LIFELINE
by
gm
For LM—because you wanted IK crunched
______________________________________________
RATED: PG
FOR VIOLENCE AND
INTENSITY
While trying to save his partner, Napoleon turns the
situation from bad to worse
spring 1969
Rushing out of the Tube, Illya Kuryakin pushed his way past the bustling people crowding the platform of the Underground. Glancing over his shoulder, he saw no sign of the two rough-looking thugs in gray overcoats who had tailed him for the last several stops of underground travel. Slipping in front of a woman with a bulky pram, Illya raced up the steps to the street and ducked into the nearest shop—a haberdashery.
“May I help you?”
The prim and proper British clerk all but sniffed at Illya’s smudged black trench coat, his scuffed shoes and—heaven help him—shaggy blond hair!
With annoyance, Kuryakin gave a last glance around the street. The two shadows did not appear. Anxious to be on his way, Illya offered a smirk to the man. “No thank you, I was looking for the chemist’s. Headache, not head gear.”
A tight, humorless, cool smile fixed itself on the man’s uncaused face. “Three doors down.”
Turning the doorknob, Illya glanced once more at the street, this time spotting his pursuers. Turning back, he shot out, “Is there a back door to the chemist’s shop?” already in motion toward the back.
“Uh, why, yes, I believe it leads to an old mews—“
“Yes, I needed the chemist’s after all. Thank you.” Illya hastened out with a jaunty salute.
Skipping down the few doors to the chemist’s, Kuryakin
nearly felt like whistling. Coups like
this didn’t come along all that often, so the excitement bubbled inside with
unusual anticipation. He and his partner
were in
After a literally smashing success in
Since the drug dealers had technically affected the
solidarity of British security, UNCLE London Station Section One leader
Missions rarely went this smoothly with this big of a
prize. Impressed at his own skill in
The satisfaction was for himself as well as Solo. The operations were a perfect manifestation of their incredible team. Solo courageously defied odds, improvised brilliant strategy and had the most unbelievable luck Illya had ever witnessed. In his own right, Kuryakin knew his own skills at audacious enterprises and dashing ploys complimented his partner’s abilities.
There was a reason they were the best. Simple chemistry. The synergy of their combined forces created a whirlwind of talent, luck and daring. While he had never sought such a position, he could not deny being at the top was a heady, even exciting place to reside.
From the chemist’s windows all as clear outside. To be safe, he would take the back mews as an escape, just to make sure he was not followed to the flat where Solo was holding Zavros.
Dashing lithely through the chemist’s shop Illya sailed toward the back door. When he gripped the knob, the door instantly slammed into his face and nearly knocked him senseless. Unable to recover his balance or wits, he was dragged into a corner of the mews and beaten until he could hardly breathe. Blackness edged at the corners of his vision, closing tighter, along with the pain, until he slipped into a dark void.
__________________________________
In a hazy, dream-vision, thoughts and scenes melded in his
mind. Illya saw Zavros’s
face. What about the mission verses his
well being and future? Was he going to
live? Zavros’s men had attacked him.
What will Waverly think?
Will the mobsters want an exchange?
How important is it to keep the prisoner? Is it worth it? It certainly was to him! Perhaps he would not have to do
anything. The decision would be
Napoleon’s -- who would ultimately be
blamed for the success or failure of the mission.
‘Unfair!’ his mind
screamed.
Given the choice, Illya knew his friend would choose to
save him no matter what. Whoever held
him knew that in a game against Solo, Kuryakin was the only thing that could
tip the balance against UNCLE. If ever
he needed a lifeline, it was now. There
was no one he would rather choose as his anchor to life than his partner. Napoleon would do the right thing. But at
what cost? That question haunted him as
it swirled around his distorted mind in a whirlpool of dread.
____________________________________
Pacing over to the window, Napoleon Solo peered out the small window of the basement flat. A lovely view of the literal street afforded little surveillance area. Cars and shoes were what passed by and not much variety in those. None of the footwear belonged to a slight Russian and Solo was concerned. Glancing at his watch, again, he silently worried. His partner should have been here at least ten minutes ago.
“Plans gone wrong?”
Napoleon shot a glare at the prisoner. Zavros, an overweight, dark, bearded man who wore too much jewelry, had been on his nerves since the instant Solo captured the drug smuggler. Each moment in the man’s presence, Solo was more and more tempted to strangle the criminal.
Napoleon flinched when his communicator beeped. “Where are you?” he snapped without preamble when he answered.
“In a bit of a fix you might say.”
The Russian’s voice was tight and—slurred?
Foreboding danced along Napoleon’s nerves. His throat went tight and dry. “What’s wrong?”
“I am afraid I’ve run into some friends of Mister Zavros’.”
Solo closed his eyes in a defense against the agonizing news. Experienced in spy games, he knew the routine, knew the steps that would come next and the threats that waited around every turn. What he detested was that his partner was in the middle of the deadly game. He was the only lifesaver for Illya, and he wouldn’t have it any other way. No one else would do everything and anything to save.
“Hey,” a rough voice interrupted in a rough accent. “We got the UNCLE man. You got Zavros. We trade or your agent dies. Give me an answer now or I shoot off a toe—maybe more than one.”
“No! No—don’t shoot!” Rubbing his forehead, Napoleon tightened his eyes, furiously thinking of options. “What are your terms?” Keep them talking—stall—maybe he would come up with a plan. “And your hostage has to be in one piece. No target practice!” Muffled sounds came over the thin, silver communicator. “Do you hear me?” he growled dangerously.
Zavros laughed with grating amusement. “Ah, maybe my friend Tito has a little encounter with your friend.” He guffawed heartily. “Tito, he is very handy with a gun. Maybe your friend will have the opportunity to find out first hand.” He sputtered into a new wave of snickering. “Tito has a collection of fingers and toes.”
Apparently, Tito, on the other end, could hear his boss and was chuckling.
“No shooting!” Solo barked back, knowing he was playing right into their taunts, but felt saving his friend’s digits was more important that keeping his legendary cool. “You want Zavros, don’t you?”
“You trying to threaten Zavros?”
A gunshot cracked over the phone.
“AHHH!”
That was Illya’s cry. Solo jumped, gripping the communicator in a strangling hold. What had that lunatic done? Refusing to allow the enemy to hear how agonizing it was to be on the waiting end, Napoleon ground his teeth to keep silent.
“That was just part of your partner’s leg getting a hole in it, Solo.”
“You will pay for that. I promise,” he seethed. “Personally. You don’t think I can play the same game you are?”
He placed the phone on the table and stepped over, smacking Zavros with the back of his hand. The soft criminal cried out in indignation, anger and pain. Picking up the phone again, he declared, “You hurt my partner again and I hurt your boss. When you meet with him he’s not going to be very happy if he’s missing an ear.”
“Okay, no more shooting,” Tito snarled. “Meet at the bridge on
Solo’s derisive scoff was dangerous. “You think I’d meet you on a deserted country road for an exchange?”
The sound of a thud, followed by an all too familiar moan came over the thin pen.
“I think, UNCLE man big shot, if you want to see your agent in one piece you’ll meet us there.”
Grinding his teeth, he did not have to ask what was going on. He knew to show any more signs of weakness -- to reveal how they had caught him at his most vulnerable point -- would be to loose ground in this life and death stalemate. However, he couldn’t help himself. The threat was out before he could stop it.
“You just make sure my agent is unharmed or you won’t get Zavros.” He cleared the dryness from his throat. “Illya, are you all right?”
“Bloody, but unbowed so far.”
A code quote. Some physical damage, nothing too serious. Illya was okay, but his future didn’t look good.
“I’ll see you in an hour, tovarich.”
“Da.”
Tito growled, “In one hour, you be on that bridge. In one hour and one minute if Zavros is not sitting next to me in my car, your little UNCLE agent here loses a toe. Or maybe a finger. Every minute after that he looses another finger. Or toe. When we run out of fingers and toes we just going to kill him. Not too fast. So you better show with Zavros. You got it?”
“Oh yeah,” Napoleon rasped with livid intensity. “I got it.”
The call clicked off. For a moment, he held the instrument, fighting to suppress the anger that clouded his judgment and locked him into a coiled knot of emotion. Objectivity and cool professionalism was what was going to get them out of this blunder that he had allowed. The botched mission was one thing. His captured and abused partner was the real crisis. Only keeping calm and proficient would save Illya. That didn’t pacify his wrath.
Raw fury sizzling from the inside to the edge of his skin, he crossed the room, cold menace chilling him. Out of uncontrolled anger, he drew his weapon and touched the tip of the Walther’s barrel to Zavros’ nose.
The creep laughed. “You won’t pull the trigger, Solo. You are one of the white hat men, right?” His laugh was evil -- knowing --certain of his facts. “And I see what you are. People mean something to you. Your partner. You will save him. As much as you hate to give me up, you will.”
“You’re right, I will. But I have a problem with your friend’s treatment of my friend.”
Without thought, without warning he slammed his pistol across Zavros’s jaw, the metal barrel of the Walther gouging and splitting the flesh. The criminal screamed.
“That was for Illya.”
From somewhere deep inside the rage again manifested into action and he hit him again, this time a left hook—his balled knuckles into the man’s nose.
“Just for good measure.”
Gasping, Zavros shook his head, clearing away the pain to reveal only crude, naked rage and hatred. Blood streamed down into his mouth and he spit at his captor. “I’ll kill you for this, Solo.”
The barrel of the Walther jammed into the man’s thick, fleshy neck right at the jugular. “I don’t think you’ll have the opportunity.” Napoleon leered close, right into his face. “I’m going to kill you first.”
Shortly there was fear in the man’s dark eyes, and then they washed back to loathing. “You won’t.”
“Not now,” he assured tightly. “You’re too valuable.”
More confident, Zavros sputtered out a course, malevolent laugh. “You can’t kill me, Solo. You are one of the good guys. John Wayne. Never-shoot-first-American.” His amusement built to an uproarious crescendo. “Big talk, but inside you are cowards. You would never kill an unarmed prisoner.”
The foolish attitude was almost laughable. Sweat moistening his hand, the weapon dug deeper into the odious man’s neck. The comments jolted Solo back into a cold, ruthless professional niche. The momentary emotionalism -- the revealed vulnerability from Illya captured -- had shown his enemy his soft, inner fragility.
Zavros was completely forgetting that surrounding his one Achilles’ heel was the training and instincts of a seasoned secret agent. 007 was a famous license to kill, but not exclusive. Every other operative in the business could and would kill/murder/ assassinate under the right conditions. Obviously, Zavros did not realize he had pushed Solo into a corner where those options might be the only ones available to rescue his partner.
In addition, Napoleon would not blink, would not hesitate to do anything to save Illya. He would use that little edge to his advantage, and hope it would counter the sloppy mistake of allowing their enemies to capture his partner, then to see his chink in his armor.
***
Taking in every detail of every slope; curve in the road, hill and rock, Solo slowly drove his car around the last bend approaching the bridge. There was no sign of any hidden forces, no snipers lurking behind bushes, but he kept part of his attention on the surroundings. He expected an ambush -- had planed for that obvious eventuality considering the opposition. They had an hour to set up with who knew how many thugs. He had only himself, his wits and his partner. Usually those were enough. He hoped so this time.
How wounded was Illya. He had to take that into account. The Russian had been bleeding for an hour. If Tito could be believed. Was it a serious injury to the thigh? A shot to the bone, breaking and maiming him? Would he be able to walk or even move much at all from the wound and the blood loss? The liability of the disabling injury might doom them both, handicapping them from a quick escape. He had several options in the back of his mind, but nothing would coalesce until the moment of crisis arose. He would have to pull one of his magic rabbit-rescues out of his hat at the spur of the moment.
A black sedan was parked at the far edge of the stone overpass. No people were in sight. He glanced into rearview mirror at his bound and gagged prisoner in the back seat.
“Showtime, Zavros.”
Muffled, livid noises burst out and the man violently shook his head. Perhaps the old criminal was picking up his merciless vibes. The rough treatment was certainly not to his liking and he was spitting mad. It amused Solo, not surprised, really, to discover a heretofore-unrecognized element of his personality had surfaced in the last hour. There was a level of harshness, even cruelty rippling under the shell of his composed veneer. Zavros felt it. Or saw it in his eyes. It worried and angered the criminal. It warmed and strengthened Solo’s resolve.
He and Illya had been in this kind of fix before. This was really nothing new. He couldn’t’ say why exactly it had brought out a sensation of savagery inside him. Perhaps because he knew the men they were pitted against. These were brutal mobsters who would kill them unless Solo was very, very skilled at an escape.
Perhaps the violence already done to Illya -- the unknown fear that in the last hour more damage had been done -- had pushed him over the edge. One too many kidnappings and woundings in the name of duty. When would it all stop? Never. Not in this business. However, he could make sure that it stopped with these bad guys today.
The car on the other side of the bridge moved up a few meters and then stopped. A stocky man -- presumably Tito -- emerged from the back seat. Napoleon coasted his car forward, up to an angle at the crest of the humped path, giving him the high ground. Drawing the Walther, he opened his door and stepped out, the car protecting him from direct fire.
“Let me see Zavros.”
“Let me see Kuryakin.”
Tito waved to someone in the back of his car and a huddled figure was pushed out onto the dusty road. He could hear the familiar groans of agony and clenched his jaw, keeping his face a tight mask of control while he inwardly flinched as Illya painfully struggled to his knees.
Okay, his partner was alive. Seeing his suffering friend brought out a wave of vengeance. Alive didn’t seem enough anymore. He was going to get Illya out of this. Then he was going to make sure Tito and Zavros and all the others paid for the damage to the Russian.
Slipping quickly back, opening the door and dragging out the prisoner, Solo kept shielded from the others. Now the Walther whipped out, visibly gouging Zavros’s temple.
The bulky Tito growled, “He hurt you, Zavros.”
The prisoner angrily snarled through the gag and tried to wrestle free. A bruising arm lock kept him close.
“You hurt my partner.”
“I’ll kill you, Solo. Slowly.”
Cocking back the hammer on the pistol, Solo tersely countered, “I’m sure you’ll try. But not before we finish this exchange.”
The Russian was gagged and his hands were bound in the front. By the battered face and the bandaged and bleeding leg, it was obvious there was no great need for excessive restraints. An outsider looking on at the bizarre scene might have found the parallels comical, but there was nothing funny about the life and death tableau.
Napoleon stopped grinding his teeth and ordered, “Send him forward.”
The thug did not offer to help Illya, and the lean agent used the car to aid him in climbing laboriously and painfully to his feet. Momentarily, Solo took his eyes off Tito to briefly brush eye contact with his partner. In that instant several simultaneous events clicked into place.
Kuryakin’s expression averted from passive, wounded victim to urgent alarm. He seemed to miraculously regain strength and elbowed Tito out of the way to limpingly stumble past the car. He tugged at his gag as the unbalanced thug righted himself and reached for a weapon. Someone with a gun in hand was emerging from the back seat of the car.
“Get down, Napoleon!” Illya shouted, hobbling toward him. “Trap!”
Solo pushed Zavros ahead of him as he scurried to meet up with his partner and use the criminal as a shield for both of them. So much for plans, he snarled to himself as he noted another armed thug coming up from the bushes along the road on the far side of the bridge. He fired two shots and killed the man. They were trying to kill him and Illya outright. On the run, Napoleon turned barely in time to see a gunman pop up from a hedge on his side of the path.
He fired; confident he had hit the man, but did not pause for confirmation. Another thug emerged from behind his car. Trapped! He spun back, pushed Zavros to a sprint and fired blindly at the car, dashing toward his friend. Shoving Zavros to the ground -- no longer caring if he had a safeguard -- he raced toward Kuryakin.
Bullets ripped the air, zinging past him. Kuryakin went down.
Too late!
Closing the last few meters to his partner, he grabbed the downed agent by the waist. Bullets nipped at his clothing and skin. He returned fire in the few seconds it took him to catapult over the stone railing of the bridge with his burden tightly clutched to his chest.
The rushing water was so cold it shocked him into near numbness. Training instinctively kept his held breath contained, but from Illya’s wrestling, he guessed his friend had not had time to prepare for the dive. At least he was still alive.
Bullets pinged around him at first, and then were lost as he descended. The water was murky and thick with disturbed silt toward the bottom, but he was lucky it was deep so he could swim deep. Powerful strokes worked with the current to propel them downstream swiftly.
Illya was struggling against him with almost panicked urgency and Solo knew they would have to surface no matter the danger. It would not help if they avoided the enemy fire while his friend drowned. He pushed to the edge, sliding with the current to give them a few more meters of concealment, and then he slowly surfaced. Fortunately, he had come up near a rocky shore with boulders and thick hedges screening them from any roads.
Still struggling, Illya’s head went under again and Solo yanked him back. The Russian sputtered, gasping for air. Assured the bridge was no longer in sight and there were no adversaries lurking nearby, he pulled Illya up, resting them both on the ledge of a rock.
For several moments Kuryakin just fought for breath, eyes closed, concentrating on working his lungs. “Next time -- you want -- to swim -- give me more -- warning.”
“There wasn’t much choice.”
The slighter man nodded.
“You were hit before we went over. How bad?”
“Back.”
A shiver of alarm chilled him colder than the frigid water, and Solo found it hard to say anything. Bullet in the back. Illya, though, had been moving and fighting in the water—that was a good sign, right?
“All right, let’s get ashore and check it out.” To his credit, his voice was completely level and objective. There was no hint of the trembling anguish edging at his senses. No revelation of the dread twisting his stomach. “Can you make it?”
“Yes. It’s very cold here. I will do anything to be on dry ground again,” he shivered, his teeth chattering.
Shoving Illya up on the rock, Solo hoisted himself up and supported his friend as they climbed up to ground level. Peering around, he was happy to see woods surrounded them. There was no sign of a road. That meant it would be hard for the thugs to track them for right now. That was good. It also meant they were relatively isolated. That was bad.
“Let’s find some cover,” he suggested.
With an arm around his friend’s waist, he took a few steps, gauging to see how Illya managed. The shivering man couldn’t walk. Lifting him in his arms, Solo carried him to a rocky hill rimming the river, hoping he was not doing serious damage to Illya back. No telling where the bullet struck, how much internal injury there was, but for now their priority had to be survival, not the unknown threat of spinal impairment. There was a grotto close to the water and he knelt down to enter the low, narrow cave, dragging Kuryakin with him.
“Bad?”
“Don’t know yet,” he agonized.
First, he removed the rope still tying the wounded man’s hands. Then he removed the ripped over coat and suit jacket and laid Illya on his stomach. Blood was oozing from a torn hole on the right side of Illya’s torso. Fortunately, the bullet seemed to have angled in at the side of the spine and along the ribs. There was no exit wound. That would have meant a very nasty, ragged hole and even more injury. Unfortunately, it meant the bullet was still somewhere inside and doing who-knew-what kind of damage.
“How bad?”
“Missed your spine,” Solo curtly, shakily responded with a tight throat.
“Good.” Illya’s sigh or relief said it all for both of them.
They were still in terrible trouble, but at least one horror was out of the way. Napoleon moved to the next step -- preserving his friend’s life. Well, at least he could still walk and move. Thankful for the small piece of luck in an otherwise bleak and desperate situation, Solo shed his trench coat and jacket, setting to work stripping the expensive suit material into bandages. Some he wadded up and pressed against Illya’s back. The Russian flinched, trying, and failing, to contain groans of pain.
“Sorry.”
“Necessary. I know the routine.”
“Too well, unfortunately.”
He checked his pocket for the communicator. Gone. Lost in the swim no doubt. They were on their own. He relayed the bad news to his partner while administering first aid.
“We seem to be stuck. Communicator’s gone,” he sighed in conclusion. “We’ll have to rely on our own wits.”
“Okay,” Illya acknowledged tightly, the pain or the cold, or both, gripping him. “Business as usual.”
Napoleon removed his tie and bandaged the rip in Kuryakin’s leg. He realized that the bullet wound -- inflicted over an hour ago -- had once dried and clotted, but now was ripped open again. Not as serious as the back wound, but still a bleeding gash. Illya had been losing blood for a long time. A bad complication with the new and more grievous back shot.
Darkly, he knew the lead projectile could have glanced off a rib and gone anywhere, damaging any number of internal organs. Aside from the problem of a bleeding injury, haste at finding medical attention was imperative because of the unseen damage.
“Well?”
“What?”
He sucked in a gasp as Solo tightened the wrappings. “Must you -- be so -- uh -- clumsy?”
“Sorry. You want the bleeding stopped, I presume.”
Illya was still shivering. As soon as he felt he had done all he could with the first aid he wrapped the slender man in the remnants of the coats.
“Why do I always -- always -- get you as my doctor?”
He rubbed the soaking arms of his white shirt, shivering from the cold and damp as well as the fear. Then he carefully rubbed Illya’s arms and shoulders to bring some warmth to the suffering man. He didn’t’ want to cause more pain, but the cold was not helping Illya’s condition.
Solo pressed his lips together to keep them from
trembling. To hide the unsteady dread
that would have laced his voice in that unguarded moment. “Because you insist on getting in the path of
bullets, knives and various instruments of mayhem,” he finally responded, the
tone reflecting his harsh distress.
Grasping the subtle anguish of his friend, he raised his head slightly and focused on the conversation, intently studying Solo. Illya’s glaze of pain slightly lifted. “That bad?”
“I don’t know.” It was the truth. No need to speculate. They both knew well enough what mutilation a bullet could do to the human body. “Your lungs seem okay. No exit wound.” He shrugged, too exhausted and bitter to go on. “You need to be still and rest. We need to get you to a doctor.”
Laying his head back on the ground, he closed his eyes. “That would be nice.”
Squeezing his friend’s shoulder, Solo cleared away the angst clouding him. Snagging on fear only drained him emotionally and distracted his judgment and skill. Illya was depending on him to get them out of this. To do that he needed to be completely centered on rescue.
Illya’s eyes opened again. “You’re hurt, too.”
For the first time Solo took stock of his own condition. There were bleeding rips in his left arm and the top of his shoulder was red. Now brought to his attention, they were stinging, but easy to dismiss. He had a lot more on his mind.
“Mere scratches.”
The Russian was suddenly sober. “I know that tone. Napoleon, it is not your fault I was shot. You were doing what you always do, rescue me.”
Solo couldn’t respond, just nodded.
“What about the bad guys? Think -- think they are looking -- for us?”
“I don’t know, but that’s probably the first thing on my list of things to do. To find out.”
“They will not let us go, Napoleon. We know -- too much. They will have to kill us.”
“I won’t let that happen.” It was a solid promise. He stared at his friend for a moment, unable to contain the guilt. “This is my fault. I’m going to get you out of this. I promise.”
“How can it be your fault?”
“Aside from my cunning plan to nab Zavros backfiring and getting you kidnapped?” he rhetorically, caustically countered. “Then my scathingly brilliant rescue. I’m supposed to be your lifeline. To rescue you intact. I botched it completely.” Bitterly, he nearly snarled, “You were counting on me! Now you’re the one hurt.”
Illya shook his head. “It’s not your fault.”
Solo could not respond to the loyalty. It WAS his fault. Throughout this whole operation he had been arrogant and blindly focused on the glory of his coup against the smugglers. He had not counted on the damage to his friend when the bad guys played rough. He was responsible for Illya’s injury -- and if they didn’t get out of this soon -- his death. No matter what -- even if it cost his own life -- he would not allow Illya to die.
“I don’t like that look.” Kuryakin’s eyes narrowed. “Don’t do anything foolish.”
Napoleon responded with a tight, grim smile.
Scowling, the wounded Russian pointed out that Solo had no weapon. They were outnumbered. It was not a time to go crazy with heroic nonsense. Not responding to the cautions, the senior operative admitted that he had lost his Walther in the river. It was either the gun or the partner.
“Thank you.”
“For getting you shot?”
“For saving my life. As always. You know what they were going to do to me. This is far better.”
“You’re welcome.” The conversation seemed to center him. “I’m not done yet.”
“I know. Careful, my friend.”
“Of course.” He patted the trembling shoulder again. “I’ll be right back.”
***
As he grimly suspected, some four or five thugs, Zavros and Tito, had not forgotten them. Armed goons were sweeping the banks of the river not far away. Unarmed, Solo’s job was tricky. He would have to lead the baddies away from the cave where he had secured Illya, but overtake muscular, armed mobsters and get Illya out of the area.
It seemed daunting, but he found no intimidation in it. They were the best, he and Illya. They built their careers on turning danger into opportunity. Plans were formed out of thin air and successfully achieved. Impossible rescues were their byword. And his motivation could not be more profound.
The urgency of his mission far outweighed any consideration of his personal safety. There was never a question that he would fail. Crouching there, watching his prey, he felt nothing but detached professionalism. Those thugs stood between him and keeping Illya alive. Therefore, at whatever cost, they would be eliminated.
Knowing his relatively white shirt was a liability he scrambled under some bushes and rolled in the mud and brush. Removing his shoulder holster, he placed it on the path by a thicket and covered it with dirt and leaves.
One of the henchmen was nearby and he waited for the man to come close. Then the big man turned to avoid the copse. Solo rustled the bushes, attracting the wanted attention of the brute. When the big man stepped into the loop of the shoulder holster, Napoleon yanked a quick, fierce tug.
The thug spilled hard, tumbling down the embankment. Taking a quick glance to assure no one was close enough to hear the commotion, Napoleon clamored after the rolling man. Unfortunately, the thug bounced all the way down to the river and tumbled in, lifelessly floating downstream.
Well, one down, but he had really hoped to take the man’s weapon. Oh, well. No plan was perfect. He slipped back to his underbrush concealment and slid through the dirt and mud to acquire his next target.
The next men to come close were two big brutes who could, individually, easily make mincemeat of him. Should he wait and scout around for another lone prey? The sound of an engine alerted him and he scooted to another vantage point. Tito and Zavros arrived in one of the sedans. Both men exited the vehicle and conferred with one of the hired help. Then the three split up, Tito going into the woods with the man and Zavros staying by the car.
Should he go back and get Illya, then take out Zavros and steal the car? Should he try and capture the kingpin as a hostage? Then they would be right back where they started from, but they would have something to show for the whole debacle besides Illya’s new scars.
The decision was made for him when another mobster with a high-powered rifle joined Zavros. So they were going to try to hunt down the agents like wild game. This time the prey was fighting back, he smirked with evil delight.
Bonaparte once commented that it was a dangerous thing to go to war because some men learned to love it too much. He understood that motto now as he stalked the enemy, lusting after the blood of those who threatened him and the life he held most dear to his heart.
For a long time now, in his own mind, he had decided if it came to a decision -- his life against Illya’s -- he would not hesitate to sacrifice himself. He felt that way now, but it was not an option this time. He had to survive to get Illya to safety. He would, however, go through any personal damage or cost to assure his partner lived.
The rifleman left, stealing into the woods. Solo crouched and approached through the hedges close to the clearing where the car was parked. Before he could act, Tito and another man shouted from the riverbank. They were perilously close to the cave. He was about to sprint over and capture Zavros, when the rifleman returned. Then both ran toward the river.
Had they found Illya? Fear lending speed to his flight he dashed through the woods, skirting the mobsters. He sagged into the mud with relief as he observed the group continuing downstream. They had found the dead thug. That would make his job harder. They would be on alert now.
Controlling his breathing, thinking about his next move, the ever-present urgency of his bleeding partner’s life ticking away remained solidly in the forefront of his mind. When the brush nearby cracked, he froze. Had he been spotted? He didn’t dare move, in case he had not been discovered yet. Only a few meters away one of the thugs walked past.
Seconds later Solo leaped up and from behind, he mercilessly, silently, snapped the man’s neck. He gently slid the man into the brush, covering him with camouflage. Seizing the automatic pistol dropped by the dead man, he slid back to the ground and waited. Apparently, no one saw him. Tucking the pistol behind his back, he scrambled over to the riverbank.
Four of the mobsters, including Zavros and Tito were coming back his way. He could take them all out now, but would be a target if there were any others left. Before he could act, again Zavros and the others moved out of sight to walk inland.
When he was relatively sure they were out of the area he jogged back to the cave. Illya’s breathing was irregular. He checked for a pulse, not surprisingly the cool clammy skin told him his friend was going into shock.
“Are -- you -- here to -- rescue me?” The eyes did not open and the words were tiredly slurred.
Supportively, he kept his hand on Illya’s neck. “Don’t I always?” The wounded man was obviously not up to their customary banter and he amended fervently, “Don’t worry, I’m working on it. Two down four to go.”
Kuryakin opened his eyes and squinted against the pain or the confusion. “Something -- changed -- happened.”
“I’ve got it all under control.”
“You look terrible.”
“Thanks.” He bit his lip when he noted blood was spotting the bandage he had wrapped around Kuryakin’s back wound. He had to get his partner out of here very soon. “You should talk.” His heart was not in the jibe, but he wanted to keep Illya connected to him; conscious and alive, fighting and thinking to extend his survival.
“You smell like a swamp.”
“I come to rescue you and you insult me. Some partner.”
“Cold. When can -- we go?”
Leaning close, he whispered, “I don’t want to move you until the very last minute, Illya. We don’t know about your internal injuries. Moving you around too much could be dangerous. You understand?”
“Move.”
“Yes, move. When I make sure the coast is clear I’ll come back for you and we’ll make a break for it. With any luck, we’ll be able to drive out of here in style.”
Momentarily, he wondered if he should leave the gun with his friend just in case the bad guys found the hiding place. No, Illya was too out of it to use a weapon, and he would need it for a fast and deadly elimination of the enemy camp. When he was done here, he didn’t intend to leave anyone standing. The resolution was impulsive, but it was as solid as the rocks under his feet. He was going to kill Zavros and the others. There was no room for negotiation. They could not be dealt with. And he was not John Wayne. The monsters had wounded -- perhaps fatally -- his friend. They were going to pay in kind for their mistake.
He patted Kuryakin’s shoulder. “I’ll be back soon.”
“Careful.” Kuryakin held onto his hand for a moment. “Lifeline.”
A plea or a statement? He didn’t know, but it was all too prophetic for him. He was Illya’s only way to keep living. In addition, his partner’s survival seemed the only attachment to life that he could cling to now. The bleakness of a future without his partner was unthinkable.
There was nothing else to say, so he squeezed Illya’s arm and left as silently as he had come.
***
Weary, uncomfortable on the rocky ground, cold, shivering and dazed with pain, Illya found it impossible to rest. Beyond the physical torment there was an even deeper mental concern riddling his anxieties.
His instincts were alerted at the look he had seen in his friend’s expression. It worried him. It was a face so filled with cold resolve that it chilled him. What was Napoleon up to? The agent was dangerous to a level Illya could not remember seeing before. It should have comforted him to know his friend was so determined, no, desperate, to save him, but instead it disturbed him, filed him with apprehension.
Solo was risking his life for him -- as always. Nothing new. He hated it. If anything happened to Napoleon because of him he couldn’t live with himself. Nothing he said, though, would alter his friend’s motivation. The loyalty was touching and terrifying.
Afraid to define it, he didn’t want to think that Solo had no more limits. That would prove fatal to their enemies, but he prayed it would not be a mortal mistake for Napoleon. If only he could stay alert long enough to think it through . . . .
***
Two of the thugs were sent to check the riverbank again and Solo hesitated. Should he take out Zavros and Tito? Or should he take out the two goons closing in on his partner? There was no indication they would find the cave.
Taking the car now would shortcut their escape. He didn’t really want to waste precious time hunting down the last two foes. Illya was bleeding to death in that grotto. Acting rashly, imprudently, dangerously might make the difference for him. He never played the odds and couldn’t afford to now. Not with Illya’s life as the stake. Hoping his gamble was correct he moved to the edge of the clearing. When the armed man turned his back, and Zavros was angled to the side, he made his move.
He came up behind the thug as quietly and swiftly as possible. When only meters away, Zavros turned. His eyes opened wide. Before the armed bodyguard could react Solo shot him in the back. Zavros’ mouth opened just before Napoleon shot him three times in the chest.
“I promised you that,” he muttered darkly as he checked for a pulse.
Certain the drug lord was dead, Solo jumped into the car and came up short. No keys. Tearing through the wires under the dash, he reasoned it would be quicker to hot-wire it than search dead men’s pockets for keys. The car came to life and he raced through the clearing and through the woods, narrowly avoiding trees and brush. He came as close he could to the river. Skidding the car to a stop along a row of hedges, he exited, sprinting toward the hillside where he had left his partner. He vaulted over the brush and along the rocky slope toward the grotto. Always keeping alert for the opposition.
The gunshots would have alerted the last two enemies and they would be closing in on him now. If they were close, they might even ambush him since they could not help but hear the car engine in the quiet woods. The danger did not concern him on a personal level. He was beyond caring about his own safety. The only anxieties consuming him were for his partner.
A dark head came over the rise of a hill and Napoleon fired on the run. He stumbled over the last craggy hill and stopped cold, his heart in his throat. A gun to Illya’s sagging head; the wounded agent looking like a rag doll in the clutches of the huge man, Tito, blocked the entrance to the grotto. The ruse had failed. He had made the wrong choice to go for the car first and now the enemy had the prize.
“Where is Zavros?”
So the big guy wasn’t as dumb as he looked. Solo debated for fractional seconds on whether he should stall for time, should lie. There seemed no point and time was ticking down against Illya. The slender blond was conscious, and his eyes burned with an alertness that belayed his tattered condition. He was ready to move on Solo’s signal, but there was nowhere for him to go. Valiant though the spirit might be in the tenacious Russian, the body was weak and no match for the giant pinning him in a merciless stranglehold. Napoleon knew it was all up to him and he wasn’t going to lose.
The pistol never wavered from Tito’s form and in the next few seconds Solo weighed the balance of the foreign weapon, the trajectory of the path, the wind, the angle, the limited target-mass of the enemy available behind Kuryakin. If he were wrong, if he did not drill the man dead center between the eyes, then Tito’s reflex would twitch his trigger finger -- even before his brain could react to pulling the trigger -- and Illya would be dead. He would only have one shot -- literally -- at this. He could not fail.
Angry at the position -- at the whole stinking operation, Napoleon was out of patience. “Zavros is dead. I shot him in the back. And I’m going to make sure you join him.”
The pistol kicked in his hand two times. Tito and Kuryakin dropped. Solo rushed forward before the echoes died away.
“Illya?”
The agent had tumbled atop of the mobster and was sliding down the nearest rocks, about to plummet down the embankment. Grabbing onto Illya’s arm, Napoleon stopped the gravitational momentum. Wrestling a better grip around the thin chest, he carefully dragged his friend back to a steadying ledge as Tito’s body toppled downhill and partially into the river.
“Illya!”
The hand over the heart told him Kuryakin was still among the living. The unsteady breathing indicated it was not a solid footing in this world. Closing out gruesome speculation on how much further damage had been caused in the action, he wrangled Kuryakin onto a rock and caught his breath. The wounded man was gray with the pallor of blood loss and shock. So he was surprised when the eyelids fluttered open and the Russian focused on him with lucid intensity in the blue eyes.
“Close.”
Napoleon gave a nod, not willing to comment on the narrowness of Illya’s survival. Not wanting to give away the wretched fear that still numbed him over the uncertainty of his friend living through this.
“Good shot.”
“The least I could do.” He shifted to form a better grip on his friend, holding him close. “Well, now that the excitement’s over,” he sighed heavily. “Let’s get you to a hospital.”
The Russian offered a curt nod of the head, but the eyes remained fixed on his, focused, as if about to reveal something profound. No words came forth, however, as Solo picked him up and carried him to the car.
***
Staring at the whitewashed walls of the small hospital room,
Illya wondered where his partner was. Usually
Napoleon was never far away when he was recovering. Perhaps he had been called back to
Experimentally he flexed his fingers. He could move them all. Closing his eyes with concentration and against the lance of trepidation running like ice water in his nerves, he wriggled his toes. He could felt them -- move them! Exhaling a huge breath of relief, he settled down emotionally, analyzing other clues. He felt a little fuzzy, which meant he was on medication, but he could still think, still remember some of the adventure after falling into the river.
What was most startling and memorable of all was Solo.
He had never seen Napoleon so ruthless, so transformed into another being. Merciless. Occupationally, he could kill, or maim or torture if necessary, but rarely lost his sense of compassion. Within Solo’s core was a softness, a vulnerability that was a possibly fatal weakness for a spy. What kept him alive so long was that the vulnerability was never exposed. Or his enemies had never penetrated that far. Guiltily, he knew that he was Napoleon’s Achilles' heel.
It did not frighten him that Solo was capable of such passion and cold-blooded talents. After all, they lied, cheated, murdered and betrayed as a living. He was, in fact, warmed and secured by the knowledge that his partner not only had that capacity within him, but that it had been so unerringly focused on his survival. That dedication was the only reason he was still breathing.
What had worried him for a long while was the single-minded devotion of his friend. It had saved his life and skin more than once. Every time Solo engaged in such fearless and extreme stunts, it gripped him with apprehension that he would be the cause of his friend’s death. He dreaded that Solo would go too far, forgetting the limits of survival and relinquishing all to save him.
“Hi. Nice to see you’re awake.”
He turned to observe a smiling Napoleon striding closer to the bed, a cup of steaming coffee in his hand. The American seemed scraped and bruised, but not too worse for wear.
“I go out for a snack and you wake up. What timing. How are you feeling?”
Mumbling a few sounds he cleared his throat and tried again. “Fuzzy. Medication.”
Setting the cup on the nearest table, Solo inclined his head sympathetically, scrutinizing the patient. “Well, drugs are your friends for a while, Illya. That bullet tore up your ribs, a few muscles, and some tissue. You were very lucky it missed your spine and vital organs. You‘ll be generally sore and miserable for a while, but out of here and recuperating at home soon.”
Kuryakin accepted it with resignation. “Occupational hazard.”
The joke did not lighten the dark soberness of the American’s gaze and Illya realized the mood, for Solo, was excessively somber. He thought back to the coldness he had seen in his friend and noted that the chill had not thawed yet. The personal warmth Napoleon always displayed toward him was there, but did not touch the look in the veiled eyes.
There was still a spectre of wintry detachment in the brown depths. He had noted it while dazed and injured in the cave. If he had to put a name to it now he would call it callousness. An alien trait for his friend.
“Are you all right?”
Napoleon gave him a curious glance, but the remote expression did not alter. “That’s supposed to be my line.”
Cursing the drugs and the shallow backdrop of pain that clouded his thinking, Illya realized he had instinctively hit upon something vital in that cave. Something infinitesimal in Solo’s nature had changed out there in those woods. The familiar relief and affection usually present under these circumstances was now muted, subdued, even altered in the American.
“You aren’t all right.” Not a question. He knew his comrade too well.
A wraith of amusement flickered in the dark eyes and his lip nearly twitched. “Again you’re stealing my lines.”
“I saw it before. In the cave.”
For the first time in years Solo’s expression closed completely and the Russian could not read anything in the brown eyes or the hard face. He steadily stared for a moment, then gave a subtle nod of his head. “You know me too well, tovarisch.” Normally, such a confidential phrase would have been delivered with customary warmth as befitted their closeness. Now, there was an edge to the tone, an icy blade in the combined look and voice. “I crossed the line.”
It took a moment of pondering for the usually quick thinking Russian to grasp the meaning. It was a term they discussed occasionally. When they saw an adversary, or in rare instances a fellow agent, trample over an invisible barrier. The line between keeping the law and violating the most basic ethic of humanity – murder. Frequently they were called upon to kill for their job, for the higher good. UNCLE agents were there to enforce justice, but sometimes they were pushed too hard and crossed to mete out their own kind of law.
“No, you didn’t,” Illya flatly
refuted.
Another tough stare that lasted long moments. “Yes, I did. When I heard you shot I started to crumble. When they dragged you out of the car all the good guy stuff was crushed, Illya.” The highly charged, emotional confession was delivered in cold matter-of-factness. “I decided I was going to kill them. No matter what happened to me I was going to save you. And they were all dead from that moment on. It wasn’t murder, it wasn’t revenge. It was justice.”
Kuryakin wanted to refute the claim, and half-heartedly muttered a counter phrase about the heat of battle. He knew from the crisp certainty in the shake of Solo’s head that it was beyond heated passion, desperation, or fear when Illya’s life was at stake. His partner had crossed the line indeed. Illya had always been the one perilously close to being a cold-blooded killer. He had the instincts and the background and the upbringing to tip him over into that kind of mindset and amoral justification. Not Solo. Not until his sentimental friend found a limit, found a line he could not cross – and that was allowing Illya’s life to be lost.
“We must talk,” he admonished around a yawn. His eyes would not stay open. “Soon.”
A brush of the typical warmth returned as Solo placed a hand on Kuryakin’s arm. “Why don’t you get some sleep? We’ll have plenty of time to talk later.”
“Don’t care about lines,” Kuryakin sighed.
Worried what this would do to his friend on the inside, Illya silently vowed he would work on helping his friend heal. To the Russian, it didn’t matter what kind of line Napoleon crossed. To him, his partner was always his lifeline. That would never change.
THE END