CHAPTER ONE
It was 2:00 pm on a Friday afternoon at the House of Vanya, and Illya Kuryakin was regretting - for the hundredth time - his decision to work in the fashion industry when he left UNCLE, ten years before. The end of the day was still a few hours away, and he had already depleted all his energies and his patience. Both his models and his customers were driving him crazy, and today they seemed to share the same need to annoy him in every possible manner.
He was shouting some last-minute instructions to one of his models, who was too busy complaining about something meaningless to listen to him, when he heard his secretary call him from his office.
"Illya, you have a private call. It sounds urgent, too."
A private call? To his office? That was so unusual, that Illya ran to pick up the phone.
"Hello?"
A very familiar voice answered, "Illya? It's Stephanie."
A large smile lit the Russian's face.
"Stephanie! It's been a long time. I thought you were abroad on a mission." She replied in a very anxious tone. "No, I'm in town, but I'm also in trouble, Illya. Big trouble."
His smile disappeared instantly, replaced by a worried expression. "What's the matter, Steph?"
"My team and I chased some suspects into a warehouse in Harlem, but we discovered that the whole place is rigged with explosives. The other two agents are dead, caught in booby traps, and I'm probably next. I'm standing in the middle of a room, and I don't dare make a move because I'm afraid to step on some trigger."
Illya's blood went cold as Stephanie continued.
"Illya, both the police and UNCLE bomb squads are busy on a top-priority call downtown. I hate to expose you to a risky situation, but I remember your file; you're an explosives expert, so maybe you could come over here and defuse these."
A top-priority mission meant that the number of potential victims was high. Stephanie was just one agent, and she had no precedence.
The Russian knew that Stephanie had to be terror-stricken to call him, and her next sentence confirmed it.
"I'm really scared, Illya."
As was he, but he needed her to stay calm, so he spoke in what he hoped was a soothing voice.
"All right, Stephanie, just remain calm and don't move. Give me the address." He jotted down the address the woman gave him.
"Make sure you don't move or touch anything. I'll be right there."
As soon as he hung up, he darted outside his office, shouting to his secretary,
"I have an emergency. Cancel all my appointments for today." She started to protest, but he cut her off, barking a sharp reply.
"No buts. Just do it." The secretary closed her mouth, taken aback by the Russian's unusually abrupt tone.
Illya was glad he had decided to take his motorbike that morning. He often preferred it to his car when the weather was nice, since the New York traffic badly aggravated his already worn out nerves. He quickly put his helmet and leather jacket on, ignited the powerful bike and sped into the thick traffic, easily dodging the slowly moving cars.
The blond rode frantically, not caring about red lights and stop signs, followed by a chorus of angry honks and shouted insults.
He was glad he had to concentrate on his dangerous driving rather than thinking about Stephanie, vulnerable and surrounded by explosives.
Shortly after meeting the attractive female UNCLE agent they shared a few dangerous but exciting days; Illya and his partner Napoleon Solo helped her defeat a gang of drug dealers. He was stabbed by her ex-partner, a man who betrayed the agency and eventually tried to kill the three agents, failing at that task. In spite of the circumstances and the continuing danger, the Russian had grown very fond of Stephanie but never had the opportunity to explore their dawning relationship. Stephanie was sent to South America on a mission before he was released from hospital, and that was three months ago. He had looked forward to seeing her again, but not under such dreadful circumstances.
The closer he got to Harlem the thinner the traffic became, allowing Illya to approach his destination earlier than expected, but not soon enough for his ticking mental clock. Even if Stephanie didn't step on a booby trap he knew that the place could contain some timed bombs, and he also knew that timers were rarely set on more than thirty minutes.
He relaxed slightly when he turned the last corner and made visual contact with his destination. But before he even had a chance to slow down, an explosion shattered all the front windows. Glass splinters were sent flying all over the street, and the shock wave almost threw him off his bike.
Terrified, he came to a screeching halt, jumped off his bike and frantically ran inside the devastated warehouse.
His old training kicked in as soon as he stepped inside, and he forced himself to slow down and look for traps. He was able to defuse three bombs, all the while calling out Stephanie's name, when he saw something laying on the ground approximately ten feet from where he stood. It looked like a bunch of discarded clothes, but then he saw the coppery hair and recognized Stephanie's curled up body and the awful amount of rapidly spreading red stains. It took all his resolve not to run to her side, but he moved slowly, watching for more explosive traps. When he finally reached the battered body, he knelt down and gently rolled her onto her side. His voice trembled when he called her name.
"Stephanie?"
No response. Her eyes were closed and she was completely limp. Illya felt for a pulse, and let out a sigh of relief when he detected a heartbeat, albeit weak. He removed his jacket and placed it under her head, then stood up and looked around in search of a phone. It had to be somewhere near, for he clearly instructed Stephanie not to move when she called him. After a few seconds he found it on the ground a few feet from a knocked-over desk. Still moving with painstaking caution, he reached the telephone and dialed 911. After quickly explaining the situation and giving the warehouse address, he hung up and went back to Stephanie, eager to remove her from that dangerous place. He gently picked her up and quickly made his way out of that dreadful warehouse.
Illya could not bear to look at her bruised face. It was covered with cuts and contusions, and was awfully pale. Her whole body was bleeding from countless wounds, where the burning slivers were viciously biting the soft skin.
The Russian was grateful Stephanie was unconscious; he could not imagine how painful her wounds were. He could not stand the thought of Stephanie in pain. Since the very first day they met, he felt fiercely protective of her, probably because the circumstances were very similar: she was wounded, and unconscious. The only difference was that this time her injuries were much more serious, and she was barely alive.
When safely away from the building, Illya crossed the street for good measure, sitting on the sidewalk and gently cradling Stephanie on his lap, mentally urging the ambulance to rush. When the paramedics arrived, he instructed them to call the police bomb squad and informed them of the two dead UNCLE agents that were still inside the warehouse.
He wanted to climb into the ambulance with Stephanie, but the paramedics didn't allow him, so he was forced to follow the vehicle on his motorbike, desperately trying not to think about the injured woman who, a few feet in front of him, was fighting for her life.
When they reached the hospital, after what felt like hours for Illya but was actually less than fifteen minutes, he hurriedly parked the bike on a sidewalk and ran inside, following the stretcher.
Once again he was stopped outside the ER room, and was told to sit down in the waiting room; the doctors promised to inform him of Stephanie's condition as soon as they knew anything. Approximately thirty minutes later a doctor came out of the swinging doors and approached him.
"Are you a relative of the woman with the shrapnel wounds?"
Illya hastily stood up.
"No, I'm just a friend. How is she?"
"Not good, but we stabilized her. Her conditions are still critical, but if she makes it through the night, then she should be out of danger."
"Can I see her?" The doctor shook his head. "No, I'm sorry, she's in intensive care, no visitors are allowed there. As soon as her conditions improve we will move her to a regular room."
"What if her condition worsens?"
"Then we will call you immediately. You can either stay here or give us your phone number and go home."
"I'll stay here, thank you." Illya said resolutely, sitting down and crossing his arms. He was not going to stay away from Stephanie if her conditions were so critical. It was bad enough that they didn't let him see her.
The doctor just shrugged his shoulders and left. Illya wriggled on the uncomfortable chair and prepared himself for a long and difficult night.