Second to None

Agent 008 hated tuxedos. Not because they were uncomfortable—though they were—but because every time he put one on, he felt like a knockoff. The lesser model. The backup.

The bow tie never sat quite right. The cufflinks—standard issue, not the explosive ones 007 got—caught on everything. And no matter how much he practiced in the mirror, he couldn't make putting on the jacket look effortless. It was more like wrestling with a particularly stubborn octopus.

"Bond this, Bond that," M would drone in every debrief. 'Well done, 007. Flawless as usual. Saved the world again, I see.' Meanwhile, 008 got lines like, 'Thank you for not dying this time, Wilson. Do try to keep the collateral damage under seven figures next time.'

That was his name. Not James. Wilson. Wilson Hartley, to be precise. A name that belonged to an accountant from Surrey, not a superspy. His parents had probably imagined him with a briefcase full of tax returns, not Walther PPKs. He was done being second best.

The thing was, Wilson wasn't actually bad at his job. His success rate was respectable—82%, which was well above the department average. He spoke four languages fluently, could disarm a bomb in under three minutes, and had once seduced a Russian arms dealer's wife so convincingly that she'd tried to leave her husband for him. But none of that mattered when James Bond existed in the same universe.

Bond got the Aston Martins. Wilson got a Ford Mondeo with a slightly upgraded sound system.

Bond got Q's latest gadgets. Wilson got last year's models, usually with a few bugs still in the software.

Bond got the glamorous assignments in Monaco and the Bahamas. Wilson got industrial espionage in Birmingham and that memorable three weeks tracking a rogue accountant through Milton Keynes.

Tonight, though, Wilson had his chance.

The mission briefing had been straightforward, delivered by M with her usual brisk efficiency. A high-stakes poker game in Monte Carlo's most exclusive casino. The target: Ivan Dragovich, former KGB operative turned arms dealer, currently in possession of a data chip containing nuclear launch codes for a dozen decommissioned Soviet warheads. The kind of thing that could level cities in the wrong hands.

"Dragovich will be playing at the private table on the casino's top floor," M had explained, sliding a photograph across her desk. "The chip will be on his person—probably in a concealed pocket. Your job is to get close, win his confidence, and retrieve it."

Wilson had studied the photo. Dragovich looked like central casting's idea of a Russian villain: square jaw, dead eyes, and a scar running from his left temple to his cheek. The kind of scar that suggested he'd survived something that should have killed him.

"What about 007?" Wilson had asked, trying to sound casual.

"Tied up in Marrakesh," M replied. "Literally, according to the last report. Something about a scorpion pit and a very unhappy sheikh. You're our man for this one, 008."

Our man. Not 'second choice' or 'backup option.' Wilson had felt a flutter of something he hadn't experienced in years: genuine excitement.

Now, standing in the marble-appointed bathroom of the Casino de Monte-Carlo, Wilson gave himself a pep talk in the mirror. The face looking back at him wasn't classically handsome like Bond's, but it wasn't terrible either. Brown hair, brown eyes, the kind of face that blended into crowds—which was actually useful in his line of work. A small scar on his chin from a knife fight in Prague. Decent cheekbones.

"You're suave," he told his reflection. "You're deadly. You're... almost Bond."

He'd been practicing his poker face for weeks. In the mirror, at breakfast, during particularly boring departmental meetings. He'd read every book on tells and bluffs, memorized probability tables, even hired a professional poker coach who thought he was a banker looking to improve his weekend game.

The casino floor was a symphony of controlled chaos. Slot machines chimed, roulette wheels spun, and dealers shuffled cards with mechanical precision. Wilson moved through it all, imagining the theme music playing just for him—not the Bond theme, obviously, but something similar. Maybe with more saxophone.

Heads turned as he walked—okay, one head, and it was a waiter who looked like he was about to ask if Wilson needed directions to the tourist tables, but still. Progress.

The private elevator to the high-roller floor required a special key card, which Q Branch had thoughtfully provided along with a cover identity as Marcus Pemberton, heir to a shipping fortune and notorious gambler. Wilson had spent hours perfecting Pemberton's slightly posh accent and developing a backstory involving a trust fund, a gambling addiction, and a recent messy divorce.

The top floor was quieter, more refined. Crystal chandeliers cast warm light over green felt tables where serious money changed hands with barely a whisper. Wilson spotted his target immediately.

Ivan Dragovich sat at the center table, a mountain of chips in front of him. He was larger than his photograph suggested, with hands like ham hocks and eyes that tracked every movement in the room. The scar was even more dramatic in person—it looked like someone had tried to split his skull with an axe and only partially succeeded.

Wilson approached the table with what he hoped was confident swagger. "Room for one more?"

Dragovich looked him up and down with the expression of a man evaluating livestock. "If you have money, there is always room."

The other players were a mix of oil executives, tech billionaires, and at least one person Wilson was fairly certain was a deposed dictator from a small African nation. The buy-in was €500,000—more money than Wilson made in two years, but MI6's budget could handle it.

The cards were dealt. Wilson smiled, keeping his expression neutral as he looked at his hand. Pair of tens. Not great, not terrible. He'd been practicing his poker face, but sitting across from actual criminals was different from practicing in his bathroom mirror.

The first few hands went well. Wilson won two, lost one, and managed to project an air of casual wealth that seemed to convince the other players. Dragovich was good—very good—but Wilson had studied his tells from surveillance footage. The Russian touched his scar when he was bluffing and drummed his fingers when he had a strong hand.

Wilson was actually enjoying himself. This was what he'd imagined spy work would be like when he'd first applied to MI6: high stakes, exotic locations, dangerous adversaries. Not the endless paperwork and surveillance reports that made up 90% of his actual job.

He was up €200,000 and feeling genuinely confident when the entire room went silent.

007 walked in.

Even from across the room, James Bond commanded attention. The tuxedo fit him like it had been sewn directly onto his body. His hair was perfect despite whatever ordeal he'd supposedly endured in Morocco. A thin cut on his cheek somehow made him look better, like a male model who'd gotten into a photogenic fight.

"Evening, everyone," Bond said, his voice carrying that familiar smooth confidence that made Wilson's teeth ache.

Every head in the room turned. Two of the cocktail waitresses actually stopped mid-stride to stare. Even Dragovich looked impressed, which was saying something for a man who'd probably met his share of dangerous people.

Wilson clenched his jaw. "What are you doing here, James?"

"Just tying up loose ends," Bond replied, flashing that grin that had launched a thousand mission reports. "Marrakesh wrapped up sooner than expected. Thought I'd drop by and see how you were getting on."

The dealer, apparently recognizing Bond from some previous visit, began shuffling a fresh deck. "Will you be joining the game, Mr. Bond?"

"Don't mind if I do." Bond slid into the empty seat next to Wilson as if it had been reserved for him all along.

Wilson's pulse thundered in his ears. This was his mission. His moment. For once in his career, he wasn't going to roll over and let James Bond steal his thunder.

The next hand was dealt. Wilson looked at his cards: ace-king suited. A strong starting hand. Across the table, Dragovich drummed his fingers—he had something good too.

Bond glanced at his cards with the casual indifference of a man who'd won and lost fortunes at tables like this. He probably had. Wilson had read his file; Bond's gambling expenses alone could fund a small country's defense budget.

The betting began. Wilson raised. Dragovich called. Bond folded with a slight shrug.

"Cautious tonight, James?" Wilson asked, trying to keep the edge out of his voice.

"Sometimes the best play is knowing when not to play," Bond replied, sipping what appeared to be a vodka martini that had materialized from nowhere.

The flop came: ace of hearts, king of diamonds, seven of clubs. Wilson had two pair, aces and kings. Excellent. Dragovich's drumming intensified—whatever he had, he liked it.

Wilson bet aggressively. This was it. His moment to shine, to show that Agent 008 could play with the big boys. Dragovich raised. Wilson raised back.

"Getting interesting," Bond murmured.

The turn card was the seven of hearts. Wilson's two pair was still strong, but that second seven made him nervous. If Dragovich had pocket sevens, he'd just made four of a kind.

But the Russian's tell was clear—he was still drumming, still confident but not ecstatic. Probably three of a kind, maybe a full house. Wilson could beat that.

He pushed a significant portion of his chips forward. "€300,000."

Dragovich studied him for a long moment. The scar seemed to pulse in the chandelier light. Finally, he called.

The river card was dealt: queen of spades.

Wilson's heart sank. If Dragovich had been holding queen-seven, he'd just made a full house. But the drumming had stopped. The Russian was touching his scar now—the bluffing tell.

Wilson made his decision. "All in."

The room held its breath. Even Bond looked interested, leaning forward slightly in his chair.

Dragovich stared at Wilson for what felt like an eternity. His massive hand hovered over his chips, then moved to his scar, then back to his chips.

"You are either very brave or very stupid, Mr. Pemberton," he said finally.

"Sometimes they're the same thing," Wilson replied, surprised by how steady his voice sounded.

Dragovich folded.

Wilson felt a surge of triumph as he raked in the chips. He'd done it. He'd outplayed a professional criminal, read his tells, and won. This was what being a secret agent was supposed to feel like.

"Well played," Bond said quietly, and for once there was no condescension in his voice.

Wilson was savoring the moment when he noticed Dragovich reaching inside his jacket. Not for more money—his hand was moving toward what looked like a shoulder holster.

Without thinking, Wilson acted. The dart gun Q Branch had provided was concealed in his sleeve, designed to look like a cufflink. He'd practiced the draw a hundred times in his flat. Now, muscle memory took over.

A whisper of compressed air, barely audible over the ambient casino noise. Dragovich's eyes widened in surprise, then rolled back as the fast-acting sedative took effect. He slumped forward onto the table, scattering chips.

Gasps erupted around the table. The other players pushed back their chairs, suddenly very interested in being somewhere else.

Wilson stood smoothly, reaching into Dragovich's jacket and retrieving the data chip from a concealed pocket. "Game over," he said, trying to channel every cool spy movie he'd ever seen.

For a moment, he felt like the star of his own action film. The hero who'd saved the day with quick thinking and precise action.

Bond raised an eyebrow, looking genuinely impressed. "Well done, Wilson."

Wilson waited for it—the backhanded compliment, the subtle put-down that would remind everyone who the real star was. But Bond just sipped his martini and said, "Looks like you beat me to it. Enjoy the spotlight."

For the first time in his career, Wilson felt like a star. He had the chip, the mission was complete, and even James Bond was acknowledging his success. This was his moment of triumph.

And then the ceiling exploded.

Chunks of plaster and twisted metal rained down as black-clad figures rappelled through the hole. Dozens of armed henchmen stormed the room from every entrance, automatic weapons trained on the poker table.

Wilson froze, chip still clutched in his hand. This wasn't in the mission briefing. Dragovich was supposed to be working alone.

"Nobody move!" shouted the lead gunman, a scarred woman with the kind of tactical gear that suggested serious military training.

Bond, meanwhile, casually pushed back his chair as if the armed invasion was a minor inconvenience. A bullet whined past his ear—he tilted his head slightly to avoid it, then somehow produced a Walther PPK from thin air.

The next thirty seconds were like watching a master class in violence. Bond moved like liquid mercury, flowing between cover points and returning fire with surgical precision. Two henchmen went down before Wilson even processed what was happening.

"Coming, 008?" Bond called cheerfully, somehow managing to reload his weapon while diving behind an overturned roulette table.

Wilson's training finally kicked in. He drew his own sidearm and rolled behind the poker table as bullets chewed up the felt where he'd been standing. The data chip was still in his other hand—the whole reason for this mission.

"How many are there?" Wilson shouted over the gunfire.

"Dozen, maybe fifteen," Bond replied, popping up to take another shot. "Dragovich's backup plan, I'd imagine. Can't say I'm surprised."

Of course Bond wasn't surprised. Bond was never surprised. Wilson was beginning to suspect that 007 had known about the backup team all along and simply hadn't mentioned it.

A grenade rolled across the floor toward their position. Bond kicked it away with casual precision—it exploded harmlessly against the far wall, taking out a crystal chandelier.

"We need to move," Bond said. "Service elevator, far corner. Can you make it?"

Wilson looked across the chaos of the casino floor. It might as well have been a mile. "Do I have a choice?"

"Not really, no."

They moved together, Wilson following Bond's lead as they leapfrogged between cover points. Wilson's shooting was competent if not spectacular—he hit what he aimed at, which was more than many agents could claim under pressure.

The service elevator was their salvation, though Wilson was fairly certain he'd never been so happy to see a set of brushed steel doors in his life.

As they descended toward the parking garage, Wilson finally allowed himself to breathe. The mission was complete. He had the chip. He'd outplayed a master criminal and survived a firefight.

"Not bad for a night's work," he said, trying to project the same casual confidence that came so naturally to Bond.

"Indeed," Bond replied. "Though I suspect this was just the opening act. Dragovich was small-time compared to whoever hired him."

Wilson's heart sank. Of course there was more. There was always more. The chip would lead to another villain, who would lead to another conspiracy, which would inevitably require the services of Agent 007.

But as they walked toward the waiting Aston Martin (because of course Bond had an Aston Martin), Wilson realized something had changed. He'd proven himself tonight—not just to M or to Bond, but to himself. He was more than just the backup agent, more than James Bond's understudy.

He was Wilson Hartley, Agent 008. And maybe that was enough.

"Fancy a drink?" Bond asked as they drove away from the casino. "I know a place in Nice that makes an excellent martini."

Wilson smiled. "Why not? But I'm buying. I had a good night at the tables."

Behind them, sirens wailed as emergency services responded to what the newspapers would undoubtedly describe as a "gas explosion" at the casino. The chip containing nuclear launch codes was secure in Wilson's pocket, and somewhere in London, M was probably already planning their next mission.

Being second fiddle to James Bond wasn't the worst fate in the world, Wilson reflected. Especially when it came with a government expense account and the occasional night of feeling like a genuine secret agent.

Besides, someone had to keep Bond from getting too cocky. It was a dirty job, but Wilson was beginning to think he was exactly the right man for it.