James Bond 007 is Dead

He doesn’t see it coming but it does. The van hurtles from Sandringham, just before exiting onto Molynes Road, slamming into the back of his Aston Martin, crushing the alloyed steel. He bucks, throwing his head forward and back. On cue airbags deploy with a massive bang and the smell of compressed gas mingles with the truck’s punctured motor stench tainting his nose as he jerks, the seatbelt digging into his flesh. Excruciating pain stabs him in the neck and dazed he’s unable to see, blood pouring from a cut above his left eye, a result of his head smacking against the steering wheel. The redness spoils his once white cotton shirt and with the back of one sleeve he wipes at it, leaving an ugly streak, staining the white material.

His car rolls onto Molynes, fortunately the other vehicles halt hastily, their drivers staring curiously at the scene.

He thinks: Helluva way to be heading home. A balmy, slow evening can’t be the cause for an accident. Not now. Not today.
  
Shaking his head he tries to focus but, instead, sees Donna placing a plate on a dining table a diamond of a smile on her beautiful face as he walks into her apartment. She’s ready to serve his favourite meal as he catches the whiff of curried chicken. He swears. He’ll be late for dinner. What will she say when he reaches home, white gauze over his eye and blood on his shirt - one she'll end up washing?

Perspiration sprinkles his forehead as he fidgets, trying to unhitch the seatbelt. He stops and listens. An engine is grinding as if in reverse and through his good eye he glances at the rear-view mirror and stares watching the truck back away. The dark grill is demolished, sprinkled with flecks of paint from his steel grey Aston; the driver obscured to him. 

Somewhere he can hear music. Classical.
 
The van’s engine revs – once, twice, three times. Suddenly there’s a screaming of tires against tarmac. The truck jumps forward and it dawns on him - it’s going to ram again....