Chapter Text
Prologue
Belgrade in the winter remained cold, a bitter wind cutting through the streets. The icy bitterness that stayed well into the very late hours of the night, and one Ian Walsingham had grown accustomed to for the last few days. Yet, tonight, the chill didn’t sink as far into him as it had before. The adrenaline of being an agent burned was enough to keep his veins white hot as he sprinted down the empty street.
Mind racing, heart pounding, Walsingham dared not look over his shoulder, fearing what he would see. If the shouts of orders behind him gave him any indication, turning round would be ill advised. He pushed himself on. But his muscles in his legs burned in pain. The hot sting of running literally on empty. A fiery agony from sprinting faster and further than Walsingham had in his life. The first gunshot snapped the pain out of his mind instantly. Walsingham ducked for cover down an alley as more bullets flew past him. Each missed him, just. Yet, they were enough of a reminder that he couldn’t, no, mustn't stop.
Walsingham’s plan, if he could call it that, was clear. Get back to the safe house, alert MI6, pray that death was not on the cards for him tonight. Not a great plan, he had to admit, but it was the only option he had. Walsingham got as much breath back as he could in this reprive, pushing a few strands of his fair hair from off his face. His eyes darted around to see what to do next. The shouts down the end of the alley got louder. He hadn’t much cover. The buildings may have towered upwards, but they left little around for him to hide behind. Walsingham’s eyes settled back down the alley. If he continued east he’d reach the nearby river, the Sava. Cross that and he would be able to lose them in the brutalist buildings of New Belgrade. Walsingham staggered back into a run just as whoever was chasing him entered the alley. Walsingham swore as he saw the man.
Whoever he was, the man had a large, almost intimidating, frame. He had several inches on Walsingham, even he could see that from this distance, and appeared much stronger, much more powerful, with the imposing bulk of his body casting a long shadow down the alley. The man levelled a handgun at Walsingham. Walsingham swore again and ducked out of the way as another bullet zipped past his head. Run. Now. And fast. He broke back into a sprint, pushing through the fatigue and his burning, aching muscles, and ran once more into a main street. The man pursued. Walsingham heard the heavy footsteps of military boots on the cobbles. Walking. Then, breaking into a run after him.
If Walsingham was lucky, the Sava would be not too far now. He could see the water glittering in the moonlight. The hope surged him through the burning, straining, pain in his legs to keep going. But another gunshot reminded him he was far from safe yet. A quick glance over his shoulder, Walsingham saw the man still chasing him, keeping pace, no, gaining on him. Another shot rang out. This one hit its mark. Walsingham cried out as the bullet pierced his back and through his chest.
But the man hadn’t fired it.
Walsingham pressed a hand to his chest and shoulder, blood already pouring from the wound. His hand and shirt already drenched in red. He tried to keep going, but a second bullet struck him. Walsingham collapsed to his knees, gasping for breath. Blood poured out from both wounds. They had missed his heart, but the stabbing pain in his chest made him think his lung hadn’t been so lucky. He looked over his shoulder. The man had slowed his pace to a walk, almost taunting him now. Walsingham tried to drag himself away, but the man caught up. He stood over the downed agent, a small smirk on his face. A scar dragged itself over the bridge of the man’s nose and twisted itself across his face when he smirked. He pressed a finger to his ears and spoke a command in a language Walsingham wasn’t familiar with. Russian maybe? It had the sound of it. But his mind was too focused on the pain in his chest to even begin to translate. He heard the crackle of the coms and the muffled tone of a woman’s voice from the man’s ear piece. An order? Confirmation? Walsingham couldn’t tell.
What Walsingham could tell, however, was the man had begun to reach into his pockets, and pulled out two items. In his left hand, it was something small and metal. In his right, Walingham’s eyes widened as he saw what looked like mini blowtorch. “This…” the man shook the blowtorch. “Is not for you…” his accent thick, but Walsingham struggled to place where it came from when all of his focus was on the tools in the man’s hands. “But this…” the man held up the metal object. “Will be.”
Walsingham tried to crawl away, but was met by a sharp kick to the ribs. He gasped in pain as the force rolled him onto his back. The man pressed his boot against the bullet wounds, making Walsingham let out a strangled cry. He gasped for air as he watched the man ignite the blow torch. The flame leapt out, this hiss of the propane gas covered Walsingham’s laboured breaths.
“Wait… wait please.”
The man held the flame to the metal object. Both of them watched as the metal began to heat up. First a red, then orange, then finally white hot. The man knelt down and grabbed onto Walsingham’s wrist. He pinned his wrist to the ground, twisting it so his was palm face down. Walsingham tried to tug his hand free, but the man’s grip was firm. The man held the hot metal, practically showboating what he was about to do, before he pressed it hard into Walsingham’s hand. Walsingham cried out in pain as the metal burned its sigil into his skin. The smell of burning flesh hit his nose. After a moment of agony, the man removed the brand. Walsingham winced as the metal was peeled away from his mangled skin. From this angle, Walsingham couldn’t see what the mark was. The man let go of his wrist as he stood back up again, admiring his work. He dropped the metal beside Walsingham. The handgun returned to his hands. Walsingham’s eyes widened.
“Wait no. Please.”
The man pressed the muzzle against Walsingham’s forehead. A smile grew on his face as Walsingham continued to beg for his life. “Смерть шпионам,” the man said, just before he pulled the trigger.
***
Five hours later, a call was made to MI6’s main office in London. The call got transferred a few times, notes were made on it, before it found its way to M’s office by the early hours of the morning. The file landed hard on her desk. In black and white, the truth came out. 004 was dead. His handler stood in front of M’s desk, fidgeting with his palms as M’s eyes settled in the file in front of her. M barely glanced up at him. She let out a resigned sigh as she picked up the dossier. Too thick for the first one of the day… For the first thirty minutes of her morning, M thought, for once, could there be a morning where she could enjoy her cup of tea in peace? However, this file proved, that would never be the case.
“Has the press found out about it?” She asked, flicking open the file. The first sight was a photograph of Walsingham, the young, relatively handsome, man. One of the newest to earn the 00 status. He would have been brilliant. Now, a bullet hole sat between his brows. What a waste.
“Not yet. We’ve managed to contain it so far,” the handler admitted, “we have some of counterintelligence working on a cover up. And we’re working with the BIA to make sure it doesn’t leak to the Serbian press either.”
“Good.” M continued to flick through the documents. Her dark eyes scanned over the pages, a frown starting to form. Considering Walsingham’s mission, the dossier felt too light in her hands. “What of 004’s intel? There’s no record of anything from him for the last week.”
The handler shifted his weight from one foot to the other. M noticed the change immediately. Her eyes left the page to fix him in her gaze. He didn’t meet her eyes. “We were meant to have a drop a couple of days ago, however it appears to have been unsuccessful.”
M raised a singular eyebrow. “Unsuccessful appears to be a bit of an understatement…” she murmured, closing the file. “Any chance of recovery?”
“It’s possible. However, we haven’t been able to recover his Q watch, nor any of his other devices as of yet. It’s hard to say whether they have been already taken or 004 left them in his safe house. Surveillance suggests no one has been there since he left.”
M hummed in thought, tapping the desk lightly as she weighed her options. After a moment she clicked the intercom on her desk. “Ponsonby. Get 007 for me. We have a new mission for him.”