Finally, Bond had found the camp. Less than twenty-four hours after leaving London, he was now standing in the middle of a jungle, which seemed to stretch on endlessly. Yet, he was only a one-hour drive away from the nearest airport with international flights. It was the perfect hide out for a group of mercenaries. Having climbed one of the large trees surrounding the site, he could overlook the small valley in front of him.

Three makeshift huts, blending perfectly into the shrub, were probably just decoys, hiding the actual entrance to the headquarter below the ground. Several vehicles with camouflage paint parked under the looming branches and enormous leaves. A satellite dish was built into a small hill at the outskirts of the camp. No wonder, MI6 had been unable to locate Silva's group before.

As it was getting dark, Bond decided to stay on his perch for the night. The tree was huge, heavy branches stretching out over the valley, shielding him from view, while giving him the perfect vantage point for a prolonged watch. He had gone dark from MI6, cutting the commlink and trackers a few hours ago. He needed time to think before he continued with the mission and blew this whole set up to smithereens.

The night before, Robinson had told him about how they got hold of the intel. How he had recognised the pattern in apparent scam mails, first sent to Boothroyd, and then to Robinson. Every other day for six weeks someone from that camp in that valley had managed to send an email to MI6. When Robinson succeeded with deciphering the messages, all by the "honourable Prince Dasyurini of Nigeria", he had the names and bios of all the members of Silva's group of mercenaries, lists of former, ongoing and imminent hits and attacks.

However, when Robinson first had tried to draw attention to the emails, Boothroyd had dismissed him. Accusing him of wasting his time, even ridiculing him for being interested in obvious spam mail. Robinson continued working on them in his spare time. Bond recalled being turned down on several occasions, wondering if it really was work or if Robinson finally was fed up with him.

Robinson replied to some of the mails as if he believed the spam, but actually using the same code to ask for further information and clarifications. By then, he again tried to alert Boothroyd, who didn't hesitate to present Robinson's findings for M as if they were due to Boothroyd's intervention. M was pleased, and Robinson was fuming.

Bond couldn't help himself grinning at the memory of a furious Robinson, getting undressed in the middle of Bond's entrance, while cursing like a sailor. Bond shifted into a better position, leaning back against the tree trunk, using his bag pack as a cushion. Vividly, he remembered the ensuing sex, Robinson refusing to talk until they both were lying exhausted and panting side by side on his bed. Bond could almost smell the musky scents, see and feel Robinson's black skin, which had been covered with glinting pearls of sweat. Bond cleared his throat. Both of them were utterly debauched after this truly epic shag. Robinson's anger had almost vanished in their lustful coupling. Almost.

"Why the hell couldn't he just give me some credit for the findings, James?" he asked, still a bit breathless.

Bond considered, caressing Robinson's back, placing a light kiss on his temple.

"Boothroyd is old. He," Bond bid his lower lip.

"He can't accept a black man is able to work things out all by himself, right? Right."

Robinson heaved a deep sigh.

"Oh, holy Queen Mary, and I didn't believe Evy, when she told me."

Bond pulled him into his arms and held him tight.

"I'm sorry. And, if it's any help, I'd talk to Mallory."

In fact, Bond had already been talking with M. Something needed to be done with Boothroyd and his department. Too many near misses during the past months, when agents were forced to go into the field with faulty equipment, messed up action plans, and patchy intel.

"No. It's fine, James. Nothing new here. I just thought."

Robinson shook his head, the stubble tickling against Bond's chest. They were silent for a while. Robinson breathing calmly in his arms, as Bond wished he could right his world.

"Do you know anything about who's sending those messages? Who they are?"

"No, I've tried to coax them into telling me, but they just kept writing to look for the minion of Prince Dasyurini, which, well, doesn't make much sense. Nobody by that name in any royal family, I could find."

Robinson untangled himself from Bond's arms, lying back beside him.

"Why do you ask?"

Gently, Bond carded his fingers through his chest hair.

"I've got my mission brief today. Find Silva's group, eliminate every member, and return."

Bond paused. Robinson pushed himself up and away from Bond, his body tense with renewed anger.

"What?"

Bond nodded quietly.

"You're kidding me?"

"No. No, I'm not. Mallory didn't tell me anything about how they got the intel. Only mentioned Silva and Patrice. He knows, I would go after them no matter what. But," Bond frowned. "I don't like the idea of taking someone down, who actually helped us find those bastards."

Patrice had been on their most wanted list for years, always eluding capture, as did Silva. They had surveillance sketchy surveillance photos of both. Bond had never seen any of them, just the results of their work. Burned down villages, massacred civilians, rape victims, children abducted to become soldiers or suicide bombers. Patrice had been pointed out as the one responsible for Ronson's death. Sebastian Ronson, one of Bond's closest friends, his lover for a longer time than most of his bed mates. He cleared his throat, swallowing the lump that was almost choking him. Even now, sitting in a jungle with the air filled with the opposing scents of musty decay and blooming lushness, he could taste and smell the tang of iron from the blood coating Sebastian's chest. Could feel, how life was draining away from a body, he had pinned to his bed, kissed, licked, bitten even. Remembered how he watched the soul leaving the eyes of his beloved friend, as he tried to cling to life, to use his last breath to relay much needed information. And Bond followed orders, left Ronson instead of staying, holding his hand, comforting him in his last minutes.

Bond shook his head, again focussing on his surroundings, the sounds and smells enveloping him in the here and now. As darkness fell, the jungle became full of life and vitality. He closed his eyes, forcing his mind back to the night before.

"Why? Why would they want to kill someone, who helped us?" Robinson had looked disbelieving at Bond.

"For one, Mallory might think, this is a trap. Or simply wants to make sure, I'll get everyone, so Silva is dealt with once and for all."

Robinson had sat up on the bed, his arms hanging over his bend knees, a deep frown on his face.

"Maybe," he had paused and tilted his head. Considering. Taking a breath, as if wanting to speak. Falling silent again. Finally, he had turned his head to Bond.

"Could there be, I don't know, a mole or something in MI6?"

Now it had been Bond's turn to sit up. Instinctively, he had checked the room. Listened for unexpected, unfamiliar sounds. But only the muted sounds of London's traffic were heard.

"What makes you say that?" he had asked warily.

"I don't know. Not really, it's just," Robinson had shaken his head. "It's probably nothing. I mean, I'm still the newbie in Tanner's group. But some of the things, the analysts are talking about, well. I mean, it's something about one of the other new guys. Things gone missing, reports delivered too late. One of the secretaries saw him at a pub, talking to another guy."

Bond had grinned at that.

"Yeah, I know," Robinson had smiled back, a bit embarrassed. "Only, it's one of the pubs, Evy and I visit, when we want to make sure none of you guys are around. As I said," Robinson had shrugged his shoulders. "Probably nothing."

Still, it had made Bond think. He hadn't questioned the mission when Mallory briefed him. Maybe Robinson was right. Bond had known him before he became Tanner's assistant. Moneypenny had introduced her cousin to him when he had visited her, after he had recovered from the gun shot. He had wanted to make sure she knew that he didn't blame her for anything. He still didn't understand why she had been demoted after the incident. Her assessment of the situation had been correct. Even Bond could see that the shot would have high risk to miss. And she had just followed orders.

Which was why he appeared at Moneypenny's flat and met her lovely cousin, Charles Robinson. Charlie. Bond had been head over heels, they barely made it home to his flat, before they both were naked and writhing on his bed sheets. He couldn't remember how many times they went at each other during that night, but safe to say, they were sore and worn out the next morning. Bond smiled smugly at that memory. He adjusted himself. Negotiations were surprisingly easy, both not looking for a relationship, and the sex had been spectacular ever since.

Shaking his head at the memories, he turned his mind to Boothroyd being an arse to get his libido back under control. A wank while sitting on a watch out had never been a good idea. So, Boothroyd and his antics were a much better way to continue his reminiscing. The old man had always been a genius of his field. However, in the past months Bond had been increasingly worried about the performance of Boothroyd's department. Intel being delivered too slowly, actions not carried out according to plans, gadgets breaking when they should have been working well. Bond felt envious when he heard Felix talking about their R&D department and the equipment, they used when they were in the field. No, things were not running well at MI6. Not at all.

Robinson's suspicion about a mole were far too believable for Bond's liking. He hadn't had time to inform Mallory, wasn't even sure, if Mallory could be trusted.

Watching the camp below him, Bond decided to settle in for the night. He let his mind wander, now, slowly sinking into a quiet calmness, his mind percolating the events of the past days. Names, faces, words, sentences, becoming meaningful, only to break apart, gaining new importance and connotations. Not chasing answers or solutions, just letting go.

He would doze into a deep sleep for mere minutes, resurfacing for a few seconds, his senses trained to assess his surroundings in moments, before sinking back into sleep.

When the first light of the day filtered through the leaves of the tree, Bond was wide awake, surprisingly well rested. Below, the camp was still quiet, and Bond climbed down to the ground, to relief himself and get a closer look at the campsite, before deciding how to complete his mission. He checked in with Six, his commlink working well, despite being in the middle of nowhere. It was Robinson on the other end, probably having changed shifts to be able to take care of Bond's mission. Being the new assistant, Robinson would have a handler close by. They would have to keep it brief and to the point. Bond kept his trackers turned off, and just let Robinson talk. A new mail by the "Prince" had stated that all of Silva's mercenaries currently were located at the headquarter, planning out two new missions. Bond acknowledged, without explaining about his current whereabouts, even as the handler, probably R, was scolding Robinson for not asking. Bond ended the call. No need to let a possible mole in on his location or the deeper machinations of his mission.

He turned his mind back to the camp below. If Robinson was right, the men would have to be assembled somewhere below those huts. This would be a good opportunity to get rid of the whole group at once. Bond took his mobile and turned it off. It would do no good in the next hours, not until the explosives were in place and he had found the man, who had helped him get here in the first place. He hoped all the other features R&D had promised to install in this small thing, would work when he needed them. If, if he needed them, that was. An hour later, and he had placed the explosive devices, ready to go within minutes, once he pressed the right sequence on his mobile. He looked across the valley, where he now could see the first signs of life. He was about to turn around, when he felt the muzzle of a gun pushed gently into his back.

"Don't move," a low, pleasant voice said, adding an unnecessary, but polite "Please."

Before Bond could react, a click indicated the releasing of the safety catch and slowly, Bond lifted his hands. His mind was racing.

How had the man been able to sneak up on him? He hadn't heard a thing!

The muzzle in his back was being pushed slightly, indicating him to begin walking towards the valley. This was taking things out of his hand, he thought with a small smile. Now, he would at least have the possibility to find the person, who had sent the emails. Without the need to explain things to Mallory. Still, the man behind him being able to catch him unawares was irritatingly annoying. More so, he felt, than the gun currently pointing at his back.

The walk downhill was silent. His captor made sure, they both were clearly visible to the people, who now gathered outside one of the huts, pointing and gesticulating in their direction. When they reached the front of the hut, a white-haired man with a deeply unpleasant smile came out to meet them. Bond stopped, taking his arms down. He easily recognised Silva from the surveillance photos.

"Well, well, well, Quoll, darling, what did you find for us to play with today?"

Silva's intonation was as unpleasant and arrogant as his smile. The man behind Bond stepped to the side, the muzzle leaving his back. The man bowed his head, the well-worn, too large hoodie covering his face, hanging loosely on his slight body frame. Bond hid his surprise when he saw the sniper rifle in the hands of his captor. It seemed far too big for him, but he was holding it with ease and a certain grace. Bond was still puzzled about the fact that this man had been able to move so silently through the shrub, especially since the rifle was fitted with a night scope, making it a clumsy weapon in the dense thicket. Had he watched Bond through the night? This was beyond annoying.

"I found him on the top of the hill, over there, Sir," the man said quietly, pointing in the direction behind them.

Another man came out of the hut. His hair short cropped and he sported a three-day shadow. He eyed Bond suspiciously.

"Did you touch him?" was his first, rather unexpected question.

Bond looked at the man, Patrice, he surmised, and then turned towards his captor, who stood silently a few feet away from him, his head still bowed.

"No?" Bond answered, bewildered as to what this was all about.

"Quoll?"

His captor shook his head.

"Speak!"

"No, Sir."

Silva grinned at the exchange.

"Patrice, darling, you should have faith in your pet. Remember, he was trained by the best," he winked at Patrice, licking his lips.

Patrice huffed.

"One never knows what that bitch is up to. Always prowling around the grounds at night."

"Yes, dearest Patrice, and look what he brought back today. Such a nice little pet, knows its place and brings us gifts."

"Search him," Patrice ordered, keeping his eyes on Bond, who returned the grim look with a small smile.

His mind was reeling. None of the other men looked anywhere as cowed as his captor. Quoll. What kind of name was that? Twelve men, including Silva, Patrice and – Quoll, who now was patting down his clothes, taking his bag pack, carefully and gentle like the way he had handled the gun before. Of course, he would find the mobile. And Bond's Walther PPK, and the two knifes. He even took his watch, his fingers working tenderly when he opened the wristband. Then, he handed everything to Patrice, still keeping his eyes on the ground.

"See what you can do with the mobile," Patrice returned it to Quoll, who studied it for a short moment.

The men were dividing their attention between Silva and Patrice on one hand, and Bond on the other. Bond looked bored, relaxed even. As if he was waiting for Silva and Patrice to just get on with it. In reality his attention was on Quoll. According to Boothroyd, the phone could not be hacked. Yet, within minutes, Quoll had obviously gained access and was typing furiously. A few moments later, he handed the phone back to Patrice, who glanced at it without any interest, and passed it on to Silva. Bond hid his uneasiness. Quoll must have accessed the files and memos on the phone, including texts and mails from Six. Yet, neither he nor Patrice had reacted as if they just had discovered Bond's real identity.

Silva took a longer time to check through the phone, reading and frowning a bit. Bond was watching the men, now all focussed on Silva. If Silva had found out who Bond really was, that information might give his "Prince" away.

"Oho," Silva said, looking with renewed interest at Bond, who tried to hide the fact that he was scrutinising the other men. "So, Mister Sterling. Richard Sterling, Import and Export, you're here to, what exactly?"

In this moment, Bond sent a heartfelt Thank you to his late instructor Scotty. Always be prepared for surprises. Never give away that you don't know what is going on. Instead of gasping and throwing an amazed look at Quoll, who stood as if nothing out of the ordinary had happened, Bond gave his biggest smile and looked slyly at Silva.

"Well, Mister Silva, as you probably already have realised, I came here for business," Bond drawled out.

He turned to look pointedly at the men, one by one, as if assessing their worth in a fight.

Somehow, Quoll must have been able to change the setup of his phone. Bond had worked out his alias together with Robinson one evening. They had fun creating the back story, family, friends. Websites, accounts, financial statements, memberships in industrial groups and think tanks. Robinson had photoshopped pictures of Bond into embraces and meetings with presidents and monarchs all over the World. Over time, they had developed mail accounts, including correspondence, orders, invitations. Robinson had constructed some kind of filter, which he could activate for Bond to use on various devices. Like the mobile, currently in the hands of Silva. A filter, only Robinson and Bond knew about. A filter, only Robinson knew how to install.

Well, Robinson and Quoll, which had Bond wondering if Mallory knew something about Quoll, since he apparently had wanted him killed. Or if somebody else knew about Quoll? Somebody at Six, who wanted to make sure, Quoll was taken care of?

At least, now Bond was sure who actually was hiding behind the alias Prince Dasyurini. Which meant, he had to get both himself and Quoll out of this mess, before he blew up the whole valley.

With that, the Sterling persona was ready to go, including hiring a group of mercenaries to kill off perceived competition in a faraway country.

Bond kept it brief, not elaborating too much on how he wanted his competitors killed off, how he was about to become the de facto ruler in one of the smaller Central Asia countries, already having installed a muppet of his as the president.

While most of the men began to load some of the vehicles, preparing for their next missions, Silva turned to one of the other huts, beckoning Bond inside. Patrice and Quoll followed. Quoll carrying Bond's backpack and weapons, which he sat down on the floor beside himself. Patrice was still wary of this alleged businessman, asking questions, repeatedly demanding some kind of proof. Fortunately, Silva had returned Bond's mobile to Quoll. Every time, Patrice asked for verification, Quoll provided the needed evidence. Still, the silent man kept his head bowed, blending into the background as if trying to disappear right before their eyes. The sniper rifle, now hanging on Quoll's back, loomed larger than the man carrying it, almost as if the weight was shrinking him further.

At one point of the conversation or rather interrogation, one of the other men came to ask some questions. They had some trouble with the storage on one of the vans and apparently needed some advice regarding some weaponry. Patrice left, and a short time later another man demanded Silva's attention. Giving strict orders to Quoll to keep an eye on their "guest", he left, and they were alone.

Without a word, Quoll handed Bond the mobile. Taking his backpack, and, after hesitating a second, his weapons, he then turned to the door.

"Which way –"

Quoll shook his head and pointed to the backdoor, but otherwise remained motionless. Bond didn't think twice, grabbed the man's wrist and pulled him out of that door with him. Quoll didn't fight him, just followed his lead. It was a short sprint, before they could dive into the thick greenery surrounding the camp. Nobody called out or seemed to realise they were escaping. The first plants closed behind them, leaving them in a shadowy underworld. Bond stopped to get his bearings. Quoll continued past him, before stopping, and for the first time since they had met, held his head up and looked surprised at Bond. Bond deliberately took the mobile and tapped in the sequence for the explosives. He showed three fingers, taking one down after the other. Quoll nodded, then indicated a barely visible path, now taking the lead, as they both began to run.

They made it further into the jungle, far enough to relative safety from the blast that came sure enough. The shock wave threw them to the ground, branches and leaves dropping on them. As they got up, shaking off some of the debris, they had a clear view of the devastation, they had left behind. The valley was gone. Instead, a dusty crater had opened. A few pieces of some of the vehicles were still discernible as such in the mud and rubble.

An eerie silence followed. No birds screeching, no buzzing insects, no swishing of leaves. Just silence.

Bond stood in front of Quoll when he heard a familiar sound from behind. The cocking of the safety catch, which he had heard a few hours earlier. Slowly, he turned around, keeping his hands by his sides.

Quoll stood in front of him. He had the rifle up on his right shoulder and aimed directly at Bond.

Bond frowned, while he lifted his hands. Every move in slow motion, his eyes locked at the barrel of the gun. He couldn't see the trigger, but he saw the moment Quoll stopped breathing, stopped moving entirely. A split second later, Bond threw himself to the ground, pulling out his gun, as the shot rang out into the wasteland in front of them. Before Bond could react, Quoll took down the rifle.

"He took away my name and life."

Quoll's voice was toneless.

He reloaded and took aim at a second target somewhere above Bond's head. Bond turned around, still lying on the ground, and saw a small figure running up the hill, on which he had been watching over the valley the night before. As the second shot rang out, the figure stopped, arms flailing, then fell out of sight into the high grass.

Bond stood and looked from where the man had fallen back at Quoll.

"He killed him."

Quoll said matter of factly, then drew a deep breath.

Slowly, he took down the rifle, put on the safety catch, emptied the magazine, then laid the rifle down on the ground in front of him. He straightened up, looking back up at the hill. Unmoving for a few moments. With a small nod to himself, he took a box of bullets out of one of his coat's pockets and poured the bullets out on top of the firearm. From another pocket, he pulled a smaller gun, put it down in front of him as well. More bullets followed. Next, he took some dead, dried leaves and branches, and shifted them on top of his small pile. Finally, he retrieved a lighter, a cheap plastic model. He bent down, held one hand around the top of the lighter, shielding the small flame, and set the heap on fire. He waited a few moments, until he was sure that the fire had caught on. Then he stood, put the lighter away, and watched silently in front of the fire, which slowly gained in strength.

Bond had moved away, standing a bit to one side of Quoll. He felt something significant was happening. That rifle had been in use for a long time. At least five years, if not a decade, judging by the model, the well-kept, but worn leather strap, the equally clean metal parts. And Quoll knew how to use it. That last shot had been at least at a range of 2 000 meters.

Quoll still hadn't moved, and Bond decided that he had to break whatever ritual he was performing. Those bullets would be exploding soon. Again, he grabbed the man's wrist and pulled him along. And like the before, Quoll followed without objection.

Bond followed the trail back to what would count as the main road. Without the need to hurry, they both fell into an easy jog trot. Neither of them talked, only their breathing and the sound of their foot fall were heard. The jungle around them had fallen silent again, once all of the bullets had exploded.

About one hour later, Bond had found his way back to the off-road vehicle, he had hidden the day before. They got into the car, and Bond texted Robinson to get two seats on a private plane back to London. He turned to Quoll.

"What's your name?"

Quoll didn't react right away. His eyes were distant, and he visibly pulled himself out of some kind of trance. He frowned at Bond's question.

"I," he hesitated. "I don't have a name."

"Quoll?"

Quoll looked away, his throat working. Bond could see him blinking away tears.

"He was my pet. A quoll. An Australian marsupial. I found him, when we were on a mission in New Guinea. He was injured, I nursed him back to health. I was allowed to keep him."

He fell silent, fighting emotions and memories, by all that Bond could tell.

"Master Patrice gave me the name Quoll," now, he was shaking. "I, I don't know my name. Master Silva called me Q. I was his," he stopped, heaving for breath.

Bond lifted his hand from the phone, slowly, clearly telegraphing his intend. Quoll or Q didn't flinch when he put his hand on his shoulder, squeezing reassuringly. Q sniffled, wiping his face with his hand as if irritated by his own tears. His other hand was closed into a fist, his knuckles white.

"I was his seventeenth pet," he spat out, the last word laden with all the disgust, contempt, and self-loathing he appeared to feel.

He forced on, clearly willing himself to tell the story, his story. Not all of it, that much Bond could tell. Every word was a fight in itself, against himself, the conditioning, the training, as Silva had called it.

"He abducted me. I was, I don't know, maybe six or seven years old."

Q broke off. Breathing deliberately.

"Master Silva likes young boys."

Bond could feel the bile rise in his throat. He'd had an inkling about what had happened. But hearing Q or Quoll, both names felt wrong, confirm his worst suspicions – Bond could do nothing else but listen, offer what little reassurance he could give in this situation.

"He trained me. Discipline. Taught me not to cry when I hurt," again, the irritated wiping away of tears. "Made sure, I knew my place, knew my duties. Towards him, and the other men. Guests, clients."

He fell silent again. The shaking had become stronger.

"I must have had a name. Parents. Family. But," both hands turned into fists, trembling. "I can't remember. I, he, it's, it was a long time ago."

Q's eyes were fixed on the windshield in front of him. Breathing. In. Pause. Out. In. Pause. Out.

"Q," Q said, determination in his voice, still looking straight ahead, unseeing. "That is my name. I will make it my name."

There was a singlemindedness to Q's statement that took Bond's breath away. This was the man, who had found a way to escape from years of humiliation, physical, sexual, mental abuse. A man, who had turn on his tormentors. Had shot them dead, without the slightest tremor in his hands.

"Quoll was killed. Master Patrice did it for fun, one night, when he was feeling bored."

It wasn't the whole story. Bond could see him struggle to say the next bid.

"It took three hours. Three hours, where he made me watch while he tortured Quoll to death. He laughed as he made him shriek in pain and terror. Like he used to laugh, when I cried out in pain."

Bond closed his eyes. Wanting to draw Q into a hug, afraid he would mess up, if he even moved the slightest. He kept his hand on Q's shoulder. The shaking was back in full force.

"After that night, I stop crying."

Now, Q curled in on himself. Bond gently stroke down his back, pulling out a rug from behind the seats, and put it around the shaking man. He sent the text, naming the other passenger as Freddie Lyon. It felt appropriate. He asked Robinson to make sure, they could get on that private plane. Hopefully avoiding any paperwork.

He put the car into gear and started the long journey back to home.