553 replies to this topic

[terminus]

I like that 'trailer', Bryce!

[Trident]

Well er, just to clarify this, this is not an 'by invitation only' affair. Any fellow member feeling up to the challenge is welcome contributing! Discover the Christmas in Bond. Or, if absolutely necessary, Bond in Christmas.

[parental advisory: may contain traces of nuts!]

[terminus]

I'd love to have a go, but I'm not sure my story would cut the proverbial mustard up against the others here.

[Joyce Carrington]

I'm sure it will, terminus! And besides, this is all about having fun. Please join in!

[terminus]

I admit I do have an idea that might be fun.

[Harry Fawkes]

I admit I do have an idea that might be fun.

My dear Terminus, as Sean Connery once said in that fantastic film called the Rock: 'Do not hesitate!'

Go for it!

[Bryce (003)]

Big fun coming....

No...Really.

[terminus]

I have now written the opening of the story that may be submitted as part of this.

[Trident]

terminus, the fellows are completely right, fun is the name of the game! Join up!

[terminus]

I've written a smidgeon more of the Christmas-set tale, so in a Bryce-esque manner, I post a little teaser to whet your apptetites.



From a meeting in snow-covered Paris, to the beaches of a tropical island, Bond is out to defeat a mysterious new villain threatening world security in the build-up to Christmas.

THE TWELVE DEATHS OF CHRISTMAS

[Bryce (003)]

Very flattering Terminus.

Great title and teaser - Looking forward to it.

Now, coffee and back to my own bit.

Side note - a shout out to the lovely Miss Malice West for giving me a great line to use. Love you babe!

[coco1997]

I've written a smidgeon more of the Christmas-set tale, so in a Bryce-esque manner, I post a little teaser to whet your apptetites.



From a meeting in snow-covered Paris, to the beaches of a tropical island, Bond is out to defeat a mysterious new villain threatening world security in the build-up to Christmas.

THE TWELVE DEATHS OF CHRISTMAS

Interesting...Looking forward to this one, terminus. Will it be a short story or a full treatment?

[terminus]

Just a short story - but essentially a 'movie' compiled down into a short story.

[MHazard]

I've started one, but given the hectic nature of what passes for my "real life" these days I don't think I can finish it for Christmas. But, maybe next Christmas at least. In the meantime, I hope to see some new efforts to give me something to do other than re-read On Her Majesty's Secret Service.

[Trident]

I've started one, but given the hectic nature of what passes for my "real life" these days I don't think I can finish it for Christmas. But, maybe next Christmas at least. In the meantime, I hope to see some new efforts to give me something to do other than re-read On Her Majesty's Secret Service.

Submissions don't turn into pumpkins if not posted by Christmas morning. There wasn't really as deadline last year, so I suppose it won't hurt if submissions continue into the new year, particularly as I was guilty of coming late for the party last year and nobody has shot me yet.

Hm, come to think of it, that might still happen, so I better try to come in earlier this year...

[Bryce (003)]

Mix a Vesper...

Lock the doors...

Cheers!

“AND TO ALL A GOODNIGHT”

The heavy rain stung London on a dark cold evening. Even against the bullet-proofed window of John Bryce’s office at Vauxhall.

It was just after five and Bryce had made plans to meet with his trusted friend Matt at the lounge in the lobby of the Sheraton just down off the Westminster Bridge. He thought to take the Jaguar, but traffic would be a mess the night before Christmas.

It had been a slow few months. He had joked at one point with the lovely Athena, the Admiral’s assistant, that her job was probably more interesting than his and felt he was less of a double-o and more of an analyst. It was that he just wasn’t used to being in London for more than a few weeks at a time. He was a field man and office life bored him terribly.

Hell, for once, he had been living vicariously through other Double-O’s. Reading daily reports and a few email’s from Joyce. She was in Dubai following the money behind some of the Somali pirates. All roads were leading back to Swiss banks.

He opted for a splash of scotch from the decanter on his file cabinet to the last of his coffee and then slipped on his overcoat before grabbing the umbrella. Finishing his mug, he shut down the computer, switched off the lights but made one last stop. On Lil’s desk, he placed the envelope with her proper name and a quick “Happy Christmas” scrawled on the front. It contained a certificate granting her a day spa treatment at the Ritz.

It was chilly indeed when he hit the streets after swiping his ID at the front. Traffic was as he predicted – slow and bumper to bumper, but the pedestrian traffic was light. It was miserable weather, but it only took about fifteen minutes and one cigarette to reach the hotel where 004 would be waiting.

He crossed the bridge and then down the stairs at the base of the hotel. Big Ben had just chimed on the half hour and there were more people milling about. As he approached the door to the hotel’s side entrance, something caught his eye. A figure down by the wall of the Thames.

It was in the way she had swept back her hair. She was on a mobile. She finished the call and then walked down the embankment.

Bryce’s heart froze. Was it? Could it be? He was already deciding as he absent mindedly handed his coat and umbrella to the doorman. No…He had to be sure. He darted back out the door and followed.

He followed her at a distance. If it was whom he suspected, she was lethal and skilled. VERY lethal. He was getting drenched, but focused on his prey.

Katrina O’Malley. The second hand of a violent splinter faction of the IRA. Bryce had infiltrated the group in Belfast fifteen years before. Part of his tactic had required him to “infiltrate” her on several occasions. It had been a deep cover operation and he had a “legend” that fit him like a glove.

Much in the way of the tale of “Yojimbo”, he had sown the seed of distrust among the group and then sabotaged their bomb making workshop. The resulting explosion killed all but three. Himself, a chap named Kelly and Katrina. He later killed the man in an alley using a trusted Gerber knife. When it was done, Katrina had stood at one end of the alley and witnessed it all.

Her eyes had burned with fire and sorrow at the same time. The old adage of “Hell hath no fury as a woman scorned” was proved. Especially by a then twenty-four year old raven haired Irish girl.

“You Bastard! I believed you. I believed that you believed in our cause. You’re MI6!”

Bryce could say nothing. She was somewhere between rage and tears. She dashed and vanished into the streets before he could get to her. The job was done and he was extracted by way of a fishing boat the next day, but he had left a loose end that would come to haunt him.

Upon his debrief with Tanner, Asterix and the Admiral, he was commended and that Christmas he had wed Victoria. He was preparing to relinquish his active Double-O status and the Admiral had offered him the position of senior analyst to the section.

Victoria, or rather “Tori”, as he liked to call her, knew all. He would keep no secrets from her and she understood a certain amount of infidelity was expected within his business and her own as well as a security expert working for an elite bodyguard service. Once they had taken their vows, there would be no more of that.

Then it had happened. The contract on 003 had been issued. She had given her life for him. Through the diligence of his friend Ace and Gala Brand at “five” they had finally determined who was responsible. Katrina had been the shooter in the sedan. While not taking him, she had taken all that he loved.

After the killing, the girl had vanished. By way of another woman, Major Sharon O’Keefe of the IRA intelligence division, she explained that Katrina was not welcome in Ireland as her and her former group had defamed the peace that they were trying to establish. There were the odd bits and rumors, but essentially, Katrina had gone, in the vernacular of the intelligence world, to “sleep”.

Bryce continued and, as they approached the Tower Bridge, he decided to find out. He was either deranged or spot on. Shifting his voice to a casual American accented English, he called out.

“Hey Kat! Is that you?”

She paused and turned. They locked eyes. No mistaking it. They were about twenty meters apart. She flashed a smug grin of contempt staring at Bryce who was now totally soaked from the rain. She then tossed her umbrella and, turning on her heel, bolted towards the bridge. Bryce charged after her.

She was still as fast on her feet as ever and executed a very fluid one handed vault over the low railing despite her long coat. Bryce followed doing the same. Not bad for a couple of forty year olds.

As he came over the railing onto the traffic jammed bridge, there was a heavy pop from in front. He crouched and the Browning was in his hand immediately. She stood with her arm extended and what looked to be a snubbed nosed revolver. She called out.

“John, you know I always carry…and I never travel alone.”

By God, he’d forgotten the primary rule of pursuit: Always check your back.

He hadn’t.

As he turned, the heavy arm came down on his own and the Browning clattered to the pavement. Bryce recovered and grabbed the man’s left wrist which held a Beretta automatic and brought up his left hand driving the heel of it under the figures nose.

The strike was a classic he had practiced and delivered on six situations in his time as an operative and soldier. The man had a good inch or two on his height and probably about sixty pounds as well, but it didn’t matter.

He connected, driving the cartilage into the frontal lobe. The eyes rolled back and he teetered before dropping. Dead before he knew it. A second set of arms wrapped him from behind, pinning his own arms to his side. With burst of adrenaline, he broke the grasp and then spun about bringing up his right hand like an open claw from beneath. He seized the man’s testicles and snapped his head forward in a vicious head-butt. Whilst still having a handful, he grabbed him by the throat and with a guttural roar, flung him over the railing to the Thames below.

The man gave something between a groan and a scream as he fell to the dark waters. Bryce was already moving and saw the mane of hair darting between cars and he didn’t hesitate scrambling over the roof of a taxi and the bonnet of a Rover. To Hell with the Browning, he was drawing his backup from his right hip. The trusted PPK. Curses and swears fell as heavily as the rain as he dashed around two more cars. People were also visible on their mobiles reporting to whatever authorities what they had been witnessing whilst trapped in the traffic gridlock.

Two more pops and the window of a taxi shattered. She had gained some distance and was approaching the west tower. Bryce pressed on but paused. She had vanished. Granted, “duck and dodge” was a tactic he knew that she was good at, but Bryce was no novice at the art himself. He paused wiping back his wet hair and catching his breath. He kept close to the side and moved up to the west tower.

He reached into his jacket retrieving a seemingly normal retractable ball point pen. He thumbed it. Three quick plunges then one quick one and one long and three more quick ones. Morse code activation. S-A-S. Time to bring in the cavalry.

It the situation room at Vauxhall, the alert signal went off. The duty officer, Harkin, spun about in his chair and then activated the main screen. Immediately it showed a map of London and a blip on the Tower Bridge. Grabbing the hand held mouse he clicked on the red dot. 003’s dossier photo appeared.

Asterix, still wearing his overcoat, entered. “I was just on my way out, what’s going on?”

“It’s 003 Sir. I’m not sure but he’s on the Tower Bridge and I’ve just been scanning the Metro channels. People have been flooding them with calls of someone involved in a fight and there’s been gunfire.”

“What the Hell has the man got himself into this time? Get in touch with Brand over at Five. They’ve got to be aware as well.”

In her office at MI5, Gala Brand was just reaching for her beret, when Ace pushed open her door. “Bryce just set off the panic code at “six”. He’s on the Tower Bridge. There’s gunfire and one body. Metro is going nuts.”

Dear Lord, what had he found himself in the middle of? Knowing Bryce as she did, if he wasn’t the victim of whatever it was, he was the cause. She grabbed her coat. “Have one of the Rovers brought around for us and get me in touch with Metro and their dispatch.”

Ace had his mobile out as they moved down the hall to the lift. “I’m calling ‘six’ now. Somebody better call Vallance.”

Asterix spoke on the handset “No…We don’t either but Bryce wouldn’t push the panic button. Hell, I don’t think he ever has. ….Yes, there is one body on the bridge and another man was thrown into the Thames….Yes, there has been gunfire…”

The four man SAS team were already running for the heliport from their post near Whitehall.

Bryce paused near the west tower and then noticed the side door was ajar. Chiefly, there was always one man on duty. He slipped inside the great tower and then moved up the stairs. Two heavy pops from above and a groan. Then the sound of footsteps.

He came to the main landing. The man was in his late sixties and wouldn’t be getting any older. He coughed some blood and had two wounds in his chest. He clutched his torso and then gasped one last time. Bryce noticed the wedding ring. He also saw the bottle of Oban and the spilt cup of coffee.

“Not the Christmas you deserved.” He closed the man’s eyes and held them. He then took the bottle and after a quick swig, did the unthinkable. He poured out the remainder. He moved to the supply closet.

Over the Thames the four SAS men checked their weapons in the Metro helicopter as Ace negotiated the streets and traffic with full on lights and flashers going and Gala on the phone with Vallance.

Bryce emerged onto the half landing but made one adjustment to his PPK. A shadow moved past the open door and he fired one shot. Cautiously, he exited on to the top. The rain and wind were very steady.

Something very heavy hit him across the back and he pitched forward, but only to his knees. His PPK was retrieved by her gloved hand. With her hair slicked back, and even at forty, he couldn’t deny how lovely she looked. Slowly, he stood.

“I feel sorry for my lads.”

“Some things never change.”

She smiled with the PPK raised. She gestured with it. “Nice you followed along, I needed a new gun. Mine was out.”

“You’re not getting out of this.”

She glared but also gloated – “You were good John. As a friend…a believer…a lover….I was so sorry to damage that lovely white roll neck she was wearing. Was it cashmere?"

“Scottish wool.”

“Pity…about the sweater.”

Bryce seethed. “You have no honour…..You put out like a three pint tart. Made the job easier. Of course, you were always ‘easy’. “

“Let ‘sleeping dogs lie’ John”

She leveled the PPK.

*click*

She looked at the pistol and before she could work the slide, Bryce pulled the bottle of Oban from under his jacket. He had filled it with kerosene from the supply closet and attached an emergency road flare. He popped the flare and then, with venom in his eyes, hurled it at her feet.

It shattered and she was immediately engulfed in flames. She screamed and stumbled before tilting and falling backwards and down to the traffic some two hundred feet below. The flaming mass landed on the roof of a taxi. Bryce retrieved his PPK after watching the spectacle.

“Let sleeping dogs die.”

With his last shot from the PPK, he had partially ejected the clip so that the chamber would be empty. He’d known her ego and that, ideally, she’d loved to have killed him with his own gun. He also knew she enjoyed baiting her prey, and although risky, it would work. He had taken greater risks before.

He was suddenly hit with a spot light from the helicopter. He gave a thumbs up and then a salute and waved them off. He exited the base of the tower to find Gala racing towards him.

“I’ll handle the Metro. Ace is in a Rover at the end of the bridge. We need to get you out of here. Asterix is handling things from your side. We’ll sort this out after Christmas.”

Bryce nodded and, at that moment, the rain went from the heavy downpour to a small drizzle and then stopped. He looked to the sky and smiled. No more tears from Heaven.

Victoria, and himself, could finally rest in peace.

“Do me one more favor Gala.”

“Anything.”

“Contact Sharon O’Keefe. IRA intelligence.”

Gala was puzzled. “and tell her what?”

Bryce tucked the PPK behind his hip and lit a cigarette from his case.

“It’s over….The bitch is dead.”

With that, he turned and with his head down, placed his hands in his pockets and walked slowly off the bridge.

[Joyce Carrington]

And this, this is why I love Christmas.

[Bryce (003)]

Thanks luv.

[terminus]

Excellent story, Bryce!

[Bryce (003)]

Thank you good sir.

*bows*

[terminus]

I'm just writing a bit more of mine - it's taken on a life of its own. I hope it lives up to your story. If people enjoy reading it as much as I'm enjoying writing it, then they should be very happy indeed.

[MattofSteel]

"The man was in his late sixties and wouldn’t be getting any older." Terrific, Bryce.

[Bryce (003)]

Cheers Matt and Terminus, I look forward to your endeavor.

Thanks all.

[Trident]

Bryce, that was great, great fun! Tremendous!

[volante]

Yes sir, a big well done, now I'm in the Christmas Bond mood

[Bryce (003)]

Thanks gents. May you find a Vesper in your stockings....or ideally, Vesper in a pair of stockings under your tree.

[volante]

Thanks gents. May you find a Vesper in your stockings....or ideally, Vesper in a pair of stockings under your tree.

Have you been peeking at my list????????

and if so will I get her???????

or will it be the usual socks and soap on a rope

[Bryce (003)]

Well, one can only hope Volante - Especially if she drops the soap in the shower.

I'm sure you would help her find it....You know....Just like having Fields find the stationary....

[Joyce Carrington]

I truly wanted to accept this challenge this year, but there were two things getting in my way: (1) I'm buried with other work and (2) I realised that over the years I had sort of covered all of 009's Christmasses and I hadn't the inspiration for anything else.

So I've decided to post an excerpt of my new novel, Method to Madness. It's set at Christmas, so that counts, right? It is, however, riddled with SPOILERS for those who have not read the previous two installments of The Circle Trilogy.

Anyway, here goes:

Barbara Mawdsley, known to her subordinates only as M, excused herself from the company of her family and slipped into the bathroom of her eldest son’s two-story townhouse in Belgravia. She turned on the lights and locked the door softly behind her, lingering there for just a moment with her head near the pine surface.

During the holidays, she was constantly torn between her desire to at least put up the pretence of being a good (grand)mother, and the sacrifices her profession required. This year was worse than ever. She suspected for once it might have been a better choice to stay at the office. There was no use faking smiles over a turkey dinner when the entire country was spiralling out of control, even if she had no power whatsoever to do anything about it.

With a resigned sigh, she turned towards the toilet, her hands reaching down her waist to loosen her skirt – but the shower curtain hanging over the bath was suddenly roughly pulled aside, revealing Joyce Carrington lying in the empty tub.

“Oh thank God,” she sighed. “If I have to witness one more of your relatives taking a piss I’ll shoot myself.” With a weary groan, she began to heave her pregnant body out of the somewhat cramped tub. M looked on in tense astonishment.

“You know,” Joyce said, sitting down on the edge of the tub, “it’s quite a challenge, tracking down the head of the British secret service on Christmas Day.”

“How did you manage it?” M asked, her throat dry.

Joyce shrugged. “Well, I figured you’d want to be with your family, but not too far from the office. Only a handful of Mawdsleys in London… only a few in the really nice neighbourhoods… and this is the only house that has a subtle security detail parked outside.”

M glanced at the frosted bathroom window as though hoping she could signal the men in the car through it. “How did you get past them?”

Joyce’s lips straightened into a line. “I can be subtle too. If I want.”

“I need you to leave,” M said, trying to regain her authority.

Joyce glanced at the toilet. “Can’t you hold it up?”

M didn’t blink. “OO9.”

She wagged her finger. “We’re not using that number anymore.”

“If anyone finds out you’re here…”

“So let’s not tell. I know there’s a panic button on your watch and I know you haven’t pushed it yet, which is very brave considering I’m rogue and armed and wow – hormones!”

M looked grave. “You’re endangering everything.”

Joyce smirked. Her eyes cold, she rose to her feet and began to wander aimlessly around the room. “I know what you did,” she told M. “The GPS tracking program. The chip.” She pointed at her arm. “I know Q developed a painless method, but I guess I was still careless not to notice. How long ago did you inject me?”

For a second there was the promise of a staring contest; then M decided it was of no use, put down the lid on the toilet and took a seat. “I had you tagged last April.”

Joyce raised her eyebrows. That was earlier than she had expected, and she felt even more embarrassed. She fiddled with a bottle of shampoo, pursing her lips. “Impressive technology. Did you know it was still working five months later when they pulled it out of my shattered body in that Luxembourg hospital?” She feigned the dramatics. “Oh, that’s right. You did.”

M shifted her position, uncomfortable. Joyce made sure to find her eyes. “You knew where I was. You knew… all that time. And you did nothing.”

The woman wasn’t about to be lured into an apology. “I couldn’t reveal I knew of your whereabouts without revealing I was having my own agents monitored behind their backs.”

Joyce nodded, and showed off her size. “Well. Was it worth it?”

M wilfully ignored the baby bump. “In that I prevented the moles or conspirators within the regime from finding out I was onto them, absolutely.”

“Wrong,” Joyce said. “They already knew.”

M froze.

Joyce leaned in, until she was towering over her. “Do you know how Gaubon got to me?”

M frowned. “He set up a trap.”

“He did. And it was made laughably easy for him because he knew where to find me. Because he had access to the program too. They gave it to him.”

The awful penny seemed to drop. “MacGumphrey.”

[…]

M looked up. “What are you going to do?”

“Well, I know what I’d like to do,” Joyce said, and then added with a touch of sarcasm, “But that’s probably my emotions talking.”

And as for a release date on said Method to Madness, don't hold your breath. I'm nowhere near done [re: buried with other work]. Sorry.

Merry Christmas!

[Bryce (003)]

That's my girl.

Well done luv!

I'll wait for the balance.