We hear MI-6 chief, M (Ralph Fiennes), announce, “The world is arming faster than we can respond.” Two masked goons scale down the side of a skyscraper and kick their way inside.
A mysterious blurry figure enters a clean room while an explosion erupts around the hallway.
M, looking frazzled with his sleeves rolled up, asks, “Where’s 007?”
Bond is licking his wounds in Jamaica. As a boy raised on the gloomy moors of England, he likes to spend his time in the tropics as much as possible.
Bond is retired. He’s retreated from the life, attempting to wallow in seclusion. He’s going to drink Heinekens and stare into the sun until he goes blind, or until a proper excuse to cease his moping presents itself.
CIA Agent Felix Leiter (Jeffrey Wright) tracks down his pal from across the pond and asks him for a favor. He’s lost a scientist, and Bond is the only one he can trust. More likely, he can’t stand to see a cohort pickling his liver in bars designed for tourists. You know the drill. When it comes to badasses, it’s better to die on your feet than exist forever on a bight, warm beach.