Viewing Thread:
"A short story: Meet Tony Granes"

As the adrenaline pumped through him, Joe Longmont, snowboarding stuntman champion of Quebec, Canada, looked down the 980 metre vertical slope that he was to conquer. He felt a hand on his shoulder and turned round to see his manager, Mr. Scott Crane.
“Don’t worry, Joe”, said Mr. Crane encouragingly, “There are going to be much higher hurdles in your life.”
“I know sir, but I don’t know whether or not I’ll be able to do this.”
“You’ll make it. I promise.”
Joe nodded and gulped. He turned round and launched himself down the slope. Whoosh! The wind whistled past his ears and the snow parted on either side of him. Just before he reached the ramp at the bottom, he looked up and saw all his fans, colleagues, family and friends waving their hands in the air for support. Flags were waving and banners were held high for all to see.
“I have to pull this off. All my fans, friends and family need me to. I have to win the championships!”
He left the ramp. All was still and quiet. The fans were all waiting for the turn out.
Now this particular ramp was called the “road ramp”. It was given this name because it sent the snowboarder hurtling over Noir Street a four-lane road. It’s scary stuff.
And guess what? He made it! He did what many people had died trying to do. Joe Longmont was now the world snowboarding champion. First prize was £100, 000 plus a Nissan Z concept, the only one ever released commercially. He had won it all!
Now, back at the starting line, there was a spy, a secret agent going by the name of Mr. Tony Granes. Quietly, without arousing any attention, he sneaked into the supply shed and stole a snowboard and fastened it to his feet. He waddled out back into the open and launched himself down the “road ramp”. After going down most of the way, Tony slowed down so as not to completely cover the ramp. He came to the edge of the slope and left the snow.
Now a black Aston Martin DB7 was driving along Noir Street. It was very inconspicuous and wasn’t of much notice. It seemed to be chasing a red Nissan Primera. Strangely enough, the roof of the DB7 opened, wide enough to let a man through. And that’s just what it did let through. Tony landed safely in the car, the roof closed and he was off.
“Good afternoon, Mr Granes,” said a voice next to him. He looked round to see a very beautiful young lady, driving the car.
“Thanks for the pick-up, Cathy,” said Tony, as he unfastened the snowboard from his feet. He pressed a button in the car and it produced a Stella Artois beer from the glove compartment.
“Who are we chasing today?” asked Tony
“An agent from the C.I.T (Corporation of International Terrorism) going by the name of Johan Himont. We haven’t been able to assume his real identity. He was caught trying to set a bomb in the S.A.H.Q.C (Secret Agent Head Quarters of Canada).”
“Let’s get him,” said Tony enthusiastically.
The cars rocketed down Noir Street. Tony knew that it was no use chasing him all day so he decided to get violent. He undid his seat belt and reached into the back and grabbed a shotgun, leant out of his window and took good aim of the car. Boom! He shot at the car. The bullet bounced of the car and sparks flew everywhere.
“Good shot, Mr. Granes,” said Catherine, smiling.
“That was nothing. Watch this.” Boom! He deflated a tyre of Johan’s car.
“Try this,” said Catherine, handing Tony a light-blue bullet.
“What’s so special about this bullet?”
“It’s a homing bullet. It’s tapped in to your in-car laptop. You just need to set it to your intended target and fire. Easy.”
“Yeah, easy.”
Tony set it to hit the engine of Johan’s car.
“How powerful is it?” asked Tony
“It’s a mini missile,” replied Cathy
The cars were chasing past Quebec River. Tony leant out of his window and fired the homing bullet. It whizzed around in the air and then rocketed towards Johan’s engine. Boom! The blast was devastating. Bits of flying debris went everywhere and people were running away, screaming and shouting with fright.
“Well done, Mr. Granes. Nice shot.”
“It’s my speciality, Cathy. Live with it.”

The DB7, driven by Catherine, this time calmly, arrived back at S.A.H.Q.C. Tony and Catherine both got out and went into the main building where they met with Chief of Canadian Special Operations, Susan Blanche.
“So, how did it go?"
“It was excellent,” said Granes,” there was excitement and action, although Cathy didn’t want to put in the romance.”
“Very funny, Mr. Granes.”
“Well, since you’re all ready, come in to my office to sort out your plane tickets back to London.”
They got into the elevator and started going up to the 17th floor.
“So tell me what happened.”
“Not much until the chase began. Then I got out my trusty shotgun and fired twice. Then Cathy got out a homing bullet and I tapped it in to my in-car laptop and fired. Success!”
“Well done!”
They reached the 17th floor went to a door at the very end of the corridor. Out of her blouse, Blanche took a swipe card and inserted it into a specially shaped hole in the side of the door. They all entered the office and Blanche quickly logged in to the Internet via SAHQC Online.
“I’ve contacted the MI6. They will have your ticket sent to you within 24 hours. In the meantime we can provide accommodation for you both in the foreign agent suite.”
“Thank you,” said Granes,” we’ll stay the night.”
Blanche pressed a button on her desk and the windows opened. A fresh breeze passed by. Granes leaned out the window and gazed into the view. He looked left and saw a bird flying past. He looked right and saw a helicopter, flying at their level, marked F.C.I.T. A man, obviously a terrorist, was standing in the copter, door open.
“There’s an F.C.I.T helicopter coming! Let’s get out of here!”
“Huh?”
“RUN!”
They ran out of the office and down the stairs. The terrorist threw in a hand-grenade. While Granes, Cathy and Blanche were on the 10th floor there was a deafening blast. Civilians outside saw flames and smoke billowing out of floors 11-21. Within seconds the agents were outside and in the partially damaged DB7. They drove through rivers of screaming people shouting cries like “it’s September the 11th 2001 all over again”. They arrived at the Quebec National Airport and did something to make everyone even more frightened, if that was possible. Blanche, with a press of a button turned the DB7 into an M16 jet, just one of the amazing array of gadgets and gizmos in the car.
“You do know how to fly this thing, don’t you?” asked Granes.
“Oh yeah.”
Out of the modified engines came long blasts of burnt jet fuel, and, with the aid of instant take-off, they were flying in no time.
“Wow, I’ve never seen anything like that before,” exclaimed Blanche.
“I’ve seen worse,” said Granes.

Blanche landed the plane in the MI6 private airport. As they stepped out of the plane a black Mercedes-Benz drove up to them and a man with shades and a grey suit emerged out of the car. He looked as if he had stepped out of The Matrix with his important, sophisticated look.
“Welcome, Mr. Granes. We wouldn’t have been able to send you a plane ticket but I see you made yourself back by other means.”
“I’m glad we could make it.”
“The situation in Canada is being broadcasted on every channel so I have to abort from watching today’s episode of The Simpsons. Oh well. Come in.”
They were driven back to the main building. The man was Chief of International Special Operations, Mr. Thomas McSound. In McSound’s 12th floor office there was a re-telling of the incident in Canada.
“And then it exploded and destroyed floors 11 upwards. It also burnt one of my car’s pistons,” ended Granes.
“Your car is being repaired as we speak,” replied McSound,” and as for the S.A.H.Q.C we’ll have to repair it. Meanwhile the F.C.I.T are most likely going to take advantage of this. And we’ll continue to operate the 9th floor downwards. I don’t think 10th floor workers would like to work open air. The building has been evacuated and will not be reopened until January 12th.”
Beep! McSound’s on-desk messenger received a message. He read it.
“Your car is ready.”
“Oh, thanks”

Climbing into his car, Granes gave thumbs up to the engineer. He drove down the M4 and turned into Conner Street. He turned right, into his driveway, number 16A. He trudged up to his door, unlocked and entered his Victorian house. He slumped onto his sofa and switched on his television, only to be greeted by the vision of the S.A.H.Q.C. Just before he switched channels he saw an unpredictable catastrophe unfold before his eyes. The S.A.H.Q.C, perfect in it’s glory, collapsed from the inside. Apparently, the flames had exploded the gas system in the building. A large section of the brickwork landed on the First National bank and crushed it. Other surrounding structures have been damaged.
“Oh, no!” Granes said to himself.
He got his mobile phone and called Catherine.
“Did you see what happened on T.V?”
“Yeah. Horrible stuff. Don’t think about it. It’ll give you sleepless nights.”
“Very funny. I’m going to bed. Bye!”
He climbed upstairs and lay down in bed.
Next day he was really tired. He had only got to sleep at 1:00AM after thinking endlessly about Canada especially Quebec. Bring! Bring! The telephone rang. He got up to get it.
“Hello.”
“Mr. Granes? Hello. It’s Mr. McSound here. I want you in the office immediately. Something bad has turned up. Really bad.”
“O.K. I’ll be right in.”
He quickly got changed ate a bun before climbing into his car and setting. After listening to the tone in McSound’s voice he felt he had to hurry. So he revved up his car and cruised down the M4.

Knock! Knock! Granes knocked at McSound’s office.
“Come in,” said a voice from inside.
Granes opened the door and sat down in front of McSound.
“You asked me in, sir?”
“Yes. Something important has turned up. It seems that the F.C.I.T are determined to wipe us out. The MI6 is concerned about it and is ready to take immediate action. We’re sending in our best man, you, to find out what you can about the F.C.I.T headquarters and destroy all security that will prevent an air-bombing.”
“You’re planning to bomb them? This is crazy. Why can’t you send in Carter? He’s just as good as me.”
“Carter is dead. He was sent to the S.A.H.Q.C to work and was working on the 15th floor when the grenade was thrown. He was blown to bits.”
“Where are the F.C.I.T headquarters anyway?”
“New Delhi, India. A good hiding place. Cathy found it on the Internet.”
“That’s why I’ve decided to come with you,” said a voice from behind. Granes and McSound turned round to see Cathy in the doorway.
“You’re coming?” asked Granes.
“Oh yes. I know it’s going to be hard, rough and hot but I can endure it.”
“It’s also going to be dangerous. Trust me. You won’t want to go.”
“I’m all up for going. Mr. McSound has me already initiated.”
“Is that true, sir?”
“Yes, indeed. Would you like me to brief you through your mission?”
“Yes please.”
“Goran Jonovich, leading Russian smuggler and a mass theft thief. He’s the man behind all the catastrophes and destructions of the F.C.I.T. He started the corporation in 2023 and it has been a threat to the MI6 ever since. In 2030 he got closer to succeeding in his mission. He acquired an army, some bombers and, most deadly of all, a missile launcher. He tested his missile launcher a year afterwards. It landed in the River Thames, flooding everything for 2 miles around. We have decided, after the incident in Quebec, that we should take drastic action towards the F.C.I.T and wipe them out. Jonovich was intending to kill you, as you know from the window he chose. I still don’t know why we hadn’t found out the location of the F.C.I.T headquarters earlier or else you wouldn’t have to go. Oh well. Duty calls.”
“What’s the mission called?”
“Mission Gadget. Mission number 46187.”
“Oh, so we’re going to have a lot of gadgets?”
“Sort of.”
“So, when do we leave?”
“Tomorrow. You’ll fly yourself in your DB7-“
“I don’t even know how to fly that thing! How are we going to get there alive with an unqualified pilot?”
“I can fly it,” said Cathy,” unless you don’t trust me.”
“Of course I trust you, but… we’re not going unarmed, are we?”
“Follow me,” said McSound.

They went down to the basement and entered the gadget garage nicknamed the Gizmo-yard.
“Here is chief engineer, Geoffrey Shafterman. He is going to talk you through all the items you will be equipped with.”
“Mornin’,” said Shafterman,” let’s start immediately. We’ve a lot to get through so let’s start with the more subtle things. Firstly look at this.” He pulled a trolley from under a table, laden with ordinary looking things.
“What is this?” He held up a comb.
“A comb?”
“No. This is a smoke bomb. Useful for quick escapes and disguise. Running your fingers through the bristles activates it. And this may look like an eye lining pencil. In fact it’s a stun gun, just so that you don’t have to kill everyone you come across. Ideally its design is at home in Cathy’s pocket. Here’s your old trusty palm. It’s been modified so that you can access the Internet and e-mail. You have a free account with Hotmail.”
“What’s that?” Granes pointed at something behind Shafterman. He turned round and saw something large hidden under a cloth.
“I’ll tell you later. Now for the dangerous things. These are my best items. Firstly, this may look like an automatic pistol. It’s not. It’s a multifunctional gun. In other words, it can fire any bullet as many times as you like. Good, isn’t it?”
“Cool!”
“And this is a multifunctional bullet cartridge. Fit it into your gun and it will produce your wanted bullet. I am giving you two of each, one for you, one for Cathy.”
“Thanks”
“I am also giving you a mine. Just in case you need it.”
“Good.”
“And now for my piece dé résistance.” He turned and lifted the cloth. The agents gasped.
“Your newly modified DB7.”
For a start, it was beautiful. It was metallic silver with a black lining. The double glazed windscreen shone in the lamplight and all the English manufacturing and engineering boasted two seats and a removable car-roof. The heavily pumped up tyres were overflowing with grip and the grey wheel caps were screwed in tightly.
“Wow,” whispered the agents simultaneously.
“You think that’s good,” exclaimed Shafterman,” check this out. Inside there are more gadgets than ever. To start, there is a 10 CD changer, AM, FM, LW radio and surround sound. Then there’s an in-car T.V, radar and satellite tracking, food and minibar and Playstation 2 entertainment system. Then there are the weapons. Lasers, RPGs, machine guns, force fields, electromagnetic pulse (EMP Cannon) and missile launchers. All modified.”
“Brilliant.”
“Now,” said McSound, who had appeared from nowhere,” we’ll provide accommodation for you on the 1st floor. We are more secure than the old S.A.H.Q.C so you’ll be safe.”
“What time is it, anyway?”
“9:00 pm. You ought to get some sleep.”
“O.K. Bye.”

Bleep! Bleep! Granes’ alarm went off.
“Oh, boy. Time to go get myself killed.”
He got up and got changed. It was 10:00 AM and the sun was shining fully. After having a bowl of soggy corn flakes he left his temporary 1st floor flat and went up to McSound’s office. He entered the office.
“Next time, knock,” scolded McSound.
“Sorry, sir.”
“Anyway, I’m glad you’re here. I was getting worried. You’re late by one hour. I’ve arranged for you to leave at 12:00 this afternoon. It’s 11:00 at the moment. Cathy’s eating breakfast next door. You have time to check out your car. Would you like a beer?”
“No thanks. Can I ask you a question?”
“Sure.”
“Where are we going to land our plane?”
“New Delhi International Airport.”
“And why did you choose me?”
“Because you are our best man. I’ve told you once; I said it again. No arguments, the debate is over”
“Okay. Thanks.”
He exited the room. He went down to the Gizmo-yard and asked Shafterman if he could take his car out. He had just fitted auto-polish software.
“Just remember, it’s battery powered completely. You don’t have to visit the petrol station anymore. I just put a fuel meter in there for disguise.”
“Thanks. That’s going to save me a lot of time.”
He got into his car and revved it up.
“Wow! 11 000 r/pm in only 7 seconds! That’s amazing!”
“Yep. Good, isn’t it?” Shafterman was impressed with himself.
“Yeah. OK, bye,” said Granes hurriedly, as he switched on the car and pressed down the pedal. The garage door opened automatically and the car flew out of the Gizmo-yard faster than you can say “uncle”. The car propelled itself forwards with mind-blowing speed. Obviously it had the engine of a Dodge Viper or something because its engine was using up speed like there’s no tomorrow. It got up to the end of the M4 in a matter of minutes and the half hour left was spent by rocketing round the M25: London Orbital. He got back at exactly 12:00 pm. Cathy and McSound were waiting at the entrance of the MI6 private airport. McSound beckoned to Granes to take his car to the centre of the airfield. Cathy went to the front of the car.
“I’m driving,” she explained.
“OK. I don’t mind.”
Cathy and Granes swapped places and got into the car.
Knock! Knock! McSound knocked on the window. Cathy opened it.
“I hope you guys make it.”
“Don’t worry, chief. You can count on us.”
“OK. Five seconds to take off. Close your window and wait for the gun blast. Take care.”
“Bye, chief!”
Blast! The gun shot and Cathy pressed the transformation button. After transforming the car into a plane Cathy took off and the agents flew away into the distance.

“Ah, what pleasures lie in flying a plane manually,” said Cathy, head in the clouds.
“Cathy, don’t daydream. Just fly the plane.”
“Sure.”
They landed their jet plane in the New Delhi International airport. The engines went silent and all the natives who lived in the area stared at the gleaming jet in utter astonishment. A brown, open-roof safari truck drove up to them. Inside was a man with a dark tan, sunshades, Bermuda shorts, a t-shirt and sandals. The car came to a stop and the man stepped out. He walked towards them and held out his hand. Granes shook it.
“Good afternoon,” said the man. He had a heavy, unmistakable American accent, strangely enough,” my name is John Mackenzie and I believe that you are Mr. Granes and Miss. Turner?”
The agents nodded.
“Ah! I was expecting you. It is a pleasure to meet two such brilliant agents. Would you like a lift to the I.S.O (Indian Special Operations) building?”
“No. We have our own means of transport.”
Cathy got back into the plane and pressed the transformation button. Instantly the jet changed back into the silver DB7.
“Impressive,” said Mackenzie, amazed.
They all got into their cars and drove off. Granes followed Mackenzie to the I.S.O building. It was a large, marble building with about sixty floors, each with a dark window fitted. Three flags were flying at the top: the Indian flag, the United Nations flag and the Commonwealth flag. They parked in a car park at the rear of the huge, white building. They got out and entered the building. On one of the walls were 16 lifts, one of which was out of order. The north wall was the reception and six receptionists were bustling around trying to serve everyone. In the centre of the building was as large pillar, draped with banners of white, green and orange, the colours of the Indian flag. The three agents walked to the lift at the very end. Granes called the lift. It came about five seconds later. They got in and Mackenzie pressed a button, which took them to the top floor. The trio walked to a door with a sign saying:
Room 89: Chief of Special Operations: Mr. J. Mackenzie.
Mackenzie opened the door and beckoned the others to enter. He closed the door behind him.
“So,” he said, as he sat down in his chair,” I’ve acquired two second floor flats for you and you can come and have a light supper with me in the main hall. I’ll meet you in the reception and show you to the hall at six thirty. It’s six PM now so you can go to rooms seven and nine on the second floor. Here are your keys and I hope you enjoy your short stay at the I.S.O.”
He handed them their keys and showed them to the door.
“Thanks,” said Granes gratefully.
Granes and Cathy went down the corridor together but didn’t say a word to each other. They were to busy thinking about the mission. At the end of the corridor were three lift doors. Cathy called the lift and it came about three seconds later. They got in and Cathy pressed number two. The doors closed and the lift started descending down the lift shaft. A bell rang, signifying the end of the descent to the second floor. The doors opened and they got out. Immediately to their left they saw rooms seven and nine. They fitted the keys into the keyholes and opened the doors. Each room was perfectly identical. You had to remember what the room number was to distinguish them. The only difference was that their suitcases had been brought up to the rooms. At six thirty PM they met outside after having a quick shower and went down to reception. Mackenzie was already there, waiting for them.
“Ah, so you came.”
“Yep. Wouldn’t miss it even if I tried.”
“Good. Come with me.”
They entered an oak, double door. They entered a rather small hall with mirrors on all sides. The carpet was red and the roof was covered in a native Indian painting. There was a single table in the middle that was set out for three. There were coke and fanta bottles, coffee jug and teapots and wine bottles. A dinner of traditional Punjab chicken and yellow rice was laid out in a very tidy manner.
“Dinner is served,” said Mackenzie, gesturing for them to sit down.
“This looks lovely. You prepared this just for tonight? You shouldn’t have,” said Granes, looking at the food with great astonishment.
“Tuck in,” replied Mackenzie, pleased that his guests were content. After being fed and watered, Granes and Cathy went back to their rooms for a long sleep until tomorrow when Mission Gadget went into action.

“Wake up. Wake UP!” Mackenzie woke up Granes at five thirty next day. He threw a white overcoat on the bed. On the chest pocket it was marked F.C.I.T.
“What’s this for,” asked Granes, half asleep.
“It’s your disguise. You can’t just walk into that building. You’d be dead before you could say ‘Oops’. And we don’t want to take any risks, do we?”
“No.”
“Good. Now get changed. Workers start work at six AM and lose a finger every time they’re late. One guy lost all his fingers and four toes. Never mind. Just get changed and don’t ask how I got your disguise.”
“How?”
Mackenzie lifted up one of the legs of his trousers and revealed a bloody, red wound, made obviously by a shotgun. Granes had one just above his ankle made whilst on a mission in Russia. Mackenzie limped out the door and down the corridor.
At ten to six Granes and Cathy met in the hall Mackenzie came and gave them the directions to the building. He also gave them a map of the F.C.I.T.
“Good luck.”
“Thanks!
The agents got into the car and drove to the dreaded building. It was a magnificent green marble tower that was actually in the clouds.
“Here we are, three seconds early,” said Cathy. Granes could sense her fear.
“Let’s go.”
They parked the car outside and entered the building through a back door. They found themselves in a lab, where 150 people were creating a chemical bomb. Granes got out his palm computer and sent this message back to MI6:

All seems clear. Chemical bomb in production. Almost finished. Possible threat. Going to snoop around for a bit.

He pressed send and put it back in his pocket. He and Cathy walked to the other end of the lab and went out and entered a toilet, where he changed his gun to a silenced KF7 Soviet machine gun. He got out of the toilet and went to a room saying: Private. Staff only.
“This looks suspicious. Why do they need a staff only sign if there are no customers?”
He opened the door and saw a man smoking in a swivel chair.
“Wait out here,” said Granes to Cathy,” if anyone dies here it will be me.”
“Sure, I’ll stay here.”
“Here I go.”
Granes entered the office. There were hunting trophies, medals and badges from the Russian Navy. Obviously this man had seen gunfire before. Granes looked on one of the trophies and saw his name: Dmitri Kabalevsky. On one wall he had a record sheet with all the jobs that he had over the last seven years. On it, it said:

2032: F.C.I.T Contract Killer

Next to that was a gold and blue Licence to kill with a signature on it. It was still valid.
“Mr. Kabalevsky. I have a few questions to ask you.”
Kabalevsky turned round and saw Granes. A smile started to grow across his face. He held up an automatic shotgun. Granes looked down to the floor as if he was waiting for five bullets to come crashing through his skull. Granes put his hand in his pocket and tilted his gun so that it was facing Kabalevsky directly.
“Who are you,” thundered Kabalevsky in a deep Russian accent.
“Who wants to know,” said Granes in reply as he pulled the trigger in his pocket. The bullet ripped through his pocket and shattered Kabalevsky’s rib cage. Blood splattered his desk and dripped to the floor. His heart stopped beating.

The alarm went off and people started running down the corridors, scared to death. Guards with black helmets and machine guns were coming up behind the agents.
“Run,” said Granes as he changed his gun to a sniper rifle. He took the map from his pocket and examined it. Two corridors crossed to make a sort of “+” sign on the map. Granes and Cathy were along the vertical corridor, at the bottom and guards were coming from left and right along the horizontal corridor. They just needed to get across their corridor.
“Get out your gun, Cathy. This is going to be deadly.”
They ran down their corridor and the guards corridor grew closer and closer. Granes snatched Cathy’s gun out of her hand and jumped into the horizontal corridor. He spun in the air, bullets whipping past him. He held up the guns on either side of himself and fired, hitting two guards in the chest. They fell to the ground. He did a ninety-degree spin and shot two bullets into another guard’s skull. Granes landed on his feet at the other side of the corridor. He beckoned for Cathy to come. She made a run for it but a guard shot her in the leg. She fell down, screaming in agony and pain. Granes almost went back for her but that would only kill him. Two guards picked her up and ran away with her. The rest of the guards went after Granes. Granes zigzagged down the corridor, bullets ricocheting on the walls. He took the guns and fired backwards. He heard the impact on another guard but couldn’t be sure whether or not he was dead. He turned round and shot the rest of the guards. He ran the rest of the way down the corridor and saw a sign saying:

F.C.I.T Founder and Leader: Goran Jonovich
The two of them entered the room

“I’ve been expecting you, Mr. Granes,” said a voice. From behind a chair a man with black hair and a curly goatee stepped out from behind it.
“Good morning, Mr. Granes. I am Goran Jonovich. What an unpleasant surprise it is to see you now,” said Jonovich, with a villainous smile curled on his long face. Granes got into a fighting position.
“You want a fight,” said Jonovich in a teasing voice,” that wouldn’t be wise. You’ll see why if you come over here.”
Granes cautiously stepped forward. He expected Jonovich to strike him with a stick or shoot him to death at that very minute. Jonovich took a trophy down from a shelf.
“You see. I’ve been a black belt since I was thirteen and look at me now. Thirty-three years old and still in practise. Twenty years of being perfect. And you, only a yellow belt and had lessons for only seven years.”
“How do you know all this about me?”
“Internet. Your chief was stupid enough to store all your personal information on a public access web site. I’ve always loathed McSound.”
Granes hated Jonovich more and more with every word he said.
“If you want a fight you can get one but I can promise you this; the best man shall win.”
The two enemies shook hands with crushing grip. Immediately Jonovich threw a punch at Granes’s head and he spun to the floor. He looked up, nose bleeding as Jonovich did a back flip and crouched down in a Japanese kung-fu fighting position.
“Are you sure you want to do this,” said Jonovich, looking down on his enemy,” I could shoot you and it could be quick and painless. Or do you want to die slowly, painfully. It’s up to you to decide. Your choice.”
“No! We fight to the finish.”
Granes lunged at Jonovich and kicked him in the stomach. He flew across the room and slammed into a bookshelf. Three books fell to the floor: Moby Dick, Worst Terrorist Incidents and The Shining. Jonovich picked up the thickest book (The Shining) and threw it at Granes. He ducked and it went smashing out the window. He turned to look at Jonovich.
“This is where you go down, Jonovich, deep down.”
Granes took a deep breath and did two cartwheels, a double front flip and buried his shoe in Jonovich’s stomach. He was knocked to the floor and bounced of it. He landed on his chest with a thud.

Granes walked over to him. He put his hand in his pocket and curled his fingers around his gun, ready for a surprise attack. When he was about a metre away from Jonovich, the terrorist spun round and held up a PPK pistol and took good aim.
“Don’t move, Granes. You don’t want me to use this.”
Jonovich got up and brushed himself off, still holding up the gun.
“You think you’ve beaten me. Well you’re wrong. You see I’ve got something of yours.”
He pressed a button in the wall and a large wall panel slid up into the roof. Behind it was the back of a chair with a figure sitting in it. The person was tied up with a thick rope and was gagged. Jonovich spun the person round and Granes instantly recognised their face. Cathy Turner was Goran Jonovich’s hostage.
“Let her go. Now!”
“No. I have decided against that measure. You see, the MI6 has been on my tail since I started this corporation. Nine whole years of having to tolerate your petty guns and bombs. Well not any more. I have my missile launcher fixed and ready. My soldiers are practically waiting to press the button. And they will. And I am going to rid myself of you two myself.”
He held up his gun to Cathy’s head. Granes saw her fiddle around with something in her pocket. She managed to get it out. It was the stun gun, disguised as an eye-lining pencil. She held it with two fingers and, with her thumb, pressed the activation button. A blast of electricity burned through the ropes that held Cathy to the chair and stunned Jonovich. His mouth was wide and his eyes were popping. For a split second you could see his skeletal structure. And then he crumpled up to the floor. Granes ran over to Cathy and un-gagged her. Then crouched down next to Jonovich and took the mine out of his pocket. He also took out a screwdriver and some screws. He screwed the mine down into the floor tightly. Then he set the timer for five minutes.
“By then we better be out of here,” he said, ”Jonovich would have woken up by then.”

Granes bounded down the corridor, cautiously making sure the coast was clear. Cathy was limping because of her shot leg. An alarm went off and Granes expected guards to be shooting at them at any minute. They turned a corner and saw ten guards, guns out ready to shoot. Granes and Cathy turned round and saw another ten, armed guards. They were cornered. Granes suddenly had an idea. He reached into his pocket and touched his smoke bomb. He ran his finger through the bristles and smoke started billowing out of his pocket. Within seconds the area was covered in a thick, choking smoke. Granes ran down the corridor, carrying Cathy on his back. Bullets ricocheted all around them. They could hear guards dying because of stray bullets. When the smoke cleared the agents looked back and saw that all the guards had killed each other in the dark. They got to the exit and went outside. They climbed into their car, Cathy in the drivers seat. She had to use her left foot for acceleration and braking. The car roared into life and they were off.
“Well, we did it,” said Granes, who had a deep cut in the side of his face.
“Don’t count on it,” came the reply from Cathy, who was looking at the rear view mirror.
Granes looked back and saw that they hadn’t completed their mission. Two safari trucks, each with a guard driving, were chasing after them. The driver of each truck was leaning out with a gun in hand. They started shooting. One bullet shattered the glass screen at the back and another smashed the windscreen.
“We’d better get out of here,” said Granes.
Boom!! The mine inside the building exploded. Boom!! Another explosion, probably the chemical bomb, blew away the west wing of the complex. Two balls of fire came together to form one colossal sphere of flames. It’s fire licked up to a safari truck, which overheated the engine. The car blew up from the inside and burnt bits of debris and dismembered body parts were sent flying through the air.
“What luck,” said Cathy who was watching through the rear view mirror.
The remaining guard was still hot on their tail and shooting. Pshee!! He shot a bullet into the back left tyre and it was shrinking by the minute.
“No one deflates my tyres and gets away with it,” said Granes angrily.
He pressed a button on the glove box and activated his in-car laptop. He opened up the satellite to pinpoint exactly where the guard was on the planet earth. After he had found him he opened up the weapons menu. He scrolled down to the EMP Cannon and selected it. He went back to satellite tracking where the guard was still highlighted and clicked on him. On the side of the car a cannon folded out and swivelled to face upwards. There was a loud blast as the cannon shot out a large, blue and red ball with electricity pulsing through it. The pulse went at lightning speed upwards. In space the satellite was directly above the DB7 and was at an angle. The pulse ricocheted off the satellite and went directly for the guard. It hit the truck and exploded, sending the rest of the pulse within a five-metre radius of the car. The truck immediately stopped and stayed there. The pulse had disabled it.
“Fire one successful,” said Granes, ”now for the big finale. I can use radar for this.”
On the laptop he opened up the radar. On top of the car a large radar dish emerged and started to rotate slowly. The truck was reactivated and was going after them again. On the laptop screen a red circle with a dot in the middle appeared. Granes pressed a button on the laptop keyboard and a white line grew from the white dot to the edge of the circumference to represent the radius of tracking. The two vehicles were coming close to the gate of what was the complex. The truck was gaining on the DB7 since the Aston Martin had a flat tyre. The radar had tracked down the truck and was preparing a homing missile. The DB7 had passed the gate. The truck was about to pass it as well.
“Mission Accomplished,” said Granes triumphantly, as he pressed the fire button.
The blue and white missile was fired out from underneath the car. It swivelled round and headed for the DB7. It was going at a very fast speed and the agents knew something was wrong. Then, all of a sudden, it turned sharply to avoid them and rocketed towards its intended target.
“Phew,” sighed Granes and Cathy simultaneously.
The truck was level with the gate when Boom!! It was hit. Bits of burning debris were raining around the crater where the car was. The bad thing was that every few metres there was a component tower with a security laser attached to it. As the wall fell in flames, the component towers exploded one by one. As the DB7 cruised down the mile long driveway twenty-six component towers went up in balls of flames. Pieces of concrete were falling from the sky, crashing around the DB7. Cathy pressed the transformation button and the car turned into a M16 jet.

The jet landed back at MI6 and immediately McSound’s black Mercedes-Benz sped up to them. The chief got out and ran over to Granes. They were quickly embraced in a huge hug.
“I’ve got three things to thank you for,” laughed McSound,” one, you have done the mission brilliantly. Two, you’ve risked your lives to save the world and I still have my best agent. And three, well, one and two should be enough.”
He laughed and hugged him again.
“Chief, you never told me about Mackenzie,” said Granes,” I was expecting a black haired native to take me to their hut.”
“Who cares? You’re here and the world is safe. Come on. I’ve arranged a dinner on your behalf. Your family and friends are all here and the best chefs and cooks from London are serving the best English cuisine in Great Britain. Come on in to the Great Hall. Dinner is served.”
They entered the hall and everybody cheered.
“Speech, speech!” someone shouted out.
Granes walked up to a podium up at the front of the hall and cleared his throat.
“Well. Firstly, I am really glad that I am here to witness this wonderful surprise and that the worst threat to the civilised world has been terminated for good. The mission was jam-packed with danger but I have to admit, the karate match with Jonovich was rather fun. Here’s a summary of what happened.”
He went through his mission quickly and dismissed himself. There was a big round of applause. He went and sat down to dinner with his family. His wife kissed him on the cheek and he thought of all the time he spent away from home. He was glad to be back. At the podium McSound went up to say something.
“Excuse me everyone,” he said.
Everybody went quiet.
“On behalf of the citizens of the world, I have great pleasure in awarding Mr. Granes and Miss. Turner with an International Freedom Fighters award.”
There was another huge round of applause as Granes and Cathy went up to the front to accept their awards. McSound kissed Cathy on the cheek and gave her award to her. Then Granes embraced McSound as he gave him his award. As they embraced, McSound whispered,” I want to see you in my office immediately,” into Granes’s ear. They got off the podium together and they slipped out of the hall.
“What’s wrong, sir,” said Granes, puzzled.
“You’ll see,” replied McSound.
They entered the office and McSound switched on his computer. He activated a web-cam of the F.C.I.T ruins. And there was Jonovich next to his battered missile launcher. He had lost his right arm in the blast and was curled up on the floor, waiting to die.
“Jonovich is still there. And he has the ability to re-gain health again.”
“So I haven’t completed my mission.”
“Not yet. You better go. You need your rest.”
“Bye, sir.”
Outside, he got into his car and went home a tired man with his wife. As he turned into 16A Conner Street he started thinking about Jonovich. He went into his house and went upstairs to bed. As his wife got in with him he said to himself,” I guess only time can tell what’ll happen to Jonovich. Until then I might as well enjoy life.”

The End?

 

As the adrenaline pumped through him, Joe Longmont, snowboarding stuntman champion of Quebec, Canada, looked down the 980 metre vertical slope that he was to conquer. He felt a hand on his shoulder and turned round to see his manager, Mr. Scott Crane.
“Don’t worry, Joe”, said Mr. Crane encouragingly, “There are going to be much higher hurdles in your life.”
“I know sir, but I don’t know whether or not I’ll be able to do this.”
“You’ll make it. I promise.”
Joe nodded and gulped. He turned round and launched himself down the slope. Whoosh! The wind whistled past his ears and the snow parted on either side of him. Just before he reached the ramp at the bottom, he looked up and saw all his fans, colleagues, family and friends waving their hands in the air for support. Flags were waving and banners were held high for all to see.
“I have to pull this off. All my fans, friends and family need me to. I have to win the championships!”
He left the ramp. All was still and quiet. The fans were all waiting for the turn out.
Now this particular ramp was called the “road ramp”. It was given this name because it sent the snowboarder hurtling over Noir Street a four-lane road. It’s scary stuff.
And guess what? He made it! He did what many people had died trying to do. Joe Longmont was now the world snowboarding champion. First prize was £100, 000 plus a Nissan Z concept, the only one ever released commercially. He had won it all!
Now, back at the starting line, there was a spy, a secret agent going by the name of Mr. Tony Granes. Quietly, without arousing any attention, he sneaked into the supply shed and stole a snowboard and fastened it to his feet. He waddled out back into the open and launched himself down the “road ramp”. After going down most of the way, Tony slowed down so as not to completely cover the ramp. He came to the edge of the slope and left the snow.
Now a black Aston Martin DB7 was driving along Noir Street. It was very inconspicuous and wasn’t of much notice. It seemed to be chasing a red Nissan Primera. Strangely enough, the roof of the DB7 opened, wide enough to let a man through. And that’s just what it did let through. Tony landed safely in the car, the roof closed and he was off.
“Good afternoon, Mr Granes,” said a voice next to him. He looked round to see a very beautiful young lady, driving the car.
“Thanks for the pick-up, Cathy,” said Tony, as he unfastened the snowboard from his feet. He pressed a button in the car and it produced a Stella Artois beer from the glove compartment.
“Who are we chasing today?” asked Tony
“An agent from the C.I.T (Corporation of International Terrorism) going by the name of Johan Himont. We haven’t been able to assume his real identity. He was caught trying to set a bomb in the S.A.H.Q.C (Secret Agent Head Quarters of Canada).”
“Let’s get him,” said Tony enthusiastically.
The cars rocketed down Noir Street. Tony knew that it was no use chasing him all day so he decided to get violent. He undid his seat belt and reached into the back and grabbed a shotgun, leant out of his window and took good aim of the car. Boom! He shot at the car. The bullet bounced of the car and sparks flew everywhere.
“Good shot, Mr. Granes,” said Catherine, smiling.
“That was nothing. Watch this.” Boom! He deflated a tyre of Johan’s car.
“Try this,” said Catherine, handing Tony a light-blue bullet.
“What’s so special about this bullet?”
“It’s a homing bullet. It’s tapped in to your in-car laptop. You just need to set it to your intended target and fire. Easy.”
“Yeah, easy.”
Tony set it to hit the engine of Johan’s car.
“How powerful is it?” asked Tony
“It’s a mini missile,” replied Cathy
The cars were chasing past Quebec River. Tony leant out of his window and fired the homing bullet. It whizzed around in the air and then rocketed towards Johan’s engine. Boom! The blast was devastating. Bits of flying debris went everywhere and people were running away, screaming and shouting with fright.
“Well done, Mr. Granes. Nice shot.”
“It’s my speciality, Cathy. Live with it.”

The DB7, driven by Catherine, this time calmly, arrived back at S.A.H.Q.C. Tony and Catherine both got out and went into the main building where they met with Chief of Canadian Special Operations, Susan Blanche.
“So, how did it go?"
“It was excellent,” said Granes,” there was excitement and action, although Cathy didn’t want to put in the romance.”
“Very funny, Mr. Granes.”
“Well, since you’re all ready, come in to my office to sort out your plane tickets back to London.”
They got into the elevator and started going up to the 17th floor.
“So tell me what happened.”
“Not much until the chase began. Then I got out my trusty shotgun and fired twice. Then Cathy got out a homing bullet and I tapped it in to my in-car laptop and fired. Success!”
“Well done!”
They reached the 17th floor went to a door at the very end of the corridor. Out of her blouse, Blanche took a swipe card and inserted it into a specially shaped hole in the side of the door. They all entered the office and Blanche quickly logged in to the Internet via SAHQC Online.
“I’ve contacted the MI6. They will have your ticket sent to you within 24 hours. In the meantime we can provide accommodation for you both in the foreign agent suite.”
“Thank you,” said Granes,” we’ll stay the night.”
Blanche pressed a button on her desk and the windows opened. A fresh breeze passed by. Granes leaned out the window and gazed into the view. He looked left and saw a bird flying past. He looked right and saw a helicopter, flying at their level, marked F.C.I.T. A man, obviously a terrorist, was standing in the copter, door open.
“There’s an F.C.I.T helicopter coming! Let’s get out of here!”
“Huh?”
“RUN!”
They ran out of the office and down the stairs. The terrorist threw in a hand-grenade. While Granes, Cathy and Blanche were on the 10th floor there was a deafening blast. Civilians outside saw flames and smoke billowing out of floors 11-21. Within seconds the agents were outside and in the partially damaged DB7. They drove through rivers of screaming people shouting cries like “it’s September the 11th 2001 all over again”. They arrived at the Quebec National Airport and did something to make everyone even more frightened, if that was possible. Blanche, with a press of a button turned the DB7 into an M16 jet, just one of the amazing array of gadgets and gizmos in the car.
“You do know how to fly this thing, don’t you?” asked Granes.
“Oh yeah.”
Out of the modified engines came long blasts of burnt jet fuel, and, with the aid of instant take-off, they were flying in no time.
“Wow, I’ve never seen anything like that before,” exclaimed Blanche.
“I’ve seen worse,” said Granes.

Blanche landed the plane in the MI6 private airport. As they stepped out of the plane a black Mercedes-Benz drove up to them and a man with shades and a grey suit emerged out of the car. He looked as if he had stepped out of The Matrix with his important, sophisticated look.
“Welcome, Mr. Granes. We wouldn’t have been able to send you a plane ticket but I see you made yourself back by other means.”
“I’m glad we could make it.”
“The situation in Canada is being broadcasted on every channel so I have to abort from watching today’s episode of The Simpsons. Oh well. Come in.”
They were driven back to the main building. The man was Chief of International Special Operations, Mr. Thomas McSound. In McSound’s 12th floor office there was a re-telling of the incident in Canada.
“And then it exploded and destroyed floors 11 upwards. It also burnt one of my car’s pistons,” ended Granes.
“Your car is being repaired as we speak,” replied McSound,” and as for the S.A.H.Q.C we’ll have to repair it. Meanwhile the F.C.I.T are most likely going to take advantage of this. And we’ll continue to operate the 9th floor downwards. I don’t think 10th floor workers would like to work open air. The building has been evacuated and will not be reopened until January 12th.”
Beep! McSound’s on-desk messenger received a message. He read it.
“Your car is ready.”
“Oh, thanks”

Climbing into his car, Granes gave thumbs up to the engineer. He drove down the M4 and turned into Conner Street. He turned right, into his driveway, number 16A. He trudged up to his door, unlocked and entered his Victorian house. He slumped onto his sofa and switched on his television, only to be greeted by the vision of the S.A.H.Q.C. Just before he switched channels he saw an unpredictable catastrophe unfold before his eyes. The S.A.H.Q.C, perfect in it’s glory, collapsed from the inside. Apparently, the flames had exploded the gas system in the building. A large section of the brickwork landed on the First National bank and crushed it. Other surrounding structures have been damaged.
“Oh, no!” Granes said to himself.
He got his mobile phone and called Catherine.
“Did you see what happened on T.V?”
“Yeah. Horrible stuff. Don’t think about it. It’ll give you sleepless nights.”
“Very funny. I’m going to bed. Bye!”
He climbed upstairs and lay down in bed.
Next day he was really tired. He had only got to sleep at 1:00AM after thinking endlessly about Canada especially Quebec. Bring! Bring! The telephone rang. He got up to get it.
“Hello.”
“Mr. Granes? Hello. It’s Mr. McSound here. I want you in the office immediately. Something bad has turned up. Really bad.”
“O.K. I’ll be right in.”
He quickly got changed ate a bun before climbing into his car and setting. After listening to the tone in McSound’s voice he felt he had to hurry. So he revved up his car and cruised down the M4.

Knock! Knock! Granes knocked at McSound’s office.
“Come in,” said a voice from inside.
Granes opened the door and sat down in front of McSound.
“You asked me in, sir?”
“Yes. Something important has turned up. It seems that the F.C.I.T are determined to wipe us out. The MI6 is concerned about it and is ready to take immediate action. We’re sending in our best man, you, to find out what you can about the F.C.I.T headquarters and destroy all security that will prevent an air-bombing.”
“You’re planning to bomb them? This is crazy. Why can’t you send in Carter? He’s just as good as me.”
“Carter is dead. He was sent to the S.A.H.Q.C to work and was working on the 15th floor when the grenade was thrown. He was blown to bits.”
“Where are the F.C.I.T headquarters anyway?”
“New Delhi, India. A good hiding place. Cathy found it on the Internet.”
“That’s why I’ve decided to come with you,” said a voice from behind. Granes and McSound turned round to see Cathy in the doorway.
“You’re coming?” asked Granes.
“Oh yes. I know it’s going to be hard, rough and hot but I can endure it.”
“It’s also going to be dangerous. Trust me. You won’t want to go.”
“I’m all up for going. Mr. McSound has me already initiated.”
“Is that true, sir?”
“Yes, indeed. Would you like me to brief you through your mission?”
“Yes please.”
“Goran Jonovich, leading Russian smuggler and a mass theft thief. He’s the man behind all the catastrophes and destructions of the F.C.I.T. He started the corporation in 2023 and it has been a threat to the MI6 ever since. In 2030 he got closer to succeeding in his mission. He acquired an army, some bombers and, most deadly of all, a missile launcher. He tested his missile launcher a year afterwards. It landed in the River Thames, flooding everything for 2 miles around. We have decided, after the incident in Quebec, that we should take drastic action towards the F.C.I.T and wipe them out. Jonovich was intending to kill you, as you know from the window he chose. I still don’t know why we hadn’t found out the location of the F.C.I.T headquarters earlier or else you wouldn’t have to go. Oh well. Duty calls.”
“What’s the mission called?”
“Mission Gadget. Mission number 46187.”
“Oh, so we’re going to have a lot of gadgets?”
“Sort of.”
“So, when do we leave?”
“Tomorrow. You’ll fly yourself in your DB7-“
“I don’t even know how to fly that thing! How are we going to get there alive with an unqualified pilot?”
“I can fly it,” said Cathy,” unless you don’t trust me.”
“Of course I trust you, but… we’re not going unarmed, are we?”
“Follow me,” said McSound.

They went down to the basement and entered the gadget garage nicknamed the Gizmo-yard.
“Here is chief engineer, Geoffrey Shafterman. He is going to talk you through all the items you will be equipped with.”
“Mornin’,” said Shafterman,” let’s start immediately. We’ve a lot to get through so let’s start with the more subtle things. Firstly look at this.” He pulled a trolley from under a table, laden with ordinary looking things.
“What is this?” He held up a comb.
“A comb?”
“No. This is a smoke bomb. Useful for quick escapes and disguise. Running your fingers through the bristles activates it. And this may look like an eye lining pencil. In fact it’s a stun gun, just so that you don’t have to kill everyone you come across. Ideally its design is at home in Cathy’s pocket. Here’s your old trusty palm. It’s been modified so that you can access the Internet and e-mail. You have a free account with Hotmail.”
“What’s that?” Granes pointed at something behind Shafterman. He turned round and saw something large hidden under a cloth.
“I’ll tell you later. Now for the dangerous things. These are my best items. Firstly, this may look like an automatic pistol. It’s not. It’s a multifunctional gun. In other words, it can fire any bullet as many times as you like. Good, isn’t it?”
“Cool!”
“And this is a multifunctional bullet cartridge. Fit it into your gun and it will produce your wanted bullet. I am giving you two of each, one for you, one for Cathy.”
“Thanks”
“I am also giving you a mine. Just in case you need it.”
“Good.”
“And now for my piece dé résistance.” He turned and lifted the cloth. The agents gasped.
“Your newly modified DB7.”
For a start, it was beautiful. It was metallic silver with a black lining. The double glazed windscreen shone in the lamplight and all the English manufacturing and engineering boasted two seats and a removable car-roof. The heavily pumped up tyres were overflowing with grip and the grey wheel caps were screwed in tightly.
“Wow,” whispered the agents simultaneously.
“You think that’s good,” exclaimed Shafterman,” check this out. Inside there are more gadgets than ever. To start, there is a 10 CD changer, AM, FM, LW radio and surround sound. Then there’s an in-car T.V, radar and satellite tracking, food and minibar and Playstation 2 entertainment system. Then there are the weapons. Lasers, RPGs, machine guns, force fields, electromagnetic pulse (EMP Cannon) and missile launchers. All modified.”
“Brilliant.”
“Now,” said McSound, who had appeared from nowhere,” we’ll provide accommodation for you on the 1st floor. We are more secure than the old S.A.H.Q.C so you’ll be safe.”
“What time is it, anyway?”
“9:00 pm. You ought to get some sleep.”
“O.K. Bye.”

Bleep! Bleep! Granes’ alarm went off.
“Oh, boy. Time to go get myself killed.”
He got up and got changed. It was 10:00 AM and the sun was shining fully. After having a bowl of soggy corn flakes he left his temporary 1st floor flat and went up to McSound’s office. He entered the office.
“Next time, knock,” scolded McSound.
“Sorry, sir.”
“Anyway, I’m glad you’re here. I was getting worried. You’re late by one hour. I’ve arranged for you to leave at 12:00 this afternoon. It’s 11:00 at the moment. Cathy’s eating breakfast next door. You have time to check out your car. Would you like a beer?”
“No thanks. Can I ask you a question?”
“Sure.”
“Where are we going to land our plane?”
“New Delhi International Airport.”
“And why did you choose me?”
“Because you are our best man. I’ve told you once; I said it again. No arguments, the debate is over”
“Okay. Thanks.”
He exited the room. He went down to the Gizmo-yard and asked Shafterman if he could take his car out. He had just fitted auto-polish software.
“Just remember, it’s battery powered completely. You don’t have to visit the petrol station anymore. I just put a fuel meter in there for disguise.”
“Thanks. That’s going to save me a lot of time.”
He got into his car and revved it up.
“Wow! 11 000 r/pm in only 7 seconds! That’s amazing!”
“Yep. Good, isn’t it?” Shafterman was impressed with himself.
“Yeah. OK, bye,” said Granes hurriedly, as he switched on the car and pressed down the pedal. The garage door opened automatically and the car flew out of the Gizmo-yard faster than you can say “uncle”. The car propelled itself forwards with mind-blowing speed. Obviously it had the engine of a Dodge Viper or something because its engine was using up speed like there’s no tomorrow. It got up to the end of the M4 in a matter of minutes and the half hour left was spent by rocketing round the M25: London Orbital. He got back at exactly 12:00 pm. Cathy and McSound were waiting at the entrance of the MI6 private airport. McSound beckoned to Granes to take his car to the centre of the airfield. Cathy went to the front of the car.
“I’m driving,” she explained.
“OK. I don’t mind.”
Cathy and Granes swapped places and got into the car.
Knock! Knock! McSound knocked on the window. Cathy opened it.
“I hope you guys make it.”
“Don’t worry, chief. You can count on us.”
“OK. Five seconds to take off. Close your window and wait for the gun blast. Take care.”
“Bye, chief!”
Blast! The gun shot and Cathy pressed the transformation button. After transforming the car into a plane Cathy took off and the agents flew away into the distance.

“Ah, what pleasures lie in flying a plane manually,” said Cathy, head in the clouds.
“Cathy, don’t daydream. Just fly the plane.”
“Sure.”
They landed their jet plane in the New Delhi International airport. The engines went silent and all the natives who lived in the area stared at the gleaming jet in utter astonishment. A brown, open-roof safari truck drove up to them. Inside was a man with a dark tan, sunshades, Bermuda shorts, a t-shirt and sandals. The car came to a stop and the man stepped out. He walked towards them and held out his hand. Granes shook it.
“Good afternoon,” said the man. He had a heavy, unmistakable American accent, strangely enough,” my name is John Mackenzie and I believe that you are Mr. Granes and Miss. Turner?”
The agents nodded.
“Ah! I was expecting you. It is a pleasure to meet two such brilliant agents. Would you like a lift to the I.S.O (Indian Special Operations) building?”
“No. We have our own means of transport.”
Cathy got back into the plane and pressed the transformation button. Instantly the jet changed back into the silver DB7.
“Impressive,” said Mackenzie, amazed.
They all got into their cars and drove off. Granes followed Mackenzie to the I.S.O building. It was a large, marble building with about sixty floors, each with a dark window fitted. Three flags were flying at the top: the Indian flag, the United Nations flag and the Commonwealth flag. They parked in a car park at the rear of the huge, white building. They got out and entered the building. On one of the walls were 16 lifts, one of which was out of order. The north wall was the reception and six receptionists were bustling around trying to serve everyone. In the centre of the building was as large pillar, draped with banners of white, green and orange, the colours of the Indian flag. The three agents walked to the lift at the very end. Granes called the lift. It came about five seconds later. They got in and Mackenzie pressed a button, which took them to the top floor. The trio walked to a door with a sign saying:
Room 89: Chief of Special Operations: Mr. J. Mackenzie.
Mackenzie opened the door and beckoned the others to enter. He closed the door behind him.
“So,” he said, as he sat down in his chair,” I’ve acquired two second floor flats for you and you can come and have a light supper with me in the main hall. I’ll meet you in the reception and show you to the hall at six thirty. It’s six PM now so you can go to rooms seven and nine on the second floor. Here are your keys and I hope you enjoy your short stay at the I.S.O.”
He handed them their keys and showed them to the door.
“Thanks,” said Granes gratefully.
Granes and Cathy went down the corridor together but didn’t say a word to each other. They were to busy thinking about the mission. At the end of the corridor were three lift doors. Cathy called the lift and it came about three seconds later. They got in and Cathy pressed number two. The doors closed and the lift started descending down the lift shaft. A bell rang, signifying the end of the descent to the second floor. The doors opened and they got out. Immediately to their left they saw rooms seven and nine. They fitted the keys into the keyholes and opened the doors. Each room was perfectly identical. You had to remember what the room number was to distinguish them. The only difference was that their suitcases had been brought up to the rooms. At six thirty PM they met outside after having a quick shower and went down to reception. Mackenzie was already there, waiting for them.
“Ah, so you came.”
“Yep. Wouldn’t miss it even if I tried.”
“Good. Come with me.”
They entered an oak, double door. They entered a rather small hall with mirrors on all sides. The carpet was red and the roof was covered in a native Indian painting. There was a single table in the middle that was set out for three. There were coke and fanta bottles, coffee jug and teapots and wine bottles. A dinner of traditional Punjab chicken and yellow rice was laid out in a very tidy manner.
“Dinner is served,” said Mackenzie, gesturing for them to sit down.
“This looks lovely. You prepared this just for tonight? You shouldn’t have,” said Granes, looking at the food with great astonishment.
“Tuck in,” replied Mackenzie, pleased that his guests were content. After being fed and watered, Granes and Cathy went back to their rooms for a long sleep until tomorrow when Mission Gadget went into action.

“Wake up. Wake UP!” Mackenzie woke up Granes at five thirty next day. He threw a white overcoat on the bed. On the chest pocket it was marked F.C.I.T.
“What’s this for,” asked Granes, half asleep.
“It’s your disguise. You can’t just walk into that building. You’d be dead before you could say ‘Oops’. And we don’t want to take any risks, do we?”
“No.”
“Good. Now get changed. Workers start work at six AM and lose a finger every time they’re late. One guy lost all his fingers and four toes. Never mind. Just get changed and don’t ask how I got your disguise.”
“How?”
Mackenzie lifted up one of the legs of his trousers and revealed a bloody, red wound, made obviously by a shotgun. Granes had one just above his ankle made whilst on a mission in Russia. Mackenzie limped out the door and down the corridor.
At ten to six Granes and Cathy met in the hall Mackenzie came and gave them the directions to the building. He also gave them a map of the F.C.I.T.
“Good luck.”
“Thanks!
The agents got into the car and drove to the dreaded building. It was a magnificent green marble tower that was actually in the clouds.
“Here we are, three seconds early,” said Cathy. Granes could sense her fear.
“Let’s go.”
They parked the car outside and entered the building through a back door. They found themselves in a lab, where 150 people were creating a chemical bomb. Granes got out his palm computer and sent this message back to MI6:

All seems clear. Chemical bomb in production. Almost finished. Possible threat. Going to snoop around for a bit.

He pressed send and put it back in his pocket. He and Cathy walked to the other end of the lab and went out and entered a toilet, where he changed his gun to a silenced KF7 Soviet machine gun. He got out of the toilet and went to a room saying: Private. Staff only.
“This looks suspicious. Why do they need a staff only sign if there are no customers?”
He opened the door and saw a man smoking in a swivel chair.
“Wait out here,” said Granes to Cathy,” if anyone dies here it will be me.”
“Sure, I’ll stay here.”
“Here I go.”
Granes entered the office. There were hunting trophies, medals and badges from the Russian Navy. Obviously this man had seen gunfire before. Granes looked on one of the trophies and saw his name: Dmitri Kabalevsky. On one wall he had a record sheet with all the jobs that he had over the last seven years. On it, it said:

2032: F.C.I.T Contract Killer

Next to that was a gold and blue Licence to kill with a signature on it. It was still valid.
“Mr. Kabalevsky. I have a few questions to ask you.”
Kabalevsky turned round and saw Granes. A smile started to grow across his face. He held up an automatic shotgun. Granes looked down to the floor as if he was waiting for five bullets to come crashing through his skull. Granes put his hand in his pocket and tilted his gun so that it was facing Kabalevsky directly.
“Who are you,” thundered Kabalevsky in a deep Russian accent.
“Who wants to know,” said Granes in reply as he pulled the trigger in his pocket. The bullet ripped through his pocket and shattered Kabalevsky’s rib cage. Blood splattered his desk and dripped to the floor. His heart stopped beating.

The alarm went off and people started running down the corridors, scared to death. Guards with black helmets and machine guns were coming up behind the agents.
“Run,” said Granes as he changed his gun to a sniper rifle. He took the map from his pocket and examined it. Two corridors crossed to make a sort of “+” sign on the map. Granes and Cathy were along the vertical corridor, at the bottom and guards were coming from left and right along the horizontal corridor. They just needed to get across their corridor.
“Get out your gun, Cathy. This is going to be deadly.”
They ran down their corridor and the guards corridor grew closer and closer. Granes snatched Cathy’s gun out of her hand and jumped into the horizontal corridor. He spun in the air, bullets whipping past him. He held up the guns on either side of himself and fired, hitting two guards in the chest. They fell to the ground. He did a ninety-degree spin and shot two bullets into another guard’s skull. Granes landed on his feet at the other side of the corridor. He beckoned for Cathy to come. She made a run for it but a guard shot her in the leg. She fell down, screaming in agony and pain. Granes almost went back for her but that would only kill him. Two guards picked her up and ran away with her. The rest of the guards went after Granes. Granes zigzagged down the corridor, bullets ricocheting on the walls. He took the guns and fired backwards. He heard the impact on another guard but couldn’t be sure whether or not he was dead. He turned round and shot the rest of the guards. He ran the rest of the way down the corridor and saw a sign saying:

F.C.I.T Founder and Leader: Goran Jonovich
The two of them entered the room

“I’ve been expecting you, Mr. Granes,” said a voice. From behind a chair a man with black hair and a curly goatee stepped out from behind it.
“Good morning, Mr. Granes. I am Goran Jonovich. What an unpleasant surprise it is to see you now,” said Jonovich, with a villainous smile curled on his long face. Granes got into a fighting position.
“You want a fight,” said Jonovich in a teasing voice,” that wouldn’t be wise. You’ll see why if you come over here.”
Granes cautiously stepped forward. He expected Jonovich to strike him with a stick or shoot him to death at that very minute. Jonovich took a trophy down from a shelf.
“You see. I’ve been a black belt since I was thirteen and look at me now. Thirty-three years old and still in practise. Twenty years of being perfect. And you, only a yellow belt and had lessons for only seven years.”
“How do you know all this about me?”
“Internet. Your chief was stupid enough to store all your personal information on a public access web site. I’ve always loathed McSound.”
Granes hated Jonovich more and more with every word he said.
“If you want a fight you can get one but I can promise you this; the best man shall win.”
The two enemies shook hands with crushing grip. Immediately Jonovich threw a punch at Granes’s head and he spun to the floor. He looked up, nose bleeding as Jonovich did a back flip and crouched down in a Japanese kung-fu fighting position.
“Are you sure you want to do this,” said Jonovich, looking down on his enemy,” I could shoot you and it could be quick and painless. Or do you want to die slowly, painfully. It’s up to you to decide. Your choice.”
“No! We fight to the finish.”
Granes lunged at Jonovich and kicked him in the stomach. He flew across the room and slammed into a bookshelf. Three books fell to the floor: Moby Dick, Worst Terrorist Incidents and The Shining. Jonovich picked up the thickest book (The Shining) and threw it at Granes. He ducked and it went smashing out the window. He turned to look at Jonovich.
“This is where you go down, Jonovich, deep down.”
Granes took a deep breath and did two cartwheels, a double front flip and buried his shoe in Jonovich’s stomach. He was knocked to the floor and bounced of it. He landed on his chest with a thud.

Granes walked over to him. He put his hand in his pocket and curled his fingers around his gun, ready for a surprise attack. When he was about a metre away from Jonovich, the terrorist spun round and held up a PPK pistol and took good aim.
“Don’t move, Granes. You don’t want me to use this.”
Jonovich got up and brushed himself off, still holding up the gun.
“You think you’ve beaten me. Well you’re wrong. You see I’ve got something of yours.”
He pressed a button in the wall and a large wall panel slid up into the roof. Behind it was the back of a chair with a figure sitting in it. The person was tied up with a thick rope and was gagged. Jonovich spun the person round and Granes instantly recognised their face. Cathy Turner was Goran Jonovich’s hostage.
“Let her go. Now!”
“No. I have decided against that measure. You see, the MI6 has been on my tail since I started this corporation. Nine whole years of having to tolerate your petty guns and bombs. Well not any more. I have my missile launcher fixed and ready. My soldiers are practically waiting to press the button. And they will. And I am going to rid myself of you two myself.”
He held up his gun to Cathy’s head. Granes saw her fiddle around with something in her pocket. She managed to get it out. It was the stun gun, disguised as an eye-lining pencil. She held it with two fingers and, with her thumb, pressed the activation button. A blast of electricity burned through the ropes that held Cathy to the chair and stunned Jonovich. His mouth was wide and his eyes were popping. For a split second you could see his skeletal structure. And then he crumpled up to the floor. Granes ran over to Cathy and un-gagged her. Then crouched down next to Jonovich and took the mine out of his pocket. He also took out a screwdriver and some screws. He screwed the mine down into the floor tightly. Then he set the timer for five minutes.
“By then we better be out of here,” he said, ”Jonovich would have woken up by then.”

Granes bounded down the corridor, cautiously making sure the coast was clear. Cathy was limping because of her shot leg. An alarm went off and Granes expected guards to be shooting at them at any minute. They turned a corner and saw ten guards, guns out ready to shoot. Granes and Cathy turned round and saw another ten, armed guards. They were cornered. Granes suddenly had an idea. He reached into his pocket and touched his smoke bomb. He ran his finger through the bristles and smoke started billowing out of his pocket. Within seconds the area was covered in a thick, choking smoke. Granes ran down the corridor, carrying Cathy on his back. Bullets ricocheted all around them. They could hear guards dying because of stray bullets. When the smoke cleared the agents looked back and saw that all the guards had killed each other in the dark. They got to the exit and went outside. They climbed into their car, Cathy in the drivers seat. She had to use her left foot for acceleration and braking. The car roared into life and they were off.
“Well, we did it,” said Granes, who had a deep cut in the side of his face.
“Don’t count on it,” came the reply from Cathy, who was looking at the rear view mirror.
Granes looked back and saw that they hadn’t completed their mission. Two safari trucks, each with a guard driving, were chasing after them. The driver of each truck was leaning out with a gun in hand. They started shooting. One bullet shattered the glass screen at the back and another smashed the windscreen.
“We’d better get out of here,” said Granes.
Boom!! The mine inside the building exploded. Boom!! Another explosion, probably the chemical bomb, blew away the west wing of the complex. Two balls of fire came together to form one colossal sphere of flames. It’s fire licked up to a safari truck, which overheated the engine. The car blew up from the inside and burnt bits of debris and dismembered body parts were sent flying through the air.
“What luck,” said Cathy who was watching through the rear view mirror.
The remaining guard was still hot on their tail and shooting. Pshee!! He shot a bullet into the back left tyre and it was shrinking by the minute.
“No one deflates my tyres and gets away with it,” said Granes angrily.
He pressed a button on the glove box and activated his in-car laptop. He opened up the satellite to pinpoint exactly where the guard was on the planet earth. After he had found him he opened up the weapons menu. He scrolled down to the EMP Cannon and selected it. He went back to satellite tracking where the guard was still highlighted and clicked on him. On the side of the car a cannon folded out and swivelled to face upwards. There was a loud blast as the cannon shot out a large, blue and red ball with electricity pulsing through it. The pulse went at lightning speed upwards. In space the satellite was directly above the DB7 and was at an angle. The pulse ricocheted off the satellite and went directly for the guard. It hit the truck and exploded, sending the rest of the pulse within a five-metre radius of the car. The truck immediately stopped and stayed there. The pulse had disabled it.
“Fire one successful,” said Granes, ”now for the big finale. I can use radar for this.”
On the laptop he opened up the radar. On top of the car a large radar dish emerged and started to rotate slowly. The truck was reactivated and was going after them again. On the laptop screen a red circle with a dot in the middle appeared. Granes pressed a button on the laptop keyboard and a white line grew from the white dot to the edge of the circumference to represent the radius of tracking. The two vehicles were coming close to the gate of what was the complex. The truck was gaining on the DB7 since the Aston Martin had a flat tyre. The radar had tracked down the truck and was preparing a homing missile. The DB7 had passed the gate. The truck was about to pass it as well.
“Mission Accomplished,” said Granes triumphantly, as he pressed the fire button.
The blue and white missile was fired out from underneath the car. It swivelled round and headed for the DB7. It was going at a very fast speed and the agents knew something was wrong. Then, all of a sudden, it turned sharply to avoid them and rocketed towards its intended target.
“Phew,” sighed Granes and Cathy simultaneously.
The truck was level with the gate when Boom!! It was hit. Bits of burning debris were raining around the crater where the car was. The bad thing was that every few metres there was a component tower with a security laser attached to it. As the wall fell in flames, the component towers exploded one by one. As the DB7 cruised down the mile long driveway twenty-six component towers went up in balls of flames. Pieces of concrete were falling from the sky, crashing around the DB7. Cathy pressed the transformation button and the car turned into a M16 jet.

The jet landed back at MI6 and immediately McSound’s black Mercedes-Benz sped up to them. The chief got out and ran over to Granes. They were quickly embraced in a huge hug.
“I’ve got three things to thank you for,” laughed McSound,” one, you have done the mission brilliantly. Two, you’ve risked your lives to save the world and I still have my best agent. And three, well, one and two should be enough.”
He laughed and hugged him again.
“Chief, you never told me about Mackenzie,” said Granes,” I was expecting a black haired native to take me to their hut.”
“Who cares? You’re here and the world is safe. Come on. I’ve arranged a dinner on your behalf. Your family and friends are all here and the best chefs and cooks from London are serving the best English cuisine in Great Britain. Come on in to the Great Hall. Dinner is served.”
They entered the hall and everybody cheered.
“Speech, speech!” someone shouted out.
Granes walked up to a podium up at the front of the hall and cleared his throat.
“Well. Firstly, I am really glad that I am here to witness this wonderful surprise and that the worst threat to the civilised world has been terminated for good. The mission was jam-packed with danger but I have to admit, the karate match with Jonovich was rather fun. Here’s a summary of what happened.”
He went through his mission quickly and dismissed himself. There was a big round of applause. He went and sat down to dinner with his family. His wife kissed him on the cheek and he thought of all the time he spent away from home. He was glad to be back. At the podium McSound went up to say something.
“Excuse me everyone,” he said.
Everybody went quiet.
“On behalf of the citizens of the world, I have great pleasure in awarding Mr. Granes and Miss. Turner with an International Freedom Fighters award.”
There was another huge round of applause as Granes and Cathy went up to the front to accept their awards. McSound kissed Cathy on the cheek and gave her award to her. Then Granes embraced McSound as he gave him his award. As they embraced, McSound whispered,” I want to see you in my office immediately,” into Granes’s ear. They got off the podium together and they slipped out of the hall.
“What’s wrong, sir,” said Granes, puzzled.
“You’ll see,” replied McSound.
They entered the office and McSound switched on his computer. He activated a web-cam of the F.C.I.T ruins. And there was Jonovich next to his battered missile launcher. He had lost his right arm in the blast and was curled up on the floor, waiting to die.
“Jonovich is still there. And he has the ability to re-gain health again.”
“So I haven’t completed my mission.”
“Not yet. You better go. You need your rest.”
“Bye, sir.”
Outside, he got into his car and went home a tired man with his wife. As he turned into 16A Conner Street he started thinking about Jonovich. He went into his house and went upstairs to bed. As his wife got in with him he said to himself,” I guess only time can tell what’ll happen to Jonovich. Until then I might as well enjoy life.”

The End?