The 008 Killing
She plucks the tinkling Samsung phone from her black Michael Kors
handbag and glances at the text on the screen. A smile plays on her firm
lips. The last time they were together they were in Belize, Belize City
to be exact, completing a dangerous assignment, one of the most
challenging she ever had and if wasn’t for James, she’d still be at the
bottom of the Caribbean Sea. It'd been awhile and now he was here, in
London, outside Claridges.
Slipping on her Jimmy Choo wedges, she ghosts to the front of the upscale eaterie. A doorman dressed in a long black coat with gold piping and black tophat, slides her blue designer coat over her slim shoulders. Shrugging into it, she smiles charmingly and winks at the man. He nods and blushes while touching the hat’s brim.
The day is grey and traffic is heavy as always in Central London and sauntering to Brook Street's pavement edge, she waits patiently. It’ll take her co-worker a few more minutes to be with her. A warm feeling permeates the pit of her stomach as she imagines the tip of his tongue teasing the dip in her back. Gently she bites her bottom lip and trembles involuntarily. James, she mutters. Closing her eyes, she ignores the passing traffic. Crossing her arms about her, she sighs; their time in Bogota is flooding back.
The roar of a motorbike engine causes her to open her eyes. It’s a racing bike. Big, beautiful and a brilliant shiny black, it’s parked a few meters abreast of where she stands, the rider’s dark helmet visor looking in her direction.
Something triggers within her; maybe it’s the many times she witnessed the death of others or when she, herself, faced death or just her training. She doesn’t know as she moves, hand dipping into her bag.
A feeling of resignation pervades within her by the time she clasps the Sig Sauer’s grip, a quick look confirms her emotion....
Slipping on her Jimmy Choo wedges, she ghosts to the front of the upscale eaterie. A doorman dressed in a long black coat with gold piping and black tophat, slides her blue designer coat over her slim shoulders. Shrugging into it, she smiles charmingly and winks at the man. He nods and blushes while touching the hat’s brim.
The day is grey and traffic is heavy as always in Central London and sauntering to Brook Street's pavement edge, she waits patiently. It’ll take her co-worker a few more minutes to be with her. A warm feeling permeates the pit of her stomach as she imagines the tip of his tongue teasing the dip in her back. Gently she bites her bottom lip and trembles involuntarily. James, she mutters. Closing her eyes, she ignores the passing traffic. Crossing her arms about her, she sighs; their time in Bogota is flooding back.
The roar of a motorbike engine causes her to open her eyes. It’s a racing bike. Big, beautiful and a brilliant shiny black, it’s parked a few meters abreast of where she stands, the rider’s dark helmet visor looking in her direction.
Something triggers within her; maybe it’s the many times she witnessed the death of others or when she, herself, faced death or just her training. She doesn’t know as she moves, hand dipping into her bag.
A feeling of resignation pervades within her by the time she clasps the Sig Sauer’s grip, a quick look confirms her emotion....
Comments
Post a Comment