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Planetoid
- Joined
- Jan 4, 2010
Despite the Royal Excalubur hotel being one of the biggest in Monaco, after 2am it became dead. Its visitors were too classy for all-night drinking sessions, or they had international business meetings in the morning. Either way, the silence that resonated around the beautifully decorated corridors suited Roger Bravo perfectly. He made silent footfalls as he headed to Boris Khyvoski's room, pausing to observe the chandeliers. The walls were a rich mahogany, and he had to admit that the whole hotel looked classy. Not as classy as some of the palatial holes he visited in London, but it'd do. Besides, tonight was business, not pleasure.
He reached Khyvoski's room, and silently picked the lock. The Ukranian thought he'd killed the international superspy when he parachuted out of the plane, but Agent Bravo was made of sterner stuff than that. Once he had Khyvoski, Evilcorp would be dealt a severe blow and it would only be a matter of time until he brought Vanessa to justice.
He threw open the door with his Walther drawn, expecting to see his quarry in a state of unreadiness. Instead, the room was empty. Empty! Had Boris outsmarted him? He made a beeline to the bathroom, wondering if the Ukranian was taking a shower. Empty as well! He headed back to the bed, searching for any signs of his enemy's whereabouts.
At that moment, the cupboard door flew open and Roger wheeled around with his gun in hand. Boris had been rope bound from head to foot, and his face was bleeding. Whoever had subdued him had not done it gently.
"Sorry to bother you Boris, I can see you're a little tied up," said Roger, casually. For him, Bond-esque puns were a way of getting through the immense strain of work. They were the only thing that prevented him from bursting into the MI6 building with a machine gun and going postal. As a consequence they made him appear emotionally detatched and possibly sociopathic, but his enemies were too busy groaning at his woeful wordplay (or being strangled with chicken wire) to psychoanalyse him.
"Drop the gun, Agent Bravo," came a voice from the other side of the room. Two men had entered the room behind him in dark suits, and both had guns drawn.
"What have you done with Mr Khyvoski here?" asked Roger.
"He is just the bait," said one in a thick Afrikaaner accent. "You are the prize."
"Is that rig-" but his voice was cut short as both men unloaded their guns into him. Instead of feeling the sharp pain of bullets, he immediately recognised the shape and fluid colour of a tranquiliser dart.
He was still in his tuxedo when he woke up. His stylish black hair had been combed and he was clean shaven. He was in a booth, and a voice was speaking above him. It was almost completely dark, but he knew he was being watched by quite a few people. He felt against the booth, and it was a solid, unbreakable glass. He was stood up; there was not enough space to sit down. He felt groggy from the darts, but immediately awake. It was another Afrikaan voice, but was evidently a third man.
"And now I give you Agent Bravo! Bringer down of several criminal empires, destroyer of at least seven terrorist organisations worldwide. Agent Bravo has been a busy man! And for revenge or information, he can be yours! The bidding will start at £50,000!"
Roger panicked. He had heard about this group, dubbed the "kidnapper cartel" by M. They would kidnap prominent agents and auction them off to their enemies. His capturers had made it as difficult as possible to escape, but he had to think of a way.
He reached Khyvoski's room, and silently picked the lock. The Ukranian thought he'd killed the international superspy when he parachuted out of the plane, but Agent Bravo was made of sterner stuff than that. Once he had Khyvoski, Evilcorp would be dealt a severe blow and it would only be a matter of time until he brought Vanessa to justice.
He threw open the door with his Walther drawn, expecting to see his quarry in a state of unreadiness. Instead, the room was empty. Empty! Had Boris outsmarted him? He made a beeline to the bathroom, wondering if the Ukranian was taking a shower. Empty as well! He headed back to the bed, searching for any signs of his enemy's whereabouts.
At that moment, the cupboard door flew open and Roger wheeled around with his gun in hand. Boris had been rope bound from head to foot, and his face was bleeding. Whoever had subdued him had not done it gently.
"Sorry to bother you Boris, I can see you're a little tied up," said Roger, casually. For him, Bond-esque puns were a way of getting through the immense strain of work. They were the only thing that prevented him from bursting into the MI6 building with a machine gun and going postal. As a consequence they made him appear emotionally detatched and possibly sociopathic, but his enemies were too busy groaning at his woeful wordplay (or being strangled with chicken wire) to psychoanalyse him.
"Drop the gun, Agent Bravo," came a voice from the other side of the room. Two men had entered the room behind him in dark suits, and both had guns drawn.
"What have you done with Mr Khyvoski here?" asked Roger.
"He is just the bait," said one in a thick Afrikaaner accent. "You are the prize."
"Is that rig-" but his voice was cut short as both men unloaded their guns into him. Instead of feeling the sharp pain of bullets, he immediately recognised the shape and fluid colour of a tranquiliser dart.
***
He was still in his tuxedo when he woke up. His stylish black hair had been combed and he was clean shaven. He was in a booth, and a voice was speaking above him. It was almost completely dark, but he knew he was being watched by quite a few people. He felt against the booth, and it was a solid, unbreakable glass. He was stood up; there was not enough space to sit down. He felt groggy from the darts, but immediately awake. It was another Afrikaan voice, but was evidently a third man.
"And now I give you Agent Bravo! Bringer down of several criminal empires, destroyer of at least seven terrorist organisations worldwide. Agent Bravo has been a busy man! And for revenge or information, he can be yours! The bidding will start at £50,000!"
Roger panicked. He had heard about this group, dubbed the "kidnapper cartel" by M. They would kidnap prominent agents and auction them off to their enemies. His capturers had made it as difficult as possible to escape, but he had to think of a way.