15 for 15 Contest --- Closed

James Bond protected the junkyard, and Jack protected the Secret.

James Bond didn't look much like a junkyard dog. The squat little Boston Terrier, with his constantly wagging tail and cheerful disposition, didn't act much like a junkyard dog either. He was happiest when he was at Jack's ankles, or sleeping at the foot of Jack's bed in the old tin-roofed shack.

And Jack didn't look much like a protector of Secrets. The lanky old man, with his leathery face, his haunted eyes, and his tired smile, didn't look like anyone who is or ever was dangerous.

The pair would walk through the old junkyard, James Bond with an eye out for intruders, and Jack, with a shuffling, calm, unassuming gait, had an eye out for nothing in particular.

Nobody knew exactly what filled up that old junkyard, but something did. It wasn't old cars, or anything identifiable. It was just stuff. Hunks of rusty metal, and some metal that was out there for years but didn't rust, and nobody knew why. It just piled up.

The young man with the smug smile and the gun in his hand banged at the gate, and when old Jack opened it up, the young man's smile widened, a shark's, a snake's, a hungry tiger's. "Lookin' for secrets, old man. I hear you got some."

"Nothing here, just a junkyard," Jack said.

"Just a junkyard."

"Yep."

The young man sauntered in, and Jack didn't try to stop him, but James Bond had stiffened his entire body and his hackles were raised.

"I know who you work for, old man."

"Myself."

"Ha!" The young man spun on him and growled out, "I need to know it. I want it. And I will pay you, more money than your wildest dreams if you tell me, but I will kill you if you don't. I want the Secret, and I want it now." The young man's words trembled passionate fury.

"No secrets."

"You're nothing. A dog at my feet," the young man hissed. "And I will kick you down-" the young man stepped again toward old Jack, and his gun came up.

James Bond was biting his ankle. The young man yelled. He aimed his gun at the dog.

Old Jack put one hand on the young man's shoulder and he froze in place, still breathing heavily, still quivering with tension. "You're not going to kick- or shoot- anybody. I know why you're here, but I don't think you do," the old man said softly, gently.

"I... know.... who... you... protect..." the young man struggled to say.

"I appreciate your earlier compliment. I can't imagine anyone I'd rather be like than a good dog. Now leave." Old Jack's voice rang with authority.

The young man stumbled out, bewildered, dazed, not knowing why he was compelled to do exactly as he was told. Old Jack closed the door behind him.

"Thanks, old friend," said Jack with a chuckle. James Bond looked up at him, his tail wagging happily. "You saved my life. Again."