Here's the down and dirty, not making a cent off this, I don't own the characters, so on and so forth. Please enjoy, the rating will probably change later on. Let me know what you think, as this is my first attempt at a James Bond fic. Just a little FYI, the Bond I have in mind for this story is Daniel Craig's Bond. I've had a couple questions on it, so I figured I'd let all of you know here. :)

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A squeeze of the trigger. The sound silenced as the bullet whizzed through the air, past the guards, past the crowd. It slammed into its intended target, unnoticed until the target spasmed, let out a last breath of air, and slumped to the pavement.

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This was when the senses were alive. Sight of the target through the lens. The sounds of her rhythmic breathing. The feel of the grooved trigger. The thick smell of ozone, warning of an afternoon shower. The Remington M24A3 was pulled securely into her shoulder, a long silencer ensuring no one would hear a sound.

She had been there for hours, watching, waiting for the opportune moment. She had spent most of that time calculating, taking in to account the wind speed and direction, the air density, inclination angle, gyroscopic drift, Coriolis effect, among many more variables. The air was thick with moisture, which would slow down the bullet, making gravity a bigger foe. The wind had picked up from the west, another forewarning of the approaching drenching. In her weapon, a .338 Lupua Magnum sat, ready in the chamber, waiting to be fired towards its destination. She would be accurate at 1600 meters, under ideal conditions, which this certainly was not. Her lowest maximum effective range would be 1300 meters, a range she was well within. She would be firing at a downward angle, not really too much of a challenge.

Her lower back ached, yearning for movement, but she remained still. She would not miss her moment. Slack. Pause. Her stomach rumbled with hunger, but it did not register with her brain. She was shut off completely from the aches and pains of her body. Her only focus was on her breathing and the sight of the target in the lens.

The sight moved with the rhythm of her breathing. She could not miss. She would not miss.

The target stood. This was her time.

She found her natural resting point. She squeezed the trigger, never pull. Pulling the trigger would send the bullet off course.

The sound of the bullet leaving the chamber thundered in her ears, although it was silent to the rest of the outside world. The bullet struck right where she needed it to. Once in the heart. That's all it took. Never in the head. There was always that change the target could live. But no one could survive a bullet through the heart.

She calmly pulled the rifle from the pocket of her shoulder and began disassembling it, still laying on the hard concrete. Next to her lay its case, flipped open and ready to receive. The sound of the chaos down below floated past her ears, but she ignored it. She was still in that zone. She was focused on the little things, the sound of someone approaching her location, the gleam of light reflecting off a scope, maybe a set of binoculars. She was focusing on everything and nothing at the same time.

With the rifle secured, and the spent shell securely tucked away, she slid away from the edge of the roof before pulling herself up and making her way to the roof access a few feet away. With the rifle case clasped securely in her left hand, she strolled leisurely down the narrow stairs until she reached the bottom. She pushed open the heavy fire door with her hip, squinting against the sunlight that poured into the dark, enclosed space. After a quick scan of the area around her, she adjusted the cap covering her flaxen hair and strolled to her awaiting vehicle.

After tucking the rifle case securely in a hidden compartment of the trunk of the jet black BMW 530i, she slid into the driver's seat and double checked her credentials were still inside the glove compartment. Satisfied, she turned the key in the ignition. The finely tuned engine roared to life. She placed the vehicle on drive and pressed the gas pedal, the engine responded without any hesitation and purred like a kitten as she made her way down the boulevard.

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"Vuai Zille." James Bond studied the black and white photo as it appeared on the screen. "President of South Africa, killed yesterday in Johannesburg." The man in the photograph was powerfully built, his dark face deeply lined, showing age, but he still stood tall, with the posture of someone years younger.

"Do we know by whom?"

"Actually," M began with a slight pause. "our friends in Langley sent us this." The computer screen flickered momentarily before a new photograph appeared. The young blonde smiled back at him, her clear green eyes crinkling slightly at the corners. "Andra Norreys," M explained, her voice crackling slightly over the phone. "highly trained assassin that has been with the CIA for almost a decade. She went off the radar almost a year ago after it was discovered she was a double agent, selling secrets to terrorist cells in Africa and the Middle East.

"Last contact with Agent Norreys happened on December 23rd, 2005. She gave information to her superiors about a fanatic cell in South Africa. Langley won't reveal what that information was, but they were so kind to let us know her last known location was Moscow." M added with a hint of sarcasm.

"Why doesn't Langley just take of this themselves?" James asked, studying the picture intently, memorizing every detail of her face.

"They've tried. To no avail. It seemed Ms. Norreys has dropped off the map completely. They sent out their best agents to try and locate her, but they all failed. Now, they're requesting a little outside help. I'm sending you all of Ms. Norreys' information now." she said as the icon in the lower corner of his computer flashed, informing him of a new e-mail.

"How does the CIA know Andra Norreys is behind the assassination of Vuai Zille?"

"Ms. Norreys was caught on video by an individual taping President Zille's speech in Pieter Roos Park, exiting the Johannesburg College of Education, dressed in a policeman's uniform, carrying some type of case. I sent the clip to you as well. She's caught on video for approximately three and a half seconds before disappearing out of view. The video has been analyzed and confirmed to be their rogue agent."

"Why would Norreys kill President Zille? What could possibly be in it for her?" James asked absently as he studied the biographical information sent by his superior.

"President Zille has been very outspoken against the terrorist cells in his county. More recently, twelve Muslim extremists were captured in Cape Town and a deeply imbedded terrorist cell was disabled. Since Norreys is working for the terrorists, her skills would certainly come in handy.

"Your credentials and passport will be delivered to you within the hour. All the information we have on Norreys has been sent to you. Your orders are to capture her alive and bring her back to MI6 headquarters. So we can turn her over to the CIA. If you have any questions, give me a ring."

"Yes, mum." James muttered seconds before the call ended. Leaning forward, his chin in his hands, he read through the pages sent to him by M; an excerpt from Norreys personnel file stored at Langley, Virginia, outlining passages he felt would be relevant to remember.

Andra Norreys began her life in Düsseldorf, Germany on June 15, 1974, where her father, Major Francis Norreys, was stationed while part of Her Majesty's Armed Forces. Her mother, Barbara, an American by birth, was a homemaker, committed to her three children, Lana, Adam, and Andra.

Andra excelled in school, graduating three years ahead of her class. After high school, she went on to attend Oxford University, graduating with bachelor's degrees in World Languages and Sociology. The CIA recruited her during her senior year, molding her into a highly trained super spy and assassin. She spoke five different languages, Russian, French, German, Japanese, and Farsi, making her an important asset to the CIA. Her profile stated Andra had a knack of blending into any type of crowd, a spy's most important tool. She was well-liked, confident and persuasive, able to put even the most nerve-racked soul at ease.

She excelled during training, consistently earning top scores during the academy. Her vast knowledge of guns, and her ability to shoot marksman with any weapon giving to her, sealed her spot as a top assassin. Andra Norreys was a killer who could disarm you with her charm. Something he would have to keep in the back of his mind.

The final page of the file was a list of Andra's aliases, as well as her residences for the past decade. He silently memorized the list, knowing full well the names before him would be flagged by the American government, any attempt to use them would lead to an immediate arrest, and her previous residences would be watched around the clock. Andra Norreys had nowhere to go, yet she had been able to elude the authorities for a full year. Terrorist cells have been known to have quite a vast bank account, and deep contacts in countries throughout the world. It was possible Andra was hiding within their confines.

The next email from M was the video, twenty seconds of feed. He clicked on it, muting the volume. He wanted to study it, study her. Her movements, how she walked, how she carried herself. There was a lot a person could learn by watching how another carried themselves.

The video was shaky, an obvious amateur shot he thought. The lens was swung about wildly, and James realized this must be the aftermath of the shooting. Frightened people, just blurs in the camera's eye, whizzed past the lens. The large brick building in the background was consistently in the shot. That must be the Johannesburg College of Education. James leaned forward even more, his eyes focused. There it was. He paused the video and with a few keystrokes, focused in on the fuzzy picture. A couple more stokes, the image cleared, giving the figure exiting through an exit door shape. She was dress in a uniform, a policeman's uniform, a dark uniform cap covering her head. Clutched tight in her left hand was a dark case. He studied the picture for a few more moments before resuming the video, watching as Andra Norreys disappeared out of sight. He replayed the section of tape, this time watching for any type of nonverbal communication, any quirks she had, how she walked. It was only three and a half seconds, but anything different or special about someone trained to blend into society would be useful.

Andra Norreys walked calmly out of sight, no sense of urgency noted. She stood tall, her shoulders back and her head high. There was nothing special about her. Nothing that could help James pick her out in a crowd.

A knock on his hotel room pulled him back to reality. He checked his watch, 6:45 P.M. Another knock forced him from his seat and he made his way to the door, peering warily through the peep hole. He recognized the man outside, a courier for MI6. He pulled the door open slightly, grabbing the manila folder from the man's outstretched hand. Without a word passed between the two, the door closed.

James carefully opened the envelope and pulled out the contents. A passport registered to a Samuel Kingsley, an airline ticket leaving tomorrow morning at eight A.M., bound for Johannesburg, and a hotel room registered to Mr. Kingsley.

Amused, James set the items on his nightstand. He would be headed to South Africa tomorrow, two days after Andra Norreys would most likely have departed it. No one had any idea where she would be headed, how she was surviving, where she was staying. He would be tracking a ghost.