[ silva is no longer the double-oh he used to be, older, warped, content now to slip smoothly through life wearing flamboyant suits and a dangerous air of unpredictability, his fingers laid gently across the keys of a computer. but he hasn't lost the drive, the ruthless efficiency which mi6's training had drawn out of him. here, the trappings fall away. here, his persona is of a killer, not a businessman—and all his clever associates know that silva has never stopped being a killer, even with the loyalty burned out of him. he doesn't have the time or inclination to send a smile, a slash of white teeth, a wayward touch. and it's because he isn't in control. hasn't regained it. not here, and not yet.
the tire shot has his men spilling out of the getaway car, three of them, all armed. one sets up behind the driver's side door, the others crouch behind the far side, guns drawn, bullets spattering the side of the building. silva darts a glance at the lackey closest, then at his immediate surroundings. check for entry points, for exits, formulate a strategy. he knows the drill, knows what the agent is doing (because of course it's an agent, he can't tell which yet, hadn't bothered to look at anyone other than m and bond and that dull bureaucrat mallory), because he's done it many times himself. make escape impossible, then engage the target head-on. either subdue or terminate.
he fires again, takes a chip out of the marble column, then moves quickly behind the bulk of the car. his men will make for roadblocks if nothing else, little blips on the map. inconsequentially useful. whitehall is expansive, and he knows reports of his getup have been circulating ever since bond had spotted him on the tube; he can't escape on foot without getting gunned down. another car it is. stolen, this time, the old-fashioned way.
silva breaks for it while the others shoot, past the fence and through the gate, into oncoming traffic. a car screeches to a halt just next to him, and he points the gun amiably through the window with one hand, using the other to beckon quickly. the startled man opens the window briefly—officer?—and silva uses the opening to reach in, unlock the door, and wrench the driver out. he slides in, checks the mirror. drops the gun in the passenger seat and screeches off into traffic, hands curled tight against the leather of the steering wheel. ]
no subject
the tire shot has his men spilling out of the getaway car, three of them, all armed. one sets up behind the driver's side door, the others crouch behind the far side, guns drawn, bullets spattering the side of the building. silva darts a glance at the lackey closest, then at his immediate surroundings. check for entry points, for exits, formulate a strategy. he knows the drill, knows what the agent is doing (because of course it's an agent, he can't tell which yet, hadn't bothered to look at anyone other than m and bond and that dull bureaucrat mallory), because he's done it many times himself. make escape impossible, then engage the target head-on. either subdue or terminate.
he fires again, takes a chip out of the marble column, then moves quickly behind the bulk of the car. his men will make for roadblocks if nothing else, little blips on the map. inconsequentially useful. whitehall is expansive, and he knows reports of his getup have been circulating ever since bond had spotted him on the tube; he can't escape on foot without getting gunned down. another car it is. stolen, this time, the old-fashioned way.
silva breaks for it while the others shoot, past the fence and through the gate, into oncoming traffic. a car screeches to a halt just next to him, and he points the gun amiably through the window with one hand, using the other to beckon quickly. the startled man opens the window briefly—officer?—and silva uses the opening to reach in, unlock the door, and wrench the driver out. he slides in, checks the mirror. drops the gun in the passenger seat and screeches off into traffic, hands curled tight against the leather of the steering wheel. ]