Yes, distorted reality -- that was one way to put it, he thought to himself. F-ed up was another. Bond glared through the glass again. It was supposed to be routine. Get in, find the contact, get out. Clean. Simple. But the mission, like the ocean breaking over hidden rocks beneath the water, was not as serene as it seemed.
A footfall startled the agent back to reality, and he whipped his head to the left. Behind him was a stand of trees, tall palms, their branches swaying casually in the breeze. There was a woman. Bond squinted. She was tall, lanky, with a tan as rich as burnt umber. At her waist were the bottoms of a bikini, and at her chest she wore nothing. James smiled, slightly.
“Good evening.” Bond’s voice was strong, but smooth. The woman -- or was it a girl -- looked startled, and for a moment he thought she would run. Instead she stepped forward.
“Perdóname...” The woman blushed. “Esta playa.... está desierta....” Her soft voice faded into the ocean wind.
Bond squinted and smiled. “It’s okay. Está bien.” He swept his hand graciously, then realized that it still held the glass. “Tequila?”
The woman looked at him for a long second. There was contemplation in her eyes. Suddenly she softened, and stepped forward.
Gorgeous tits, Bond thought to himself. Latinas were a gift to men. Warm, caring, and amazing in bed. For a moment he was lost in the pleasure of the moment. Then he heard the switchblade.
There was cold, sharp steel pressed against his right jugular. Bond froze.
“Do not move a muscle, pendejo, or I will cut your throat.”
To Bond’s left, the woman blushed. Then he felt fresh blood trickle down his neck.
Edited by Binyamin, 21 February 2011 - 03:32 AM.