Raymond Benson - Doubleshot

Not giving Bond time to explain, the man pulled out a .38 Special. Bond immediately went on the offensive and kicked his right leg out and up, sending the handgun flying. Unfortunately, it discharged a round when it hit the floor and the noise reverberated in the stairwell.

The thug swung at Bond, but 007 dodged the punch and delivered one of his own to the man’s chin. Bond felt his knuckles burn as the man fell backward and crashed into the wall. The entire building seemed to shake. Bond didn’t stop there. He lunged into the man, punching him twice in the stomach, then once more across the face. Blood splattered from the man’s nose.

The noise attracted the attention of the tenants, several of whom opened their doors and peered out into the hall. Van Breeschooten and Clayton also looked out to see what was going on. Bond turned in time to catch a glimpse of both men, who were staring at him, wide-eyed and mouths agape. The taller of the two, probably van Breeschooten, was middle-aged, had white hair and blue eyes, and fair skin. Clayton also had a pale complexion, appeared to be a bit older, had brown hair streaked with gray, and brown eyes.

One of the other tenants yelled, “I’m calling the police!” and slammed the door.

The distraction gave the thug the time he needed to recover from Bond’s attack. While his head was turned, the muscleman slammed his fist into Bond’s face. The impact sent bolts of lightning into Bond’s skull, and he fell to the floor but rolled just as the big man tried to kick him in the ribs. Bond managed to grab hold of the man’s foot and twist it hard. The man yelped and lost his balance.

Bond jackknifed to his feet, spun on one leg, and kicked with the other, causing the man to fall into van Breeschooten’s open doorway, knocking them all down as if they were bowling pins. Bond immediately ran for the stairs as a bullet whizzed past his head. The other man from the storeroom was below him, on the second landing, pointing a revolver at Bond.

“Don’t move!” the man shouted.

Bond did the opposite, jumping back out of the line of sight, just in time to meet the first thug head-on. It was then that Bond realized how physically out-of-shape he really was. The man hit him hard, causing the corridor to spin. For a moment, Bond thought he was going to collapse, but he was able to steady himself on the edge of the stair railing. He was truly stunned.

Van Breeschooten shouted, “Don’t kill him!”

The big man paid no attention. He lifted Bond by the shoulders and threw the limp body at the fire escape window. Bond crashed through the glass and fell onto the metal platform just outside the building, and he couldn’t stop himself from rolling off it. He tumbled down the steel stairs, blindly reaching for the nearest solid object that could prevent him from falling three stories to his death. Luckily, it was the railing around the intermediary landing above the second floor fire escape.

Above him, the first thug leaned out of the broken window and fired his gun. Bond ducked and pressed himself against the glass. Bond drew his Walther PPK and returned fire, shooting through the holes of the third-floor fire escape landing.

He heard police sirens squealing in the distance and they were growing louder. He had to disappear, and quickly. He didn’t dare risk going back into the building.

More gunfire zipped around his head and he heard Clayton and the Dutchman both shouting, “Don’t shoot him! Let him go!”

Bond heard the men arguing above him but couldn’t make out what they were saying. He looked around him and saw that the adjoining building was one story shorter than the one he was in. There was a gap of approximately ten feet. He wouldn’t get much of a running start on the little fire escape platform. Nevertheless, Bond holstered his gun, carefully calculated the distance, and leaped.

He landed hard on the edge of the other roof, and it knocked the wind out of him. He held on, gasping for breath until he was able to suck in some air. He swung his legs up and over the side, fell to the roof, and lay there for a few seconds before peering over at the other building.

The men had disappeared from the third-floor fire escape. The police sirens were just moments away.

Bond got up and ran to the other side of the roof. It was another ten-foot gap to the next building. Now that he had more room, Bond performed a broad jump and this time landed on his feet. He kept going, looking for a way down. A metal-rung fire escape ladder extended from the roof to the pavement below.

Bond swung his body over the top of the ladder and began to descend, when he felt a sudden jolt in his chest and a searing pain knifed through his head. For a moment he thought he had been shot.

His heart pounded frantically and the world was spinning. Bond wasn’t sure if he was standing up or falling. He thought he was going to die, right then and there.

Fight it! he commanded. Bond continued to descend, but in his state, he lost his footing on a rung. He slipped and attempted to catch the ladder, but instead he missed and slid down, crumpling with a slam onto the ground below.

In pain, Bond rolled over and sat up. His vision was blurred.

The wind was cool on his face. He reached up and rubbed his eyes and pressed the sides of his aching temples. As his eyesight returned, he could see a man and woman staring down at him. They appeared to be Japanese tourists. When they saw that he was stirring, they quickly ran away.

He had fallen into an alley, some twenty feet from a pedestrianfilled street.

After a minute, Bond slowly got to his feet and looked around, disoriented. His head was still pounding, but the awful nausea and dizziness had disappeared. He had a few aches and pains from the fight, and his jaw hurt, but otherwise he was in one piece.

Bond made his way to the street, not far from the Adult News bookshop. He walked south, back to the apartment building where the office was located, and saw a constable patrolling the pavement in front.

Rather than make anymore trouble for himself, Bond decided to get away from Soho. He had two hours before he could catch Kimberley Feare, and there were still a few things he needed to take care of.

Of least priority to Bond was his state of mind.

As he hailed a taxi, three men watched him from the third-floor flat in the building overlooking the street. One of them was on the phone.

“That’s right, he’s fine. He just got in a taxi. Right.”

Walter van Breeschooten hung up and said to Clayton, “Come on, let’s get going. We have to get to the airport.”

The third man waved them on. “Go on, get out of here. I’ll keep close tabs on our boy,” Jimmy Powers said.

SEVEN

DAZED AND CONFUSED

BOND TOOK THE TAXI BACK TO SIS. THE SETTING SUN SHONE BRIGHTLY OFF the green reflective surfaces of the building, suggesting that it might belong more in the Emerald City of Oz than in London.

He took the lift back to his floor, slipped past the few secretaries, and entered his office. There were no new messages, but there was a fax from Felix Leiter. Bond snatched it from the machine and read it.

Dear James—

Not much luck. Probably things you already know. Taylor Michael Harris left no relatives in Portland. What leads we have on the three lieutenants are sketchy and speculative. One of them, Samuel Anderson, was confirmed dead just two months ago. His body was found in Algeria, riddled with bullets. The other two, James Powers and Julius Wilcox, are thought to be alive and stationed somewhere in North Africa. Le Gérant is believed to be an Arab, citizenship unknown, although a Mossad report claims that he might be French. It’s possible that Le Gérant was the business partner of Taylor Harris when he first solicited financing for the Union. The FBI believe that Julius Wilcox was the man who killed Harris at the restaurant in Portland. Eyewitnesses identified his mug shot. Wilcox was an ex-Marine and forest ranger before joining the Union. Immigration reports that he made several trips to Morocco before disappearing from the U.S. for good. Will overnight further information on the Union. Hope this helps.