{"id":1912,"date":"2021-12-23T15:22:28","date_gmt":"2021-12-23T23:22:28","guid":{"rendered":"http:\/\/lewczyk.net\/tomswritings\/?p=1912"},"modified":"2022-02-09T20:07:27","modified_gmt":"2022-02-10T04:07:27","slug":"bonded-classic-unfinished-story","status":"publish","type":"post","link":"http:\/\/lewczyk.net\/tomswritings\/?p=1912","title":{"rendered":"Bonded [Classic] (unfinished story)"},"content":{"rendered":"\n

It’s called ‘Bond-ed’ because the main character is supposed to be like a James Bond.<\/span><\/em><\/p>\n\n\n\n

\n\n\n\n

Faintly, a distant thrumming impinged itself upon my awareness. Barely audible, over the wash of wind through the jungle, a single drum sang a wordless song of life and death in the harsh African wilds. The drummer seemed to keep time within my heart, or my heart with him, as I was drawn urgently deeper into the night.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

The assignment I had been given was simple: to locate Dennis Padelda, and kill him. Dennis Padelda. Doctor<\/em> Dennis Padelda \u2013 self-proclaimed professor of anthropology, and big-game hunter. Padelda’s presence had never graced the hallowed halls of any university capable of bestowing such a degree. However, his expertise in tracking and hunting was unquestionable \u2013 and it eased the bruised egos of genuine professors who sought his advice to refer to him as Doctor Padelda.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Padelda’s contributions to science were incontestable. There were few zoos in the world worth their reputation that did not boast of one or more rare additions by Padeldo to their menagerie \u2013 an endangered cockatoo from the Amazon, or a beautiful but deadly poisonous lizard from the western marshes of Madagascar. I neither liked nor disliked this man. In a job like mine, one did best to set feelings and opinions aside \u2013 as hate made one eager and careless, while love might stay one’s trigger finger just long enough for your target to become your executioner.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

I had been hired by one Ernesto Sardinio, a shipping tycoon worth nine or ten figures, American. I felt fewer qualms than usual when I told his representative, a small, well-tailored Greek, that my fee was five hundred thousand francs up front, and five hundred thousand upon completion of the job. \u041d\u0435 didn’t bat an eye he reached into the black satchel he had been carrying and stacked the notes on the table between us. I glanced about quickly to see if we were attracting undue notice, but the place he had chosen, an elegant outdoor cafe on the Rue des Ouderes in Paris, was ideal for such intrigue. Its large, numerous ferns and ornate steel-wrought columns provided nothing but occasional glimpses of one\u2019s fellow conspirators. A glimpse of further notes in the satchel caused me a moment of regret that I had not asked for more. But a moment was all, because we then began to discuss the details. <\/p>\n\n\n\n

“Sardinio would like \u0406 you to allow a man of his choice to accompany you,\u201d the Greek informed me. He said ‘Sardinio\u2019 as if it were a title, and not a name. \u201cThe man is called Sander O’Delphian. Perhaps you have heard of him.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

I had indeed heard of O\u2019Delphian. Up until eight or nine years before, O’Delphion had been an agent on the English secret service. He had an impeccable reputation for success, and a keen marksman’s eye. Something happened \u2013 perhaps a too-close brush with death \u2013 that convinced him that he should be earning better money for what had been trained to do. He now worked freelance out of Brussels, and no doubt would be a good man to have at one\u2019s side if things got thick. <\/p>\n\n\n\n

“I work alone.” I replied simply, and rose to go \u2013 leaving the money untouched.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

The Greek was undaunted. \u201cPerhaps some further inducement?” he asked as he reached into the satchel, eyebrows raised.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

“No.” I said, pushing in my chair. I trusted no one but myself. A man nearby with a gun is an unpredictable, and perhaps fatal, threat. Also, I have certain codes and methods that I will not capitulate no matter what inducement.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

The Greek smiled sincerely, as if secretly pleased that I had lived up to his expectations. He rose and said, “Very well, I assume you will be in touch.\u201d He had given me a telephone number with an Athens exchange.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cI will,” I agreed.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\n\n\n\n

I now found myself at the edge of Padela’s estate. He had made use of a several-acre clearing as a base of operations in Kenya. The thick forest opened up into a well-tended circular area three or four hundred feet in diameter. A large single-story house stood in the center between myself and the only road leading to the estate. I tried to guess the surveillance system: three guards, I decided \u2013 two mobile, and one concealed outpost a few hundred yards down the road. Also electronic surveillance: three or four long-range infrared cameras. I took out my Corman night binoculars and scanned the building.  I located two cameras: one still slowly scanning the jungle’s edge, the other pointed straight at me.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Cursing my carelessness, I swallowed my panic and quickly repacked the binoculars. I rose only to meet the sap that was whispering toward my head. My sudden movement disturbed my assailant\u2019s aim enough to make the blow glance off the side of my head and strike my collarbone with a dry snap. Turning, I had visions of overpowering the man and still making my escape. Unfortunately, my actions were slower than my thoughts, as a second blow welcomed the night into my brain.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\n\n\n\n

I opened my eyes. Padelda stared down at me with equal portions of interest and disinterest. I closed my eyes again, hoping this was all \u0430 dream and that I would have another chance to undo my mistakes and complete the job as planned. I found myself thinking about a beach I knew in Spain where, a lifetime ago, I had splashed in the sun with a girl ten years younger than me. Three days I will never forget. I had vowed to return to that beach one day, and now found myself regretting that I would never make it.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

My broken collarbone hurt dully as if caught in mid-throb. It felt as if it had been treated, and I was thankful that my captors had had the decency to ease my pain before they killed me.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

It was about time for Padelda smile and say in a slightly accented voice \u201cGood morning, Mr. Bond.\u201d Of course, he would say \u2018Mr. Parker’ instead of ‘Mr. Bond\u2019, but the rest would be the same. Insincere consolations on my failure, and finally \u2013 a diabolically clever trap from which, unlike Mr. Bond, I would not be able to escape, and would perish hideously.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\n\n\n\n

I have some additional notes on this story \u2013 some about making the main character more \u2018Bond-like\u2019 (having him smoke cigarettes, for example) and others about what happens next: his target lets him go, he gets driven back to town, but somehow escapes his driver\u2026 Nothing more, though.<\/span><\/em><\/p>\n\n\n\n

Posting my old stories inspires me to write more, and even possibly clean up some of these old stories. For example, in this story, I was looking forward to learning how the agreement was reached that landed the main character. I imagined that maybe he had eventually agreed to work with the other assassin, but had killed (or incapacitated) him.<\/span><\/em><\/p>\n\n\n\n

I do notice that many of my old stories start out fairly strong (and interesting) \u2013 but then wrap quickly (and thinly). I think that I get bored of the story, and just try to close it out and move on. Maybe if I started with an overall story outline? Or had a schedule that forced me to spend X hours on the story over Y days \u2013 to ensure it gets attention all the way through the plot\u2026<\/span><\/em><\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"

It’s called ‘Bond-ed’ because the main character is supposed to be like a James Bond. Faintly, a distant thrumming impinged itself upon my awareness. Barely audible, over the wash of wind through the jungle, a single drum sang a wordless song of life and death in the harsh African wilds. The drummer seemed to keep … <\/p>\n

Continue reading “Bonded [Classic] (unfinished story)”<\/span><\/a><\/p>\n","protected":false},"author":1,"featured_media":0,"comment_status":"open","ping_status":"open","sticky":false,"template":"","format":"standard","meta":[],"categories":[9],"tags":[],"_links":{"self":[{"href":"http:\/\/lewczyk.net\/tomswritings\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/posts\/1912"}],"collection":[{"href":"http:\/\/lewczyk.net\/tomswritings\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/posts"}],"about":[{"href":"http:\/\/lewczyk.net\/tomswritings\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/types\/post"}],"author":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"http:\/\/lewczyk.net\/tomswritings\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/users\/1"}],"replies":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"http:\/\/lewczyk.net\/tomswritings\/index.php?rest_route=%2Fwp%2Fv2%2Fcomments&post=1912"}],"version-history":[{"count":5,"href":"http:\/\/lewczyk.net\/tomswritings\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/posts\/1912\/revisions"}],"predecessor-version":[{"id":2062,"href":"http:\/\/lewczyk.net\/tomswritings\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/posts\/1912\/revisions\/2062"}],"wp:attachment":[{"href":"http:\/\/lewczyk.net\/tomswritings\/index.php?rest_route=%2Fwp%2Fv2%2Fmedia&parent=1912"}],"wp:term":[{"taxonomy":"category","embeddable":true,"href":"http:\/\/lewczyk.net\/tomswritings\/index.php?rest_route=%2Fwp%2Fv2%2Fcategories&post=1912"},{"taxonomy":"post_tag","embeddable":true,"href":"http:\/\/lewczyk.net\/tomswritings\/index.php?rest_route=%2Fwp%2Fv2%2Ftags&post=1912"}],"curies":[{"name":"wp","href":"https:\/\/api.w.org\/{rel}","templated":true}]}}