You're Never Too Young to Die...

Where It All Stands Still

Somewhere in Paris, France

Yassen Gregorovich, alias Yegor Ivanov was perched on the top of a building somewhere in Paris, France, the butt of his .300 Winchester Magnum or otherwise known as the .300 Win Mag, was pressed against his right chest as he peered into the crosshairs of the scope that had 12 times the magnification for long-range suitability. Favoured by many military units, law enforcement departments, target shooters and big game hunters, this baby had a .30 calibre magnum with a bullet diameter of .308, which translated to 7.8 millimetres. It can reach up to 1,210 yards or 1,110 metres, with a maximum effective range of roughly 1,300 yards. Snipers in particular, favoured its capabilities to outperform any other long-range guns, capable of covering a wider distance despite its heavy and large ballistic coefficient projectiles. A suppressor was attached to the muzzle of the rifle to ensure that the job would be done with the least hassle. No muss, no fuss.

The humid Parisian sun bore down on his black suit, his Kevlar vest concealed within. The world of espionage was not a game, that much he knew. The things that one had to endure, experience and do were by no means for the likes of a child. Yassen was a free-lancer, notorious for being the cream of the crop. Unlike most hired snipers, he didn't have a handler, hence the name 'freelancer'. He was hired to gun down the most despicable men that ever lived on the planet, and surprise surprise, most were made up of corrupted politicians. He had witnessed firsthand how capable these sorts of men were, having been bodyguard to a few who he easily abhorred. But he couldn't complain. He was being paid to do a job, and so he would. The person who had ordered his assassination had chosen to remain anonymous, and had offered to fork out a handsome sum for his head.

Pierre Bruel sat at Le Gévaudan on the Rue du Bac; a high-class café that boasted a four and a half rating. Pierre liked the atmosphere, born and bred in Paris; he frequented the neighbourhood during his younger days. Born the son of a politician and a diplomat, he was fed with a silver spoon since birth. Le Gévaudan was a place that he had patroned when he went to college studying finance at Paris's School of Economics. He was here to relive the days of his youth, but too bad it would be his last. He hardly heard the sound of the bullet being fired, but he felt the hard-nose projectile pierce through bone and flesh from the right side of his cranium. All the patrons who sat adjacent to him could see was a man slumping in his chair, arms lulling to the side and face going slack, eyes staring blankly at the glaring sun whose rays reflected off the glass of Cabernet Merlot in front of him.

Just like blood.

Approximately 54 meters away on the La Rue de Grenelle the rooftop of Les Bains de Grenelle, Yassen packed away his equipment.

The job was done.

Two minutes later, a man with a brandless clothing was seen checking in to the Hôtel Duc de Saint-Simon, but the security cameras didn't manage to catch his face. Yassen understood the importance of staying anonymous in his line of work. That was why he took extra care to make sure that the outfit that he had worn to finish the job was decked out in black, which helped him remain inconspicuous. That way, he wouldn't stand out or wouldn't be easily remembered.

He checked into a suite, showing the concierge his ID that bore the name Jacque Lemaître, a business executive who was sent to survey the prospects of opening up more branches in France. The cover would do for now.

The Russian sat back in the Madison Recliner Chaise Lounge, his laptop opened in front of him, fingers flying over the keyboard. He opened up a new document, pretending to type up a new email. Only, whatever he typed into the text box could be seen by the receiving party without having to hit the 'send' button. Yassen typed in the following words:

DONE.

and closed the laptop with an air of finality.

It was time to go home.

It wouldn't be long before news of the death of one of France's most corrupted politicians made the headline. Every news agency in the country covered it; Pierre Dior Bruel, France's Direction Générale du Trésor was shot at Le Gévaudan on La Rue du Bac. The Gendarmerie, France's municipal police would have started questioning any bystanders, only hitting dead ends.

The Royal and General Bank, Chelsea, London

Alan Blunt, head of MI6 special operations within the London headquarters sat at his rosewood mahogany desk with a stack of reports in front of him whose contents spanned from classified missions in the Baltic Sea all the way to Budapest, Hungary. His office was located on the seventeenth floor of the Royal and General bank in the heart of London, Chelsea.

The name of the bank was a façade, hiding its true purpose from the outside world; the main headquarters for MI6 operations, the secret service. And he was the chief of it. He was at the top of his field. Mission reports were just part of the job.

The sound of the buzzer on his desk broke him out of his reverie, "Sir, there's an agent here to see you."

"Who is it?"

"He says his name is James Bond, sir."