Napoleon Solo was making a mad dash of it with only the light of a full moon to guide him while trying to escape the pack of men who were in hot pursuit.
He tripped over a tree root and landed hard, hitting a rock with his right arm and sending his Walther flying, but that didn't concern him so much as the stabbing pain he now felt and the sound of the loud crack as he fell.
Napoleon grimaced as he got to his feet cradling his now broken arm. He staggered forward, losing his balance as they finally caught up to him.
"Nice try UNCLE man, now where's that blueprint you stole from us?"
The American had no choice but to surrender it and hoped he hadn't finally met his end. Yet instead of killing him outright; with some effort they hoisted Napoleon and dumped him into a nearby rustic well.
Once they heard the splash, they abandoned him to drown.
He sputtered as he fought to paddle upwards trying to keep panic from rising in his throat, gasping for air; he broke the surface, his fear of water compounding the situation.
Visions of nearly drowning has a child flashed through his mind, recalling being enveloped in the darkness. It was dark now too...but dad wasn't here to rescue him this time.
His father had taken him out at night in a small sailing dinghy to teach him about navigating by the stars. He lost his footing as he stepped into the boat, falling overboard. His lungs filled with water as his father's arm shot down to him in the water like a harpoon, pulling him up.
Since then, drowning had become his greatest fear, and now it could be happening again, but this time there was no arm reaching down to rescue him from the inky black depths.
He was alone, and Napoleon fought to keep despair from taking hold. His partner had no idea where he was, but still he clung to the hope that Illya would find him in time.
Shivering and in shock; he could feel the energy being sapped from him. Napoleon grabbed hold of the rope to which a wooden bucket was tied and maneuvering himself, he stood on it; holding on for dear life to the thick rope with his left hand.
"Tovarisch, where are you when I need you?" He moaned.
Napoleon just didn't have the strength to pull himself up, nor was he sure how long he could hang on.
.
Kuryakin searched the woods in vain for his wayward partner, trying his best to minimize the sound of the fallen leaves crackling beneath his feet.
Earlier, Illya finished off a group of THRUSH mugs who had the blueprints his partner had stolen in their possession, but they were in no shape to tell him exactly where the American was, or if he were dead or alive. Only one lived long enough to confess Solo was somewhere in the woods behind the now smouldering T.H.R.U.S.H. compound.
In the beam of his flashlight the blond agent suddenly spotted a bad omen...a weapon lying on the ground with the distinctive white letter S inlaid on the grip.
He picked up the gun, tucking it into the waistband of his trousers and continued on with his search, refusing to give up hope.
There was always that...hope. Neither man would ever give up on the other even when things looked their bleakest. When they were told the other was dead, and shown irrefutable proof, both of them wouldn't accept it completely. Hope was all they had at times, even in the most dire of circumstances...
Kuryakin stopped moving, canting his head as he thought he'd heard something…refusing to tell himself it was his imagination. As the battery in his small flashlight was fading he thought he heard a voice. Yes, it was definitely a voice but it was echoing and distant.
He let his imagination get the better of him for just a split second, thinking it sounded ghostly, a voice...calling from beyond the grave? No, Illya shook himself, that would be ridiculous. Napoleon and his silly ghost stories he'd told over many's a campfire had infected the Russian's mind with such nonsensical thoughts.
The torch suddenly died and he stood frozen, listening with only the light of the moon to light his way amidst the rustling of the leaves on the trees.
The temperature was dropping, and Illya shivered as he tried to keep up his hope.
.
Napoleon was barely hanging on now, and was slowly sinking back into the water. Dying wasn't so bad he guessed, though he would have much rather have met his maker in a nice warm bed...with a beautiful woman. He should only be so lucky; he actually chuckled to himself.
Solo gave it one last try, calling out.
"Illya, please help? Find me before it is too late!" His voice echoed in the darkness of the moss-filled well.
"Napoleon?"Came a reply. "I hear you my friend. Where are you?" Illya desperately called out. "Keep talking!"
"Here, help me if you can...I'm down in a well. Can't hold onto the rope much longer, my arm is broken and the rest of me has gone numb."
Illya scrambled towards the voice, finding the well; he felt around in the dim light for the handle to reel in his friend.
"Hang in there, I will get you up...just do not let go."
"I'll try not to,"echoed Solo's voice.
Kuryakin began cranking the handle to raise the bucket, reeling in the rope and the drenched American, and as soon as Solo's head and shoulders cleared the top of the well Illya's arm shot out, grabbing him, pulling the weakened man to safety.
"Do you think you can walk?" Kuryakin asked, holding onto his partner, steadying Napoleon as he gained his footing.
"I'll try as it will help warm me up at least," Solo spoke through chattering teeth. "Thank you for being around and helping me get my feet back on terra firma chum."
"Unlike you, I am not late in arriving as you so often are….what is it you say, 'in the nick of time...just like the cavalry," Illya grinned.
For once Napoleon Solo had no pithy retort to his partner's sarcasm.
Together they hobbled off into the darkness….
"By the way, I was able to retrieve the blueprints back from from the goons I assume did this to you."
"Good to know you have my back partner mine. Achooooo!" Napoleon let out a loud sneeze.
"Bud zdorov." Illya wished him health in Russian.
"Spacibo...in more ways than one, tovarisch."