"Quinten Miller?"
The voice was stern and dangerous. It had stopped him dead in his tracks that cold rainy night, only feet from his door. The owner of that voice, the woman standing there before him, was deadly. She had a look about her, one that told him he wouldn't get anywhere with trying to buy her off. And Quinten, standing there in a dripping trench coat, soaked and shivering, possibly freezing to death, blinking owlishly behind his large frames, knew he was no match for her. Even if she was terribly older than he.
"Can I help you?" His voice broke, betraying his fear. How did anyone know his name? Who was this woman that she knew so much about him? And why did he get the sense that she could bury him if he didn't choose his next words very carefully?
"Yes, I believe so," the woman spoke. Even her words were as sharp as daggers. He truly feared for his safety now, but as he tried to stumble backward, his legs turned to mush and he nearly fell onto his back. The woman ignored this and went on. "Tell me, Mr. Miller, how much money does one make committing treason these days?"
Treason? His heart stopped. He didn't know how he'd been caught. Frantically, he searched the back of his brain for any place he could have slipped up in his coding. His breath constricted when he realized that he couldn't think of any. How could she possibly know it was me? He opened his mouth to answer, but no words came out, only a faint rasping noise he suspected was supposed to be a scream.
"Well," the woman went on without missing a beat. "I suppose that leaves you with a limited number of options, doesn't it?" When he said nothing, she continued. "Option one; I can arrest you for your crimes and you can rot in prison for the rest of your life, if you're lucky."
He wasn't. Otherwise, he wouldn't be standing here now, having this conversation. In his mind's eye, he could see himself trying to run. He'd never get far, he knew, his eyes finally resting on the lump under her blouse that was no doubt a concealed weapon of some kind. Whoever this woman was, she'd come prepared for the worst.
"Or option two; you come back with me and use your gifts to help people and your country."
His brain was fizzing out, working in slow motion. "Back...with you?" He didn't want to sound desperate, but jail was something he really couldn't afford. They'd eat him alive. A boffin of smaller stature would never last a week in a cell and both of them knew it.
"To MI6."
He blinked. "Are you..."
"I am offering you a job," the woman cut him off. "And, possibly, a way out of prison."
"Oh." He blinked, pushing his glasses up further on his nose.
"It would be probationary, of course. You'd start in the lowest position in our cyber department. You would be just like an intern. No one would have to know about your past...escapades. And in return, I'll wipe the slate clean."
"Just like that?" Quinten was incredulous.
The woman seemed slightly amused. "Would you rather I handcuffed you and dragged you out of here at gunpoint?"
No. The answer was written all over his face.
She snorted. "That's what I thought." She stepped away from the door, opening it and revealing the hacker's small and messy flat. "Get your things," she ordered. "Don't try to run. I'll wait."
He did what he was told. The looks he received as he left the flat with the older woman were insulting. She guided him to a black unmarked vehicle. He glanced at her uncertainly. "For goodness sake, I'm not trying to kidnap you, Miller! Just get in the car." He obeyed with shaky knees, sliding across the seats and allowing her to slide in next to him.
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Enigma Mortis | A 007 fanfiction
Fanfiction"If I had a bullet for every time you promised that nothing was going to go wrong, Bond--" "You'd either have a darn lot of bullets," 007 cut him off. "Or you'd be dead." Shortly after the events of SPECTRE, Bond has returned to MI6. Not because he...
