He’d always liked staying at The Riviera. It was cheaper than most of the other hotels in the area, but it still had the class he loved. Everything from the slightly moth-eaten floorboards in his room to the sign in the bathroom instructing one to “use facilities at your own risk” was perfect. This was his kind of place. Even better, it was the perfect vantage point to see into the casino. He smashed a cigarette in the ashtray lying on the cabinet. He’d get this job done if it killed him, which it just might. Being a MI6 agent was a hard job, especially when you had hardly any money of your own. Yes, he wasn’t exactly James Bond, full of suave moves, double-entendres and an oh-so-slimy personality, but he was a secret agent, and that’s all that counts, right? Unfortunately, he couldn’t tell anybody, so picking up women was out. He stuffed another cigarette in his mouth and lit it. This was the life, he thought to himself, as he sank back onto the slightly lumpy mattress. Nobody to bother him, one of the coolest jobs in the world, and a major crime kingpin to take down. Life was good. It was at that very inopportune moment that a figure dressed in black crashed through the door and began firing machine gun rounds above his head. He froze. This wasn’t supposed to happen; he was the one that was supposed to burst through doorways ready to annihilate anyone that stood in his way. Unless that anyone happened to be women in slinky black cocktail dresses. Only then he’d make an exception. But he was dragged out of that fantasy by the harsh sting of chemicals reaching his nose. Everything went swimmy and his view went black. Figures.
He was lying on something that felt like carpeting. Everything was black around him, but as his eyes slowly adjusted to the inadequate light he could see that he was in the trunk of a car. His hands were bound with a rough rope that cut his wrists as he tried to move. As the car bounced over ruts he could tell the lock on the trunk wasn’t tight enough. Using one of his feet he managed to kick to lock open, and daylight flooded into the cramped trunk. Blinking, he stared out at the scenery flashing by. The car appeared to be travelling on some mountain road, trees and rocks on either side of a deeply rutted dirt road. It was now or never. Pushing himself over the lip separating the trunk from the rest of the car body, he kicked and flew out. Hitting the ground, he tasted dirt and was harshly tossed into a wooden guardrail. He lay there, dazed, leaning against the rough, uncut wood. After a few minutes of sitting he noticed the sharp rock sitting across the road, moss growing on its grey top. There was always a sharp rock. He ran to it and swiftly cut the twine from his wrists. Standing up, he rubbed his still-red wrists and reached for the Heckler & Koch G37 tucked into his coat. That was where the heads at MI6 had come through for him. After years of automatic handguns and revolvers the main office had made the G37 standard issue for field agents. Unfortunately the main office appeared to have overlooked the fact that he would no doubt need more ammunition than the two boxes he was issued. You take what you get, though, he thought ruefully, and loaded the cartridges. Lighting a cigarette he surveyed the path ahead of him. The car formerly carrying him was long gone, and he was lost. He heard a sound behind him and turned to see a red Citroen travelling toward him, a cloud of dust billowing out behind its gleaming bodywork. He jumped in front, waving his arms. Stopping, the driver rolled down the window and looked at him with an incredulous expression on his face. Civilians were always like that, getting in the way of sniper’s bullets, crashing into foot chases and completely ruining everything. He tried to explain to the startled man what had happened, although the driver still had the strange look on his face. That didn’t matter. What mattered now was speed and this car had it in spades. Jumping into the passenger seat he informed the driver to follow that car. Yes, it was a cliché, but secret agents fed off phrases like that. The Citroen screamed along the road, wheels ricocheting from pothole to pothole. Suddenly there was a flash of orange behind a nearby tree and he had only a few seconds to duck before a guided missile ripped the top of the roof clean off with a tremendous explosion and a spray of glass. There was always a missile. Baddies don’t go down easy. He glanced at the driver. The man seemed to be unconscious, blood pooling on the leather seat. He grabbed to steering wheel, pulling it as far as it would go to the right, but it was too late. The car rammed through the barriers by the side of the road and flew off the cliff, twisting as it fell, hot steam from the broken radiator streaming out behind it. With a shower of sparks and ripping of metal the twisted body slammed into the ground and was violently catapulted upward, ripping the suspension off with great force. He was violently thrown out of the car and onto the smooth forest floor, the force of his fall crushing a patch of flowers. He laid there, his arm at a peculiar angle to the rest of his body, blood gushing freely from his broken nose. He’d never had this much difficulty completing a mission before, and he’d never expected an anti-tank missile. But it wouldn’t be a mission without one, now, would it?