This is actually the first TV based Man From U.N.C.L.E fan fiction I started working on. But my Muse is all over the place. The fan-girlie thing is almost embarrassing, but I'm having fun with it. Hope my readers are too. Comments are always welcome, no, they are appreciated. More encouragement, you see. Comments also lets a writer know where they stand with the audience. But onward and upward, as they say.
In honor of Samhain, I am going to being trying my hand at my first attempt at a horror or supernatural story. It's an experiment. Feel free to let me know the results.
I want to apologize to those who have read the chapter I posted yesterday. This was the one I had prepared but apparently hadn't saved the changes. Sorry for the confusion.
As always, I own nothing what so ever pertaining The Man From U.N.C.L.E franchise. No money is changing hands in any manner.
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The U.N.C.L.E agent sat in his relatively comfortable perch and watched as the lumber crew drove the heavy wood harvesting equipment close to their logging camp. The sun was starting to set and soon the generators would be started and the high powered lighting equipment would be turned on. Armed men would start patrolling the perimeter They had learned their lesson. Unfortunately it took the disappearance of 7 people for them to do something about their security. Which was why he had been assigned this mission.
It seems that three months ago a logging company began to suffer from the attack of a eco-terrorist. It started small. Tools were stolen and machinery was sabotaged. Basic security measures were put in place. Tools were put under lock and key. A cursory night watch was implemented but the situation continued to escalate. According to the report that U.N.C.L.E received from the FBI, the perpetrator was someone who was local and knew the area very well. He had a good working knowledge of the logging operation and the area of forest to be cut in how it was going to be parceled out. Trees were spiked and man traps were set and men were being hurt, some seriously. Then, 3 weeks ago, people began to disappear. First, it was workers of the logging operation itself. When they called in the Forestry Service, personnel were sent to join the man hunt. Members of the search never returned to camp. Local law enforcement was called on and a few more people were lost. Then the call went out to the FBI. When two special agents came up among the missing, they in turn contacted Mr. Alexander Waverly who had called the blond Russian into his office and handed the assignment over to him. He had learned early in life how to survive on the war torn streets of Kyiv in the Ukraine and later, in Russia and he had become a survivalist. A fighter in the harshest of environments. This experience had served him well and did so now.
He dropped as swiftly but silently as possible from the tree. He wanted to be as far away from the logging camp and the impending light pollution as possible. He was going to need all his night vision intact. Nor did he want to be back lit. His dark blue and grey clothing did much to render him invisible but it would not be foolproof in any kind of light. The noise of the generators might be both problematic and an assistance. They would mask any noise made by anything, or anyone, moving through the woods but, since he was new to the area and knew it not at all, the noise would help cover any unfortunate clumsy stumble on his part.
For the past two nights he had stayed patrolled close to camp but now that they had gotten their own security in hand, he felt it time to delve deeper into the surrounding forest. The camp had been plagued by traps that damaged equipment and caused injury to the woodcutters. Since the equipment now being heavily guarded, the terrorist would be forced to move his operation beyond the reach of the lights and the fire arms.
Kuryakin was following a faint path he had discovered in his reconnaissance. True, it could have been nothing more then a game trail but he had found few animal tracks. He had found some elements of human prints but there had been great care taken in trying to mask or eliminate them. So now he carefully flitted through the shadows until some 6th sense made him drop into a low crouch in the shadow of a thick bushy shrub straining all his hearing turning his head slowly scanning. Then he froze again as a soft scuffling caught his attention and then the sound of flesh on flesh and a sharp answering hiss.
"One more move like that and I swear I will gut you like a deer and leave you hanging, do you understand me."
Obviously there was an answer as the one sided conversation continued. But it was low and muffled. Illya didn't catch much more of a grunt.
"Alright, I'm letting you go. You tell them butchers that they have 48 hours to break that damned camp down and get out of here or I start leaving them little presents. I've got four more warm bodies to work with. So you had better be really, really convincing. They got lights so you can't get lost."
Illya practically held his breath as someone stumbled by his hiding place. Four warm bodies, he wasn't even hazard a guess as to the missing two. He carefully let himself ease back so that he could have a clear view of the trail. Soon a dark figure moved off taking a track angling away from the camp. Giving the man a few minutes to get deeper into the woods, Kuryakin moved onto the path and began to backtrack it.
He had been moving for a little more then ten minutes, by his estimation, when a puff of soft warm air brushing against his cheek made the agent drop to all fours his brow furrowing. Surely no one was standing close by. He slowly reached out letting his finger tips ripple through the space around him. Then still in a crouch he slid off the path in the direction he had felt the warmth. He smiled as his fingers brushed against a slag pile of brush and thin branches. Using his pin light he worked around until he found a thin spot and found the expected layers of heavy dark canvas. A seam opened under his and he found himself reeling back at the brutal assault on his olfactory senses, one arm thrown over his nose as he took deep gulps of fresh air through his mouth. The place was a charnel house. Drawing his pearl handled knife, he counted to three then he was on the move.
With out pause he moved from one captive to another, cutting their bonds and shoving them towards the door. Glassy eyed, and shivering they stumbled out into the night. Kuryakin followed close on their heels. He couldn't give them time to falter or stop. They had to be away from this place. He herded them off into the deeper shadows across the little clearing the eco-terrorist, now murderer had made. In a patch of moonlight he counted heads to make sure none had been lost then motioned them to follow him back into deeper shadow where he once more crouched them down into a tight huddle and in a soft breathless whisper he spoke.
"My name is Ilya Nikolayevich Kuryakin*. I am an agent from The U.N.C.L.E working in concert with the FBI to find and rescue you. You must stay here. Do not move until I return. Do you understand. He waited until he received four hesitant nods before standing to headed back to the man made cave. He was going to have to provide evidence of the crime that had been perpetrated on two of the captives.
The men had been hung and slaughtered like sides of beef. A spit over the fire pit told the rest of the gruesome story. Finding two bags used to hold provisions, Illya picked through the remains adding articles that would identify two different victims to each bag using the heads as the easiest means of prompt recognition. When he left he made sure that the tarps were closed tight as he had found them then returned to his charges. He was loath to leave the slag pile and it's horrendous secret unguarded, but he was even less sure that these shell shocked survivors could handle to task of getting back to the camp on their own. He moved through the little knot and prodded them into moving. He led them as silently as they could manage until a distinct hum could be heard and a light was seen through the trees.
"There is the logging camp. You will be safe there. "He held up the evidence sacks. "I need you to hand these over to the proper authorities."
A man and a woman stepped forward and took the bags from him then turned towards the light. The other two turned to follow. Illya watched to make sure they didn't stray, then he was off, back to take up vigilance at the slag pile. He found a good vantage point to keep the entrance in view then he activated his homing signal relay back to U.N.C.L.E headquarters. He was not ready to break the radio silence as had been stipulated by Mr. Waverly when he had handed Kuryakin the file and plane tickets.
He could only hope that the escapes would be able to avoid recapture. He also hoped that they would not try to stage their own capture of their tormentor. At least, not until he was safely contained. He would, no doubt, return to his little man made cave which would make it easier to capture him. But the last thing Illya wanted or needed was interference of any kind.
On the first heart stopping peep of the communicator, Illya had snatched at the silver cylinder and was diving deep into the down parka hoping to mute the dratted contraption. He was going to have to talk to R&D about finding a way to make an incoming call all but silent. Especially in situations where any sound could be deadly. It happened all to often.
Dropping his voice to a whisper he hissed into the communicator. "Napoleon, is this you? If so you had better be whispering. I am supposed to be incognito."
"Oooooohhhh." Came the soft whisper. "And don't you mean incommunicado?"
"Blin!** I am supposed to be in communications blackout!"
There came a stunned silence, then. "Oh...God, Illya. Napoleon out."
Illya reset the homing signal as he cautiously emerged from his cocoon, head cocked listening intently. Silence met him and he winched. A silent woods is never a good sign. When animals go quiet it means they have been startled and are expecting trouble. This would alert his own quarry if he was near by. But at least he knew that Solo had returned safe from his own recent assignment. Suddenly, somewhere near by, something rustled and he tensed. Then an owl hooted and there was a soft squeak and the rustle stopped and Illya relaxed.
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*I have to give a very appreciative shout out to Avery11 for this information on how the spelling of Illya's name would look like in his native home land. It is included in her story "Uncle Boris' Kitchen". Please pop over and take a look.
** Dammit in Russian.