A black sedan was driving at a high speed, moving along the precariously winding mountain road, as it's driver tried to flee its relentless pursuer.

Behind it the other vehicle was catching up, tearing after it as if a maniac were behind the wheel. The maneuvers made by the driver of the second car took it way too near the edge of the road, and if a wrong move were made, the drop over the cliff would most certainly make for a fiery end.

The car windows were open as it was a beautiful day, and strains of a Jan and Dean song were blasting out from the radio.

"It's the little old lady from Pasadena...

If you see her on the street, don't try to choose her

(Go granny, go granny, go granny, go)

You might drive a goer, but you'll never lose her

(Go granny, go granny, go granny, go!)

Well, she's gonna get a ticket now, sooner or later

'Cause she can't keep her foot off the accelerator...

Go granny, go granny, go granny, go

Go granny, go granny, go granny, go

The guys come to race her from miles around

But she'll give 'em a length, then she'll shut 'em down

And everybody's sayin' that there's nobody meaner

Than the little old lady from Pasadena…"

The driver was tapping his hands on the steering while, bobbing his head in time with the music.

"Will you please turn off that radio and concentrate on what you're doing?" The passenger called out.

"Why, I like it and unlike some people I know; I am able to do more than one thing at a time."

"Insults won't get you anywhere tovarisch,"

Illya laughed as he pressed his foot down on the accelerator, catching a glimpse out of the corner of his eye as his partner held on for dear life.

Kuryakin was close enough now, touching the other cars bumper and sending it spinning sideways.

The car chase came to an unexpected end as the first vehicle went out of control, careening over the edge of the cliff and exploding as it hit the rocky ground below... taking the passengers and the stolen document the U.N.C.L.E. agents were trying to retrieve to a fiery end.

Illya pulled their car to a stop and both he and Solo exited; standing by the edge of the road, and watching as the T.H.R.U.S.H. car burned, thus verifying it was over. There were no survivors and the document had gone up in flames with them.

Napoleon crossed his arms in front of his chest, looking rather upset.

"Nice job."

"I did not hit them that hard. It is not my fault their driver was not skilled enough to maintain control."

Napoleon said nothing.

"My friend, sometimes we win and sometimes we lose...we must chalk up this one and move on," Illya tried consoling the American, thinking that perhaps had him upset.

"That's not what's eating me."

"What is wrong?" The two turned, walking back to their car. The radio still playing the last of the Jan and Dean song.

"You. Sometimes you can be a lunatic behind the wheel you know that? You could of gotten us killed," Napoleon spoke through gritted teeth.

"Ah but I did not," The Russian smiled.

Napoleon held out his hand.

"What?" Illya put his hand on the driver's side door handle.

"Give me the Goddamn car keys," Solo was practically seething."I'm driving."

"Fine,"Illya huffed, dropping the keys to his partners palm. "Just do not get us lost...again."

"I do not get us lost...well, that often."

The two men got back into their car without further conversation, and as they drove, reaching the end of the mountain road; Solo brought the sedan to a stop. He looked both ways and made a right turn.

After heading down the rural route a few miles, Napoleon again brought the car to a halt.

"Isn't there supposed to be a turn off around here?"

"Yes a turn off...if you had made a left back there instead of a right."

Solo became annoyed at that answer. "Well why didn't you just tell me?"

"And ruin being able to prove my point about your navigational skills, or lack thereof should I say?"

Napoleon handed over the keys. "Just don't drive like the little old lady from Pasadena will you."

Illya slipped behind the wheel and started the car, and flooring the gas pedal it took off in a cloud of smoke as the wheels burned rubber on the black top.

It was Napoleon's turn to roll his eyes...and he did so without comment.