out of nowhere, Darius procured a pistol. He held it firmly in his hands, pointing it at Hunter.
"...are you gonna shoot me?"
The light had since gone out of both man's faces. Now all that was left was a pair of masks, one subtly fear-gripped, the other deadly concentrated.
"How do you think I got here?" Darius said. "I'm not a damned snob who let his father give him everything. I killed men to get where I am, and you look the same way I did twenty years ago. Now, twenty years ago, I was a hell of a lot more fit. So if you want to show me you've got more determination than the men I have thrown into the river, you use that to your advantage and take the gun from me right now. Take it from me, and you shoot me."
Hunter stared into the man's eyes. Was he insane? But he didn't have time to think about it. Acting on an impulse, he shot his arm out like a cobra, ripped the gun from Darius's hands, and pointed it back at him.
"So you want me to kill you."
Darius stared back at him, dead-eyed. Hunter pressed the magazine release, turned the Desert Eagle to the wall as the clip dropped to the floor, and fired.
It was a single, ear-piercing noise in the confined room. Darius slowly, steadily calmed, and looked at Hunter.
"You could've ejected the round."
"But that's not as fun."
He slid the gleaming, silver pistol across the polished table, relaxing.
"Sorry," he said. "I don't scare easily."
"Right," replied Darius. "No hard feelings, I hope. But I had to test you. You're one of very few people in the world who actually perplexes me. You see, you're very rare. I've met many men in my time, all of them involved in this business, and all of them wanting out. But you, Mr. Hunter, are willingly throwing yourself into the shark pool. Besides the oddity of your position, it's been my experience that sharks love rare meat."
He chuckled once again.
"I'm afraid you leave me at a loss, Mr. Darius," said Hunter. "What do you propose I do if I want to join your, er, little mob? Think me not desperate, sir, but I'm readily prepared to kill a man. If that's it, fine. But you would have just been too easy."
Darius thought for a minute.
“Well,” he said, “Cinderella…in order to make your dream come true, I suppose I could have you do something like that…. Or…”
He ran his fingers over his light stubble.
“…you could marry my daughter.”
Hunter stared back at Darius, wide-eyed. Surely, he couldn't be serious. Hunter looked away for a moment, deep in consideration before turning back to Darius.
“Is she pretty?”
More tomorrow.
Oh, that's right! I must not even have realized it. :D And thanks very much, I'm glad you're enjoying it, truly! (And since you mentioned OHMSS, I'm thinking I may have had CR in my head when I was writing the first bit to this chapter....)
Chapter Eight:
“Nice to Meet You….”
Rinalsky Auto Repair Centre
London, England (East End)
7:23 P.M., BST
Jonathan Hunter stood, looking in a mirror, displeased with his appearance.
It was not that he found his appearance unsuitable; he found no obvious fault with it. Rather, he simply never cared to take the time to flatter himself. He took care of his looks, but he never did so for personal enjoyment. Why, he figured, take the time to look pretty for yourself?
Hunter wore a black, double-breasted suit and white shirt with pearl buttons, both gifts from Darius for the night’s occasion. He let his cynical guard down for a minute to reflect on the impressively flattering, superbly well-cut clothing. The broad shoulders and muscled chest led into an icy, pale blue tie that was also a gift.
He reminded himself to write a thank-you note to the man.
Hunter turned to leave the living quarters, walking into the street and entering the waiting limousine.
He watched as the city flew past his window, the lights illuminating his face as they whipped past in the dark night. Turning back towards the interior of the vehicle, he caught the uninterested yet accusatory stare of the bodyguard assigned to him that evening.
Darius certainly wants me take to him, he thought, that’s for sure.
“Hello,” he greeted nonchalantly. “How are you?”
No answer.
Well, he reflected, no obvious social skills there.
Hunter remained silent for the remainder of the ride, smugly allowing his door to be opened before he stepped out. He looked up at the impressive, lightly populated establishment, adorned gaily in neon light with the name [/i]Le Grandeur[/i]. It was a bit more elegant than perhaps he would have preferred, but if it took a five-star dinner to reach the upper stretches of the mob, he was all for it.
He went inside, suitably impressed with the gold-and-white décor of the place. He stepped up to the small podium to speak to the bored-looking maître d'.
“Jonathan Hunter,” he announced. “You’ll find the reservation under ‘Darius’.”
The man’s eyes suddenly widened and his back stood erect.
“Y-yes, yes,” he stuttered, “of course, Mr. Hunter. Uh, the lady has arrived, please let me show you to the table.”
As he did so, Hunter could not help but notice with amusement the man’s obvious nervousness. He chuckled in admiration of the crime family’s apparent power. Moments later, he was shown to a table with a redhead with more eye-blinding beauty than could ever be justified.
She wore a black, shin-length dress, sleeveless so as to expose her lightly colored arms. The red hair was tied into a bun, the eyes displaying only the very hint of innocence, suggesting more than several places to which she had gone. The full, red lips, high cheekbones, and firm jaw line led Hunter’s eyes down to her throat, which bore a curious gold locket, and for a fleeting moment down to her ample chest.
Hunter quickly mentally chastised himself, demanding a personal answer as to why he would even glance at the cleavage of the only potentiality of his membership in the Darius crime family.
Well, his other half replied, for all the obvious reasons, and anyway, your career with Darius may well hinge on tonight. Make her appear attractive to you.…
That shouldn’t be too hard….
Taking him by surprise out of his concentrated state, the woman stood up and offered her hand.
“Hello,” she said in a beautifully seductive yet distractingly uninterested voice. “I’m Caroline Darius. It’s nice to meet you.”
It took Hunter a moment to recover from the quite physical impact of her beauty.
“Thank you,” he managed. “I’m Jonathan Hunter. If I may say so, you look gorgeous tonight.”
“Thank you,” she replied carelessly.
“Shall we?” asked Hunter.
There was an unconcerned air to the woman, as if she truly held not a care to the world. There, too, was the hint of an unwelcoming defense system.
As the two sat down, Hunter began to question his fortune.
More tomorrow!
On its Head
The ball had gone into Hunter's court early that evening, and remained there. He found himself doing most of the talking, while Miss Darius was either always focusing on her dinner or at some unseen point on the wall. It was as if life had been sucked out of her at some point, or at the least the social part of it.
"So," Hunter asked, his companion all too focused on the light's refraction in her wine goblet, "I can't believe I haven't asked you this yet," (he chuckled lightly and awkwardly) "but what exactly do you do?"
"You mean a job?"
Caroline's eyes seemed magnificently duller when she asked questions.
"Well, yes," Hunter coughed. "A job."
"Oh, well," she shrugged, "it varies. You know, the occasional task here and there. Oh, I don't take odd jobs, mind you, but I do things that need to be done for the family."
Hunter furrowed his eyebrows.
"You sound like Charlie Manson."
For the first time that night, Caroline laughed. Hunter marveled inwardly at the accomplishment.
Damn, that smile. Those teeth, those lips...
"Well," she smiled, "it's not quite like that. I handle affairs that need doing for my father; namely, smuggling. Diamonds, narcotics, money, gold..."
"I should think that's blood money?"
"Usually," Caroline grimaced. "And it's not unusual to find actual blood on the notes, either."
"Do you smuggle weapons?"
"Rarely. There was a time a few months ago, when I was smuggling side arms into Bulgaria during a civil war that was cooking up there. Anyway, I'm at the airport in Bulgaria-"
"Not Heathrow?"
She shook her head.
"No. I sometimes just hand whatever it is I'm smuggling off to people and they take care of the rest. But this time, I begged Daddy to let me have a little fun. He obliged, of course, and so I ended up in Bulgaria. The weapons were polymer, so nobody batted an eye once. Anyway, I'm due to be taking these directly to a group of radicals at a nearby hotel, but then I'm stopped in Customs. Apparently, the security there think I'm carrying weapons, and another man as well. Now, believe it or not, that man was from a rival family of my father, but he didn't recognize me.
"The men ask if we're working in conjunction, because we certainly look like it. And am I sure this is my first time in Bulgaria? Anyway, this man, as I find out, is supplying weapons for the side I'm not, and he's angry as it is, being held up. Now, when the security and this man had their backs turned, I walked up and dropped one of the pistols into his bag (it was open for the security check). As the men check it, they find this pistol, and ask just what the hell did he think he was doing with a concealed weapon? And the man starts pointing and yelling at me. I put it in his bag! It was my fault, not his! Why on Earth should he be carrying any weapons? But the security stepped in, and told him to stop harassing this 'nice young lady'. I got away, thank heavens, by the skin of my teeth.
"Sometimes," she smiled, "it helps to be a woman."
By this time, Hunter's eyes were wide with impressed surprise.
"Good heavens," he breathed. "It's inspired. No offense intended, but you didn't look like the sort of person to carry off such a smooth job. I should remind myself to take you when I cross the street."
Caroline blushed.
"But I've a question. If Customs couldn't manage to find a weapon by the time you left, then how did you know he had any?"
"I stole his other bag."
Heavens, this was certainly a girl!
"I searched it in the hotel lavatory twenty minutes later. There were Uzis, Colts, and, I think, even a foldable AK-47, all polymer."
"What did you do?"
"I brought them along with me. I had skimped out on a pistol, so I figured it was the least I could do to make it up to them."
Hunter smiled, highly amused, as he took a sip of his wine. This dinner had certainly turned around! A thought came to him.
"If I may ask," he said softly, "don't you mind speaking out loud about smuggling and such?"
"Oh," she smiled. "No. You see, my daddy owns this restaurant."
***
As the limousine pulled up to the curb of the Darius house, Mr. Darius' unsmiling manservant held the door open. Hunter and Caroline removed themselves, still chatting gaily as they stepped onto the sidewalk.
"Thank you, Gibbs," Hunter said to the manservant. "You may go."
After an animalistic snarl, the man named Gibbs reentered the lengthy Ford and shut the door. The limousine sped off, leaving Hunter and Caroline alone.
Hunter smirked as he reflected that Gibbs was not a bodyguard's name. It was the name of a scientist, or a professor.
Gibbs the bodyguard would be neither.
Hunter turned to Caroline, and gently brought his hand up to lightly stroke her cheek.
"Thank you for a pleasant evening," Caroline whispered.
"I would use something more powerful than 'pleasant,’" Hunter murmured back.
Caroline laughed.
"You're very different from other men I've met, Mr. Hunter."
"Please...call me 'Jonathan'."
"Jonathan," she smiled. "Everybody else has been a greedy, irritating man in his forties or fifties who didn't really give a damn about me. My father hired most of them, of course, but...thank you for coming to my father."
She kissed the hand on her cheek.
"I'd like to see how this goes."
Hunter leaned in slowly, keeping his hand in place as he shut his eyes and pressed his lips to Caroline's. It was soft, slow...tender.
There was something different. There was not the usual hot lust, or even the cold detachment he had expected to experience earlier that evening. Rather, it was warm; sweet. There was true affection.
They parted slowly.
"Well, I hope," Jonathan whispered.
Then came that beautiful smile again.
"Good night, Mr. Hunter."
As she turned and walked away, Hunter stood stock still and drunk in the evening. But then...it was impossible to do all at once. As he played through the events one by one, he slowly turned and walked into the Darius house.
Thirty yards away, three pairs of eyes observed his actions behind a shaded glass window.
More tomorrow.
Chapter Ten:
Behind the Veil
Rinalsky Auto Repair Centre
London, England (East End)
7:05 A.M., BST
Four days later
Hunter walked, panting, into his living quarters in black track pants and a sweat-darkened, gray T-shirt. He had just been out running his daily mile, and now sat on the side of his bed as he removed his running shoes and socks. He enjoyed running, which had become a daily habit when he was a teenager. Fitness was important to him, and he enjoyed the fresh, cool air whistling through his air and rushing into his lungs.
Hunter ventured to the men's shower quarters before stripping off the rest of his clothing and indulging in the near sensual pleasure of a quiet shower. The cool rain embraced him, soaking his skin and wetting his hair flat. After scrubbing both with a bar of soap and Pinaud Elixir shampoo (the best), he dried and reentered the hallway before being stopped by one of Mr. Darius's closest associates.
"Excuse me, Mr. Hunter," he said, "but I've been told to inform you that McClaren - er, Mr. Darius, would like for you to sit in on his meeting today."
"I'm flattered. You can tell Mr. Darius that I'll be joining him at this meeting of his. When is it, by the way?"
"This afternoon, at three. Business dress is, of course, expected."
"I shall be there. Thank you, Mr. Forge."
Forge walked on through the hallway until he disappeared from sight.
Well, that was a surprise. He had been there for what, five days? And now, Darius was asking him to a meeting? For what? To take notes? Surely he would already have a secretary for that. But then what? There was always the possibility that Darius legitimately wanted his opinion available, but the short duration of his time there made that highly unlikely.
Still, it remained a possibility. Darius had seemed impressed with him after their initial meeting. Hunter had long suspected that it was due to his mention of the encounter with Dr. No. He figured that his originally intended effect had worked, giving an assumed impression of someone with an expansive foray in the criminal world.
He shrugged.
He would find out at the meeting.
***
Hunter tightened his red tie in the mirror, a stark contrast against but handsome addition to his gray pinstripe suit. Not bad, he thought smugly to himself. He checked his watch; eight minutes to three. Well, he certainly wouldn't be taking notes. If so, he would have been sent for earlier. He walked through the door of the conference room two minutes later, and was greeted by the long, wooden conference table, four carafes of water with glasses, and Darius with his back turned.
"Ah, Mr. Hunter!" he greeted. "The early bird, I see."
Hunter smiled politely.
"I just like to give myself plenty of time, Mr. Darius."
"Very good, Mr. Hunter. I like that in my associates."
Associates?
"Yes, Mr. Hunter, my associates. In a way, I'm glad you showed up early. You may not know it, but it has indeed occurred to me that you would question your invitation to this meeting. I've had Mr. Forge wait outside so we could discuss, but we're scarce on time, so I shall try to get my point across rather quickly.
"Now, Mr. Hunter, the first thing that I want to tell you is that...I'm impressed."
So it was true.
"You're impressed?" Hunter asked.
"Indeed I am. I could easily tell that you were trying to, as you might say, 'grab me by the balls' by your mention of Dr. No. And let me tell you, it worked. Well, that, and your utter brashness. Any other man with a fraction of knowledge about me would be in fear of being shot. But no, you walked in without even a hint of hesitation. You walked in, and you told me what you wanted.
"When I take a man under my employ, I look for assurance and unswerving determination. You have demonstrated both of these traits more than any man who has ever first associated himself with me. Now, my first instinct said, 'Take this man. Take him, and never let him go.' But can you imagine the uproar it would cause if I simply accepted your request without a full evaluation, or, say, a family relation?
"As I said earlier, I felt, feel, the need to pick you up early, so I had to choose the latter of those two. I have, therefore, and, for want of better words, given my daughter to you. I should think I've made it no secret that it is my wish that the two of you should marry. Now...what do you say?"
Hunter's eyes widened with unbridled surprise at the unexpected question.
What did he say?
"Er...well..." he stuttered. "...look, Mr. Darius, I just can't answer your question fully right now. Sure, your daughter is lovely, and I can definitely confirm a mutual attraction, but...marriage? With all due respect, sir, we only just met four days ago. You're setting your expectations a bit high, don't you think?"
Darius shrugged.
"Well," he responded, "I don't know. That was a rather sweet goodnight kiss, wouldn't you say?"
What the hell? Hunter thought. So he was watching?
He simply stared back, shaking his head unconsciously and holding his mouth open.
"Yeah, well," Darius said sheepishly, "I'm not going to lie to you. I had a pair of eyes on you that night when you got home. They were watching from a window a few yards away. Forgive me, but your, er, 'progress' with my daughter is something I felt the absolute necessity to track. Frankly, I was expecting you to invite her into your room."
"I'm not that kind of a man, Mr. Darius."
Darius awkwardly, almost embarrassingly, coughed into his hand.
"No," he muttered, "no, of course not. But I'm sure you've met someone like that."
Hunter clenched his jaw, recalling such a person from his...now old line of work.
"Once or twice."
More tomorrow.
Chapter Eleven:
The Loud-Hayler Man
Darius scratched at the light stubble on his cheek.
"Yes, alright...perhaps that was the wrong tangent to start out on. Anyway, I still maintain that it needed to be discussed. However, we must discuss another subject as well. Are you familiar with a man by the name of Rufus B. Saye?"
Hunter racked his memory for the name. Perhaps...yes, that was it.
“I recall reading about him in an SIS file once,” he replied. “Diamond smuggler, worked with the Spangled Mob thirty...fifty years ago? Operated a pipeline out of South Africa, all the way through London into the States. But I believe he was killed and his operation disbanded decades go, so why do you ask?”
“Well, er...Jonathan?”
Hunter gestured with his hand.
Go ahead. It was a good thing anyway that Darius was getting comfortable with him.
“Jonathan.” He coughed. “I’m telling you because I’ve got a bit of history; history entirely significant to this meeting. You’re quite correct that Saye was killed, but, as they say, the story doesn’t end there. One of Saye’s associates, a fellow by the name of Hayler, Louis C. Hayler, was a smuggler as well. His major business was in small arm weaponry and-”
“Drugs.”
“Precisely. Now, this guy Hayler operated out of London, and, as you could imagine, this created a whole set of problems for us here in the East End. The man died back in ‘94, but his son survives him; Louis C. Hayler II.”
“Let me guess. Hayler, Jr. followed in his father’s footsteps, and now his business is entirely unwelcome competition?”
Darius chuckled once, humorlessly.
“‘Now.’ You say that as if we haven’t been having problems for the past forty years. Sure, it’s been bad, but, with the rise of crime as of late, his services have just somehow been getting the better of us, especially in terms of white powder. And when you take into account our comparatively smaller arms running, well, that takes up a whole new issue. Really, that’s what our meeting here is about. We’re discussing strategies to tackle the problem.”
Darius pressed a red button protruding from the table next to him.
“Forge,” he said, “send them in.”
He released the button.
“Jonathan, take a seat near the other end of the table.”
Hunter did so. A moment later, ten alert-looking and highly dignified men in business suits walked through the door, ranging from their twenties to fifties. The majority of them had dark, brooding eyes that had seen much violence and little sleep. One or two of them were (Hunter didn’t want to say “yuppie”) the sort of men that would suck up to the boss, but would likely get the job done well. Curiously, some of them carried off-white file folders.
“Gentlemen,” Darius said, “please, sit.”
All ten took their respective seats.
“Now, gentlemen,” he continued, “I believe you all know why you are here. We have assembled here today to discuss the takedown of, potentially, Louis Hayler, and, more definitely, of, as they are known” (that last part had been for Hunter) “the ‘Loud-Haylers’.”
“The Loud-Haylers”. Hell, what a name! But frankly, it sounded like the sort of popular children’s troupe one might find in a circus.
“The name, as most of you know, is one of good title, as it rings undoubtedly true. These men have made their message loud and clear. For that reason, we, too, must make our return message as loud as a gunshot and as clear as a crystal. Yes, gentlemen, this task is of the utmost necessity. However, as with any task, there must be a time for planning. This is where you take over, gentlemen. If there is any man on the board who would like to put forth an idea, please, politely, let him speak.”
Automatically, a man in his early forties and with a prematurely pockmarked face leaned forth and asked, “With your permission, Mr. Darius?”
“Of course,” came the reply.
“Thank you.”
The manila envelope came open.
“Now, gentlemen, the necessity of taking down the ‘Haylers has made itself undoubtedly obvious. For that, I’ve made a plan. Now hear me out on this, because it’s going to sound rather bizarre and, frankly, stupid before I’ve made my actual point. I propose that we infiltrate Mr. Hayler’s mob by posing as clients of his. Now, obviously, we’re not going to go in ourselves, even with disguises. For this actual reason, I’ve recently made a venture to Seoul and brought back a group of South Koreans who think I’m in Japanese narcotics. These guys are drug enforcement officers, and frankly, they’re so good that I’m one of only seventy-eight people who’ve heard of them global.
“Now, obviously, this disassociation with my actual identity is of great benefit to us. They don’t know Alfred Wilford, but they do know Nagasari Tomo. In two weeks time, potentially, four South Korean businessmen will come to Mr. L. Hayler, asking for a sample of his product. The snow will be laid out, and these guys will case the joint in a minute-forty-two. But, right now, Nagasari Tomo has them on hold as to whether or not they’re to do just that.”
At the head of the table, Darius stroked his chin thoughtfully.
“Well, Mr. Wilford,” he said, “it’s a good plan, a good plan indeed. I like it, but try not to worry terribly about your Korean friends. You and they both will have answers by the time this meeting is over. Now, has anyone else any thoughts on how else to approach the issue?”
One of the (Hunter would say it now) yuppies at the table showed his manila envelope.
“I have one, sir.”
Darius gestured with his hand.
“Then, please, Mr. Evans, share it with us.”
Evans shuffled his papers.
“Certainly.”
Not so much of a cliffhanger, I'm afraid, but more tomorrow!
Damn beat me to it.
I think in this timeline Bond didn't kill him. It was just a reference to the book.
Chapter Twelve:
Dreamer’s Domination
"Yes," Evans muttered, "I have it right here somewhere, if you could just give me a minute.…"
One of the men at the table rolled his eyes and sighed before pouring himself a glass of water. After about five seconds, Evans procured a black-and-white photograph from his file folder. It was a Hispanic man, about thirty-nine and with slicked hair and light stubble. He seemed greasy, yet highly dangerous. His bored-looking, psychotic eyes stared back at whomever had taken the picture.
"Carmen Seguoia." He said the name with a thick Spanish accent. "One of, if not the most, proficient and experienced small arms and explosives salesmen and experts in South and Central America today. Now, I've never once dealt with the man personally, but-"
"Then what, exactly," one of the men interrupted, "do you expect him to say when you ask him for his help in this...whatever it is you're doing?"
Evans coughed.
"Kindly allow me to finish, Mr. Price. You see, this is one of those associate-of-an-associate situations. A client of ours - a very popular one, in fact, a Mr. Gutierrez - has impressively tight connections with Seguoia. They've dealt on innumerable occasions, and I have no doubt in my mind that Mr. Gutierrez will kindly allow us the service of Seguoia."
Darius seemed to examine him as he leaned back in his chair.
"Well, Mr. Evans," he opined, "if it was me, personally, I would not be leaning on simply my own self-assurance. However, I trust your judgment. Please continue."
Evans smiled.
"Thank you, sir. Now, as we all...sorry." He coughed. "As most of us know, Mr. Hayler's gang hardly moves around much. If they’re all in one spot, we can hit them all at once.”
He slammed his fist dramatically onto the table.
“We smash the bug. Now, this planning shouldn’t be hard. I’ve had surveillance cover the place for a while, and I’ve got a pretty basic blueprint of their schedule. Now, this is where Seguoia comes in. We don’t need to choose a specific route. We can gas them; bomb them; torch them.”
Evans ticked them off his fingers.
“We just need to hit them hard, and hit them fast. Now...thoughts?”
The men at the table, while not unimpressed, looked pensive.
“Well,” said one of them almost hesitantly, “can we even say this is an assured thing? I mean, you’re like John Dillinger without a machine gun. You’ve got no equipment, no assurance from Seguoia, no plan - well, hardly a plan - and you think we should just blow them away?”
“I agree with Will here,” an Irishman said. “A plan without a thought given to the execution is just a concept. We need more.”
Evans looked like he was just about shaking out of his designer dress shoes. Poor man, thought Hunter. But it really was lacking a base to stand on.
“The, er...” Evans stuttered, “the simplicity of the plan was what I was going for. I’ve, uh...I’ve got a few pictures here of potential weapons: bombs, flame accelerators, a...well, a pretty advanced device used entirely for gassing. Really nasty stuff. I, er, guess no one wants to hear about that anymore, though, do they?”
He chuckled once, embarrassingly, sadly.
“I’m sorry, Marion,” Darius said apologetically. “But I believe everyone at this table is right. The concept is in a good place, but there’s just no basic planning laid out. My apologies, but, er, may we move on?”
“I was rather hoping you’d say that.”
It was a voice from the side of the table directly opposite Hunter, very sinister, and almost Cockney.
“You know I’ve got good credit, good connections in the States,” he said self-assuredly. “I’ve got good connections with, what, twenty percent of the gangs on the East Coast? And besides that, a quarter of the ‘Western Frontier’ mobs all know my name. And you know why? Not because I’ve done dealings with them, but because I’ve whupped their sorry arses. That’s why we’ve got all this business from the U.S., of course, but the police just think I’m a nice old boy. They don’t know about my connection with you, so I’ve made the decision that I’m going to call the old Mr. Hoover foundation and get the FBI on their tails.”
Half of the men at the table laughed uproariously. The other half wore angry faces and murmured heavily.
“They don’t know of your connections with us, sure,” one of the men argued, “but do you have any idea how much you’re risking blowing our whole operation - our whole operation, from 1963 - wider than the damned Atlantic?”
“Use your head, man! If you do this to the ‘Haylers, will you just think for a second of what it’ll do to us?”
“Gentlemen!” Darius roared. “I want silence! Now, Charles, allow me to tell you this, because I know you can take the criticism. That is the worst idea I’ve heard, or likely will have heard, during the full course of this meeting. Everyone who’s disagreed with you is entirely correct. You can’t blow their operation without blowing ours. I’m not going to say I’m sorry, Mr. McNamara, because I just can’t risk what you’re suggesting. Now, who’s next?”
The Irishman at the table raised his hand a few inches above the table.
“Mr. McWilliams?”
“Tell it like it is, Brogue,” someone uttered.
“Now,” McWilliams said cautiously, “I’m going to need everybody to hear me out on this as you have so patiently been doing for the entire time you’ve been here. I...propose...to use my connections with the IRA-”
“Forgive me, Conor,” a man at the table said, “but I just cannot allow myself to ‘hear you out’ on this. Now-”
“I, personally, would like to hear Mr. McWilliams proposal!”
“If...you don’t mind, Warren...this needs to be said. Now. I have had enough of these crazy, elaborate schemes. ‘Don’t worry, they really think I’m Japanese.’ ‘I’m sure this guy from South America I’ve never met will give me his armory!’ ‘We’ll call in a P.I.!’ And now, what’s this? You’re going to get the bloody IRA to do your bidding? I swear, all of you may just as well say you’re going to send a request to SPECTRE!”
“DON’T YOU BLOODY JOKE ABOUT SPECTRE! THEY KILLED MY BROTHER BECAUSE HE DIDN’T MAKE A _______ PAYMENT!”
“What on God’s green earth gives you the right-”
“What the hell is wrong with all of you?!”
Argument and shouts broke out all over the table save for Darius, trying to keep the peace, and Hunter, not bothering to get himself involved in the frenzied mess.
After about a half minute of arguing, Hunter couldn’t take it anymore. For the few seconds following, the only part of Hunter that remained still was from his neck down.
“SHUT THE BLOODY HELL UP, ALL OF YOU!”
Silence fell like a brick.
Hunter waited a moment.
“Listen,” he said calmly, “all of you. You fell apart over the mention of SPECTRE.”
He let the word roll off his tongue, allowing the pronunciation to permeate through every gap of air in the room to cut through and kill the raw fear of it.
“Now, gentlemen, we’re in a meeting. We are to be composed. From that barbaric display I just witnessed, I can clearly see that the only way to resume this meeting is to jump right back into it, on a point. I’ve obviously come for a reason, and that is to provide commentary for and to voice my opinion on your plans. So, allow me. You’re bloody gits.”
Fierce eyes stared back at him; not angry, but listening.
“What? You actually believe that a trio - sorry, four Koreans - can overcome the gang you arses have been struggling with for decades in one night? You hold tight to the belief that some chap you’ve never met in Bolivia or wherever will hand over a bomb or something you’ve got in that folder of yours before you use it to blow the place mad and get away without any trouble? Surely you, along with Charles What’s-Your-Face, realize that the government will catch onto you, that even the people you’re trying to attract will kill the rest of your career and the business you’ve joined?
“South Korea. Margaritaville. The FBI. The IRA. You’re all bloody dreamers. Now allow me to bring you all back down to the ground and let you return to reality. We’re done negotiating for third parties. If you want something done right, do it yourself. What do you say?”
More tomorrow.
YOLT reference?
Not my intention, but interesting you should point that out - I never thought of that!
Chapter Thirteen:
Unreturned Message
Every single man at the table held an undeniably shocked expression on his face. At the head of the table, Darius seemed to be at a loss for words.
"Gentlemen," he muttered, looking down, "we must indeed listen to the wise words of Mr. Hunter. He is to thank for bringing this meeting, as he said, back to Earth." He brought his head back up. "Now, he's right. If we truly want this operation to remain both confidential as well as successful, we must keep this to ourselves. Now, on that basis, we must discuss potential means of attack. Ideas?"
There was a long moment of utter silence. Finally, one man raised his hand.
"Mr. Brown."
"Well, Mr. Darius, we would obviously need a plan, but it needn't be large scale. The pieces of the puzzle are coming together in my mind as we speak, and I propose that we make this simple and quick. We storm the place at night, taking down whatever Haylers we see. Then, we plant a bomb. We make it fast, efficient, and easy.”
Darius seemed to consider.
“Well, Mr. Brown,” he said, “it’s not a bad concept, but it withholds some of the fatal flaws of Mr. Evans’s plan. We can’t just go gung-ho and shoot up the place. Anything else?”
“I’ve got an idea.”
“Go ahead, Mr. Clarke.”
“Well, rather than having bullets fly everywhere, why not just one bullet? I propose we assassinate Louis Hayler. It’s quick and it does the job. Without a leader, the Haylers will disband.”
“I’m sorry, Mr. Clarke,” Darius said, shaking his head, “but that idea is just too poorly planned out. As with Mr. Evans’s plan, I’m afraid it doesn’t have much of a base. And besides, the gang would hardly disband. Knowing without a doubt that it was us, it would be war. We would lose more than a few men, and that it something we simply cannot afford. Perhaps we can get a word out of Mr. Hunter?”
Hunter shrugged.
“I would say we need to raid the place, as Mr. Brown suggested. However, we’re going to need to be covert about it. Mr. Darius, have you any guns-for-hire under your employ?”
Darius nodded.
“Of course.”
“Perfect. Then we plan this out for two weeks, and then send the guns out to Hayler’s place, along with me and anyone else here who’s good with a gun.”
McWilliams looked unsure.
“Oi, mate, why should you go?”
“You weren’t here for the grand introduction, Conor,” Clarke said. “He’s ex-intelligence, got kicked out for killing too many terrorists.”
All present save Hunter laughed.
“Thank you for that A-class introduction, Mr. Clarke.”
Still more chuckles.
“Now,” Hunter continued, “back to business. We go in at night, and we bring live rounds. It doesn’t matter if the Haylers end up dead or alive, and you’ll find out why in a minute. As Mr. Brown suggested, we kill every Hayler that crosses our path, so we don’t have to deal with them later. We take accelerants with us and torch the place. I warn you now, they’re going to have to be pretty strong. The fire’s got to be blazing long enough to utterly destroy any evidence that can be found on the bodies, such as impact marks or gunpowder. Somebody in the group has got to be skilled in arson, because we can’t have the cops or the fire brigade finding out this was an intended fire. And, somewhere along the way, we kill Louis Hayler.”
Darius stare at him, wide-eyed.
“Bravo, Mr. Hunter. Indeed, I should think that at least a few of my guns are arsonists. When I pick my criminals, I pick the best. Now, Jonathan; a moniker for the operation?”
Hunter thought for a moment.
“Return Message.”
Darius smiled along with everyone at the table.
“I like it. ‘Return Message’. And entirely appropriate to the situation at hand. I think it’s fair to say we’ve officially decided on a plan. And now, weapons. I’ve got armories all over, but my largest by far is in Liverpool. We shall lay out plans of weaponry, transportation, entry, and execution over the next two weeks. Until then, I should think we’ve discussed all there is to discuss. Meeting adjourned. Gentlemen.”
He nodded his head. Everyone filed out, leaving only Darius and Hunter. After a moment, Darius spoke.
“Jonathan,” he said. “That was impressive.”
“Thank you, sir.”
“I seldom see a man take such control over a group. In fact, I’ve only seen it once.”
“Really, sir?” asked Hunter. “Who?”
“Me. And that’s why I’ve made a decision of my own. Jonathan, you will be in command of Operation Return Message, with ex-Royal Navy Captain Joseph Macnair serving directly under you.”
Hunter searched for the words.
“Er, sir...do you really think I would be the best to command this operation? As I’ve said before, you’ve only known me four days. Surely you’re speeding up my, er, promotion far more dramatically than you should be?”
Darius took a seat on the table.
“To be honest, Jonathan, I would be agreeing with you, if I wasn’t a man who knew exactly what he wanted. And frankly, son, I want you. Surely, I sound crazy to you, but you’re the sort of man who I can see replacing me when I pass.”
“Sir, I’ve never quite put it this way, but-”
“I know, Jonathan, I know, I know what you’re thinking. But I know what I’m thinking, as well. I know those two rather clash at the moment, but I’m not going to negotiate with you right now. Just...think it through. And think of taking Caroline out again. She thinks you’re a very sweet man, and she’d like to get to know you better. I’m not forcing you, and I’m not setting this up for you. Just do this of your own accord.”
With nothing left to say, he simply, rather awkwardly, nodded his head once and left the room.
Jonathan stayed, sitting on the edge of the table.
What had he gotten himself into?
More tomorrow.