Troubles at Vanya's
At seven o'clock on a warm, spring Wednesday morning, Illya Kuryakin opened the doors to his workroom at the House of Vanya as he had every single morning since he first founded it, ten years ago. The early start made it possible for him to enjoy peace and quiet for a couple of hours and take care of the administrative part of his job before his employees came in and the rush of activities began. He loved the place when it was empty, letting it remind him of his achievements in this difficult line of business. Apparently it was much easier to dodge bullets than to sell women's couture fashions.
Chyort! There it was again; UNCLE. Why couldn't he keep it out of his mind, just for one day? He resigned from the agency ten years ago, and yet that period of his life never really left his thoughts or his heart; the memories insisted in sneaking out of his consciousness at the most unpredictable moments.
As usual, he pushed the thought to the back of his mind and proceeded to light up the place. He was in front of the main electrical board when he heard a muffled sound coming from somewhere near the dressing booths. His right hand instinctively ran to his left armpit, where his holster used to be. His hand came back empty, and he blankly stared at it for a moment, before remembering that a gun was not part of a fashion designer's ordinary gear. Well, he could hardly face a potential thief with a sewing needle, so he resolved to grab a big, solid-looking wooden tailor's ruler. If handled knowledgably, even such a seemingly harmless tool could seriously damage a human body.
Illya had already lit all the powerful lights of the premise, so it was a matter of moments before finding the intruder's hiding place. He cautiously and silently opened all the changing booth doors. Since there were no locks, Illya just pushed the doors open with his ruler, to avoid being hit in case the intruder was armed and determined to shoot his way out of the place.
Kuryakin found what he was looking for in the third booth, but it was far from what he expected.
It was a woman, disheveled and straining against fear. She was also, according to Illya's practiced scrutiny, injured. She was holding her side, where her white cotton shirt was soaked with what looked like fresh blood. She wasn't armed, and her condition certainly did not allow Illya to classify her as a threat. When he bent down to check on her wound, she whimpered and tried to move away from his touch.
"Please, don't hurt me."
Illya picked a southern accent. He answered in what he hoped sounded like a soft, reassuring voice.
"I don't want to hurt you. If you tell me who you are and what you're doing in my dressing room, I will do my best to help you. That injury looks serious."
The woman relaxed slightly, but she still looked quite wary.
"It's a bullet wound, but I cannot go to a hospital. They will find me and finish me off."
All his previous training abruptly kicked in.
"Who will?"
She shook her head.
"Never mind that. You'd be better off not knowing anything about this filthy affair. You look like a nice guy, I don't want to put you into any type of danger."
Illya smiled to himself. A dangerous affair? It used to be his daily bread. Right, he reminded to himself: used to be.
The former spy replied drily to her attempt at protecting him.
"So, do you plan to just hide in my changing booth until you bleed to death?"
The injured woman grimaced against the pain, her pretty face straining to not show any weakness. She managed to stand with obvious effort.
"No, I plan to leave this place as soon as I…"
She couldn't finish her sentence: her face drained of all color as she collapsed to the ground, unconscious.
'Bohze moi! Now what am I supposed to do?' Illya asked himself.