There were certainly clues Illya Kuryakin could have noticed as he walked into the hotel room he was sharing with his fellow UNCLE agent and partner Napoleon Solo. Two different brands of cigarettes in the ashtray; a fresh dent in the wall near the bathroom. Perhaps one could even say an agent of Kuryakin's caliber should have noticed these things. However, the instant he walked into the room his attention was riveted by the open balcony door and the figure standing at the wrought iron railing that looked out over the rocky cliffs and the pounding Pacific Ocean below. Specifically, the figure was that of his partner and what so drew the Soviet agent's attention was the fact that his partner was standing on the wrong side of the railing.
Shock and panic drove Illya through the room and to the balcony door before training and reason stopped him short. Whatever had come over his friend, that last thing Illya wanted to do at this moment was startle him. Five minutes ago Illya would have said Napoleon would be the last person to attempt suicide; he had never been depressed, as far as Illya was aware, and nothing in his profile indicated any such predisposition. Still, one can never truly know what is in another's mind. At the moment, however, Illya didn't care so much why Napoleon was about to end his life – whether neurochemical imbalance, blackmail or THRUSH drug induced psychosis – Illya's only care was to keep Napoleon alive. Anything else could be fixed.
Napoleon has his heals balanced precariously on the few inches of concrete that extended past the railing. His knuckles were white as they gripped the top rail on either side of his back, his head was hung low. The on-shore wind tore at his open suit jacket and plucked his tie up into the air. His usually well-coifed hair was in disarray, strands flying in all directions.
"Napoleon?" Illya called gently, "Please talk to me."
At the sound of his friend's voice, Napoleon's head shot up and whirled around. Screwed-shut eyes opened, red-rimmed and fearful.
"Illya? No, please… go!" Napoleon was pleading in a way Illya had never heard before. His voice was small and quaking. Something had clearly happened to his partner, to have so completely changed his demeanor in the last 14 hours.
"You know I'm not going to do that. Please, just come back inside. Whatever is wrong we'll fix it together." Illya slowly crept forward, keeping his movements slow and unthreatening.
"You… don't understand," Napoleon slurred. He seemed to be on the verge of passing out.
Alarmed, Illya tried to keep Napoleon talking. "But I want to understand," he said still moving forward. "Please come inside and talk to me."
"I think what Mr. Solo is trying to say," ice tingled up Illya's spine as a new voice spoke sharply from behind, "is 'It's a trap.'"
Illya whirled around in surprise to find three men standing against the wall next to the balcony door. Silently, he berated himself for such a rooky mistake. The speaker and apparent leader, a fortyish man with grey-streaked hair and a knife-sharp gaze, was leveling a gun at Kuryakin. Illya recognized him from his file photo: Hagen Merrick, a mid-level THRUSH operative with aspirations, as they all had, to join the ranks of THRUSH central. He was flanked by a study in opposites. One was a burly looking brutish man wearing a suit that looked too small for him and who had no visible neck. The other was shorter than Illya himself and had a wiry build and wild eyes staring out of a bony face. He looked like he'd be no stranger to a bar fight. Illya reluctantly raised his hands in surrender and backed the rest of the way to the railing to stand next to Napoleon.
The pieces quickly fell into place in the Russian's mind, the presence of the three men, Napoleon's behavior, the fear in his eyes.
"What have you done to him?" Illya asked, eyes blazing with anger.
"It was such a lovely sunset, we thought Mr. Solo could use a better view," Merrick said casually. "Just to make sure he doesn't forget how unpleasant it would be to lose his grip, we let him try our new phobia serum. I understand you sampled it yourself a few years ago? This is a different formula, of course, you and Mr. Solo saw to that. We had to start from scratch. Most frustrating."
'Sunset! How long has he been standing there?' Illya thought with alarm. He had been out all night attempting to make contact with their courier, it was now eight in the morning. His mind churned. It had been a cold October night in this small Pacific Northwest costal town, windy too. It had been unpleasant enough sitting in a car; imagining his partner standing like this for all those hours in the dark, the sound of the waves against the rocks. And the fear drugs. Illya still vividly remembered his own terrifying experience. The gut wrenching fear, fear so powerful it overrode every other thought, every ounce of his training. The absolute certainty that he was going to die. To force someone in that state of mind to stare down death for hours and hours – there were no words.
Another disturbing thought crossed the Russian's mind; in his own experience with the gas he had been petrified of Napoleon. Would Napoleon now treat him like a deadly threat? A glance to his partner put at least those fears to rest. The American looked at him with eyes full of fear, yes, but Illya now recognized it as fear for him, not fear of him. This brought a small measure of relief. At least he and Napoleon were still on the same side.
Kuryakin fought down visions of what he would like to do the man in front of him and forced calm into his voice. "I think Mr. Solo has had enough of the view. It's time for him to come inside."
"Mr. Solo is welcome to come in as soon as he helps us open this," Merrick replied, holding up a silver briefcase. There was a handcuff dangling from the handle, Illya recognized the tell-tale reddish brown color of hours-old blood rimming the wrist shackle. At least he now knew why the courier didn't show. "Until then he is kind enough to do that," he gestured with the gun, "we're all going to wait right here."
"No," Illya replied in a voice that could freeze hell, "He's coming in now."
Napoleon gave a fractional shake of his head at his partner's defiance, but Illya slowly and deliberately moved his left hand towards Napoleon's arm.
"Shoot me if you must, but I am not going to stand here and watch him die."
The THRUSH agent didn't reply, but kept the gun pointed at Kuryakin's heart. Illya looked directly into Merrick's eyes, challenging him to either pull the trigger or allow him to rescue his partner. This was an all or nothing game. Illya knew that if he was shot, Napoleon would end up falling too. But his glance at his partner had told him for certain that Napoleon wasn't going to last much longer. Minutes from now, maybe sooner, Solo's body was going to lose the battle against exhaustion and simply shut down. Then death would be certain for the American agent.
Although Illya held Merrick's gaze with a composure worthy of his title the Ice Prince, inside he felt much like Napoleon looked. At any moment the young UNCLE agent was expecting the explosion of noise and pain that would end his life. His hand was now inches from Napoleon and still moving closer. This was a dangerous game, openly defying the THRUSH leader in front of his men. One did not last long in THUSH by displaying weakness. Kuryakin knew that as much as he and Solo were needed to open the case, this man could easily decide this threat to his authority was too high a price for keeping them alive. But despite his fear Illya would not, could not, back down. His partner's life was on the line. So, nerves jangling, he kept his eyes locked with his enemy and his hand steadfastly moving toward his friend.
Illya's fingers brushed against the material of Napoleons jacket and then wrapped around Napoleon's left arm in a firm, steady grip. After holding the THRUSH's gaze a heartbeat longer, Illya turned his back on Merrick and wrapped his right arm around Solo's waist. The flesh of his back began instantly to crawl as he imagined a finger tightening on a trigger. If it was going to happen, it was going to happen now. When a second, then two, passed without a shot fired, Kuryakin forced the THRUSH men out of his mind and focused his attention solely on the man on the wrong side of the railing. He could feel the tension in the American; his whole body was quivering like a bow string.
"It's alright," Illya said in a low voice, "you won't fall now."
"What if they… kill you?" Napoleon choked out.
"That won't happen," Illya said, putting more confidence in his voice than he felt. "Now put your arm over my shoulders." He shifted his hand down to Napoleon's left forearm.
"I – I don't think I can let go of the railing." Napoleon admitted softly.
'Der'mo,' Illya thought, his insides twisting with sympathy. "Not a problem," he said instead, "I'll help you."
He put his hand over Napoleon's ice cold fingers. Pausing for a moment Illya tried to let the warmth of his hand seep into his friend's. Placing the tips of his fingers at the edge of Napoleon's hand and applying gentle pressure, he tried to coax even a small gap under the grip that had kept Napoleon alive for half a day. The hand felt nearly as hard as the iron railing beneath it.
"Just focus on relaxing your hand," Illya said quietly near Napoleon's ear. Cinching his arm more tightly around his partner's waist he whispered, "You will not fall, my friend, I swear it."
Napoleon's grip softened a fraction and Illya was able to wedge his fingers between hand and rail. With a supreme effort, Napoleon finally let go of the railing and clamped onto Illya's hand. The Russian grimaced at the crushing grip, but said nothing to discourage the other agent. Shifting their joined hands up and over his head, Illya laid Napoleon's arm around his shoulders.
"There, see, no problem."
Napoleon's only response was to clamp his eyes shut and pant with the strain of keeping his fear at bay.
"What do you say we go inside now? Up and over."
At Napoleon's shaky nod and using his leverage on his partner's arm, Illya hoisted his friend's weight up and over the railing. As soon as Napoleon's feet cleared the rail he was scrambling backwards, trying to put as much distance between himself and the edge as possible. Illya pulled him around and, ignoring the smirking THRUSH agents, he half led, half carried his friend through the balcony door and inside the hotel room. Napoleon sagged with exhaustion, his arm around Illya's shoulders and Illya's arm around his waist the only things keeping him from collapsing to the floor. Illya knew his friend desperately needed rest, but he also knew their struggle wasn't over yet – not by a long shot.
A slow, sarcastic clapping from the direction of the balcony door spoke to Illya's dark thoughts.
"Very touching, Mr. Kuryakin, but I'm afraid it makes no difference. Take them."
Merrick snapped his fingers and the two THRUSH goons advanced on the UNCLE agents. Napoleon's shaking grew worse and he pulled against Illya as if to flee, but Illya held him steady. There was nowhere to run and he refused to give these bastards the satisfaction.
As they drew closer, Napoleon began to shake his head and mutter "No, please… no."
Even though he knew it was a futile gesture, Illya turned slightly to place himself partially between the THRUSH and his partner. It wasn't much, but perhaps it could buy Napoleon a few more seconds of relief from the panic threatening to overwhelm him. The THRUSH enforcers grabbed the UNCLE agents roughly by their arms and forcefully pulled them apart.
Kuryakin tried to keep his eye on the American agent. Napoleon's face was pale and sweating, his eyes wide and fearful as the smaller THRUSH man twisted one of his arms behind his back and griped a fist full of his collar to hold him up like a rag doll. Kuryakin could feel his own arms being handcuffed tightly behind his back by the larger THRUSH who also relieved him of his weapons and communicator.
With a cruel smirk, Merrick began to approach Napoleon, who tried to shrink back, terror plain in his eyes. When he reached the frightened agent, the THRUSH leader paused, then suddenly jerked his head forward and barked, "Boo!"
Solo's whole body flinched and he couldn't help the startled yelp that escaped his throat, eliciting cruel laughter from the three THRUSH agents in the room.
"That never gets old – what a little coward!" Merrick spat.
Solo kept his face turned away from his tormentors, anger and shame etched onto his features. Kuryakin tried to murder the men with his eyes.
Merrick reached into his suit pocket and pulled out a capped syringe and glass vial. He prepared a dose of liquid from the vial then grabbed Solo's free arm and shoved the jacket and the shirt sleeves up to his elbow. Even from across the room Illya could see the red injection marks dotting his friend's arm. Napoleon tried to pull his arm away, but Merrick just gripped it tighter.
"Time for your medicine."
As the needle was pressed to Solo's arm Kuryakin tried to drop his weight and pivot to throw off his guard and break free, but the man holding his arms was simply too massive to move. He was forced to watch helplessly as another dose of the phobic serum was forced into his partner's vein.
"Handcuff the coward and get them both ready to move. Perhaps we can be a bit more persuasive where we don't have to worry about waking the neighbors."
Burlap sacks were tied over their heads and they were shoved forwards, out the door and down some stairs. They reached the parking garage – by the smell of exhaust fumes – and the two UNCLE agents were roughly forced into some sort of truck or van. Illya counted two more people enter with Napoleon and himself and they began to drive away. From the chuckling and crude remarks he could hear, he guessed the two goons were riding back here with them and the boss was in the driver's cab. He'd heard no indication there was a fourth or fifth member of the THRUSH family waiting in the garage, but he couldn't be sure.
He tried desperately to think of a plan to get himself and Napoleon out of this. With them restrained and guarded so closely he couldn't see a way out now; they would just have to hope for an opportunity when they reached their destination.
Ragged breathing and choked sobs from his left told him Napoleon's location. He wished there was more he could do for his friend, but he didn't want anything he had to say to be overheard and used against them by their THRUSH captors. As it was all he could do was shift over a few inches and offer Napoleon the meager comfort of his shoulder.
TMFU TMFU
Napoleon was sick with pure, primal fear. Fear so intense it was like a physical presence in his soul. The terror of his night on the balcony was still a raw open wound and now he couldn't even see where he was or who was around him. A small part of his mind was disgusted with how completely his fear had overwhelmed his legendary control, but he was helpless under the influence of the THRUSH drug.
He tried to slow his breathing, but the more he focused on it, the less air seemed to enter his lungs. He was now cruelly aware of the rough sack tied over his head; the smell of it, the fibers entering his eyes, getting drawn into his nose and mouth.
Oh God, he was choking now, it felt like spiders were crawling in his throat, in his lungs, he was going to die!
Then there was a gentle pressure at his shoulder. Illya! He leaned into his friend's shoulder. It was the only thing real, the only thing he could trust in this waking nightmare. His mind clung to it like a lifeline. He found himself feeling grateful his partner was here, and then immediately feeling a flush of shame at his selfish sentiment.
'Pull yourself together, Solo,' he mentally berated himself. Illya was going to need him functional if they were going to get out of this. He couldn't afford to give in to the fear, if not for his own sake than for Illya's. He owed his partner that much.
He could feel the shoulder next to him gently rising and falling and Napoleon used it to time his own breaths. Soon he felt himself coming back from the edge of madness. The panic was receding; the spiders were gone. He was still felt the tendrils of fear, like icy fingers, trying to seep into his mind, but merely sharing this simple physical contact, knowing his partner was near and would be counting on him, it was enough to keep him centered, to keep the terrors at bay.
TMFU TMFU
Illya estimated they rode for about twenty minutes, enough time to be anywhere in the small city, or its outskirts. When they stopped for the final time and the engine was shut off, Illya could hear the van door open then he and Napoleon were bundled out by the two goons.
Standing outside the truck now, the burlap sack was finally pulled from his head. Illya tried to take in their surroundings as quickly as possible. The van had been driven directly inside some sort of warehouse. Floor to ceiling steel shelves stood in rows. Most were covered with dust and littered with packing paper and assorted trash. Grimy windows set into the saw tooth ceiling let in a weak trickle of morning light. Harsh industrial lights from the few fixtures that were operational provided the rest of the vast room's meager illumination. The overall impression was of a place long abandoned with the exception of the stand of shelves nearest them, which seemed to be in recent use. Fresh wooden crates lined their lower reaches and the dust on the floor around them had been cleared away by the passage of feet or carts.
There were interior doors on opposite sides of the warehouse floor leading to what might once have been management offices. These too seemed in recent use, there was bright light visible through the frosted glass set into each door.
A still figure in a business suit lay crumpled at the base of one of the unused shelves. His face wasn't visible, but there was no doubt it was the UNCLE courier who had been in possession of the briefcase.
Napoleon was standing next to Illya, also looking at their surroundings, making the same calculations. Even unnaturally frightened near to death, Napoleon Solo was still an agent of UNCLE.
Kuryakin took all this in within the few seconds they had before being roughly shoved towards one of the office doors. The blond agent allowed himself to stumble forward a few paces, his hands still bound behind his back, before turning and glaring defiantly at Merrick and his goons. Merrick motioned significantly with his gun and Illya followed Napoleon towards the office, still shooting dark looks over his shoulder. This little display had allowed Illya to place himself between the THRUSH and his partner and, he hoped, would mark him as a trouble maker. If there was ever a time for his knack for drawing their captors' ire to himself and away from Napoleon, it was now.
The office had been converted into a packaging room. Open crates filled with packing straw were piled in one of the back corners. Sealed crates were stacked neatly along one of the side walls. The room's desk, pushed against the other side wall, was cluttered with rolls of brown paper, parts of wooden crates and other debris. The only other furnishings in the room were a pair of green rolling office chairs and a simple, straight backed metal chair. Merrick swept the desk clear and placed the steel briefcase down in the center of it. The mountain of muscle pushed Illya, none too gently, toward the metal chair. He forced him to sit, pulling his handcuffed arms backwards painfully so they ended up on the far side of the chair back.
"Ah, that's better, thank you so much," Kuryakin hissed through clenched teeth.
The large THRUSH goon said nothing as he looped a length of chain around the links between Illya's cuffs and fastened it to the metal rung between the back chair legs. When the man moved his attention to securing his legs, Illya tried to grasp the chain to feel for some connection point he could open, but he found none.
Illya's chair was positioned near one corner of the desk, Napoleon was moved to stand at the opposite corner; the briefcase on the desk between them.
"Release the coward, he won't dare to give us any trouble, now will you?" He sneered contemptuously at Solo.
At a gesture from the THRUSH boss, Solo's cuffs were removed by the small rat-faced henchman who stepped away as Solo rubbed circulation back into his hands. He looked warily from the THRUSH men to his partner and finally the gun in Merrick's hand. Merrick, for his part, stood facing the two UNCLE agents lazily swinging his gun to cover first one then the other.
"So, which one of you will be kind enough to open this case? I trust we can be civilized about this. Your college was most difficult; it was a truly unpleasant business."
"And what would you do with it even if we did?" Illya challenged. "Really, well done stumbling on the case, but shouldn't you turn this over to your boss by now? Where is he anyway?"
This had the desired effect.
Merrick whirled on Kuryakin and struck him across the face, snapping his head to the side. "Fool, I am in charge here!" The THRUSH man took moment to collect himself and regain his air of amused detachment.
Illya probed his split lip with his tongue and stole a glance at Solo. The other agent had grasped the edge of the desk to steady himself and had his eyes pressed closed. This would be a delicate game, keeping the focus on himself without escalating the situation beyond what the drugs in Solo's system would allow him to take.
Merrick had regained his composure. "The combination. Now."
Kuryakin looked back levelly. "Go to hell."
A snap of fingers at the smaller henchmen brought him to stand directly in front of Illya. He looked down at the blond agent chained to the chair and grinned evilly with a mouth full of rotten, crooked teeth.
"Go ahead, Snake, work your magic," Merrick said malevolently.
A flash of silver and Snake had a switchblade in his hand. He held it up to Kuryakin's face to let him get a good look at the knife. Illya's stomach turned at the almost hungry gleam in the THRUSH henchman's eye. He couldn't help leaning his head backwards, but managed to keep his voice steady.
"You know, I was just thinking you looked like your name was Snake or Spider or something equally unpleasant," he said, the attempt at humor mostly for Napoleon's benefit, to let him know he was still alright.
"I am going to enjoy the hell out of this," Snake drawled out slowly, eyeing Kuryakin up and down as if looking for the best place to start.
Finally, Solo had had too much.
"No, stop!"
Illya closed his eyes in dismay. 'No, Napoleon, not now,' he thought desperately to his friend, but it was too late.
"You got somefin' to say, UNCLE man?" Snake turned towards Napoleon, brandishing his knife. "Maybe I cut on you instead?"
Napoleon shook his head wildly, face pale with fear. He stumbled backward, away from the advancing THRUSH goon until he backed right into the solid wall that was the third THRUSH in the room.
"Ease off, Snake, I've got another idea," Merrick ordered. "Butch, bring that coward over here."
Inwardly, Illya bristled Napoleon's treatment but he kept it well hidden. He adopted a carefully neutral expression as his partner was dragged over and forced to stand directly in front of the briefcase. Fists like cured hams were clamped over each of the American agent's arms, holding him fast. Merrick moved to stand next to Solo. Slowly and deliberately, he raised his gun and pointed it at Solo's temple.
"Open it in the next thirty seconds or your brains are going to end up all over your friend over there."
Napoleon flinched away from the muzzle of the gun, but shook his head in refusal, not trusting his voice to speak.
"Twenty seconds."
Illya tested his bonds to their limits, but was unable to find a weakness. He hated feeling so helpless. So much like a failure. It'd been up to him and he'd failed to find a way out. Now Napoleon was going to pay with his life. Because even now Napoleon was willing to die rather than open the case. Illya could see that in his friend's eyes. The lives of a dozen undercover UNCLE agents would be forfeit if THRUSH got ahold of the information in that case. Even in his current state that fact was never far from Napoleon Solo's mind.
"Ten seconds."
Beads of sweat stood out on Solo's forehead. His breathing had become ragged again, each breath was shorter and shallower than the one before. Just before Merrick was about to announce the five second mark, Solo's eyes rolled back into his head and he slumped forward, a dead weight in Butch's grip.
"Damn it! Solo, if you're faking, I swear to God –" Merrick slapped Solo's face hard then pried an eyelid open with his thumb. "I can't believe it, the coward honest to God fainted!"
Butch literally tossed Napoleon away in disgust. He landed hard among the open packing crates like a rag doll. Illya flinched involuntarily and glared at the large THRUSH enforcer with murder in his eyes before regaining his self-control. In turn, the THRUSH man looked back at him with a strange, unreadable expression. The Russian pushed away any further thoughts of the meaning of the look when Merrick began to speak again.
"We need to try something else." He said, pinching the bridge of his nose in exasperated thought.
Normally this kind of expression of exhaustion from their captor would be a good sign; it would mean the UNCLE agents were winning the battle of wills and could start to expect more mistakes which they could then exploit. This time, however, the victory may have come at too high a price. Solo lay still and hadn't moved a muscle since he'd been so callously tossed aside by the brutish THRUSH thug.
Merrick had made a decision. "I think we'll see how Mr. Kuryakin fares on our phobia serum." He retrieved the vial from his pocket and held it up to the light. "I'll need more from the lab," he said more to himself than to anyone else. Another thought struck him.
"Snake, go and get," The THRUSH leader looked evilly at Illya, "the battery from the van and a pair of jumper cables."
Illya managed to meet Merrick's gaze with defiance rather than fear, but felt dread coarse through his veins and pool in the pit of his stomach. This was not going to be pleasant.
With a final malevolent grin, the THRUSH leader left, Snake close on his heels.
Ignoring the massive presence of Butch standing guard, Illya closed his eyes and focused his mind, taking the few moments he had to prepare himself for the ordeal to come. That's when he heard a low groan from the back corner of the room. A spark of relief flickered in his mind. Until that moment he hadn't known if Napoleon was alive or dead.
His relief was short lived, however. A dark chuckle from Butch drew Illya's attention. The large THRUSH henchman was looking at Kuryakin knowingly while cracking his knuckles. He walked toward the bound UNCLE agent, came to a stop directly in front of him, still with a knowing gleam in his eyes. Now Illya realized that he had let this man's size and the fact he had barely spoken a word since this whole affair began to color his estimation of the giant's intelligence. A deep and malicious intellect shone from the eyes in his wide and flattened face.
"Now that it's just us, maybe I can convince you to open that case."
Without breaking eye contact with Kuryakin, Butch moved unhurriedly to the slowly stirring form of Napoleon Solo. Illya knew exactly what the THRUSH goon had planned. This man had seen what the other two had missed; the place to attack Illya Nickovetch Kuryakin where it would be the most devastating. He was planning to use his partner against him; to threaten Napoleon to force him to cooperate. It wouldn't work, the mission always came first and Napoleon wouldn't thank him for cooperating with THRUSH, especially when it would cost other agents their lives. But Illya had had more than one nightmare about this very scenario. Being forced, not just to watch helplessly, but to make an active choice that would end Napoleon's life rather than betray UNCLE.
As Butch got closer and closer to his partner, Illya's arms ached to wrap that thick neck in a strangle hold. His fists ached to ram into that smug face over and over again. His legs ached to move of this damned chair and defend his best friend. But he was helpless – again – as the massive THRUSH agent leaned down, reaching a bulky hand toward the scruff of Napoleon's neck.
TMFU TMFU
It was several minutes later when Hagen Merrick emerged from the breakroom-turned-laboratory with a fresh vial of phobic serum. Across the warehouse floor, Snake was juggling with the automotive battery and jumper cables while trying to open the door to the office/packing room.
Inside the office things were much as Merrick had left them. Solo was still crumpled in a heap in the back corner and Kuryakin was, of course, still chained to the chair next to the desk. Kuryakin didn't look up as they entered, but instead continued staring, stone faced, at a spot on the floor. The only change was Butch. He was reclining back in one of the office chairs, feet propped up on a stack of sealed crates, hands clasped on his lap, apparently asleep.
"Go set that stuff over by Mr. Kuryakin," Merrick ordered Snake. "We'll give him the injection first and then maybe he'll see reason before we have to drain a perfectly good battery on him."
Merrick was slightly disappointed Kuryakin wasn't giving him the satisfaction of a reaction, but that would change soon enough. There was nothing he enjoyed more than crushing the weak. And with his serum, if weaklings couldn't be found, they could be created. He prepared the syringe with almost giddy anticipation.
"Butch, get off your ass and give us a hand over here," Merrick barked.
Snake had set down the battery and moved to stand in front of Kuryakin. He taunted, "we're gonna have some fun with you, UNCLE man. Where would you like it first? … What's that? Speak up, you maggot - I can't hear you."
Having gotten no response from his tame giant, Merrick staked over to him. "What do you think I'm paying you for? Get up!" With that, he kicked the size 15 feet off the crate where they thudded to the floor, followed by the considerable weight of the rest of the large THRUSH goon. The considerable dead weight of the rest of large THRUSH goon.
Merrick was still frozen in shock when he heard from behind him the sickening crack of metal on bone. He turned just in time to see Kuryakin rise from his chair with a crowbar clasped in his right hand. He locked eyes on the last THRUSH standing, stepped over the inert form of Snake and the next instant Merrick was pinned against the wall with the chisel end of the crowbar jammed under his chin.
Kuryakin's ice blue eyes burned with terrifying a cold anger, all the pent up rage and helpless fury was now released. The rest of his face was almost emotionless, but that made it all the more frightening. His wrath was efficient and ruthless.
Kuryakin snatched the syringe from Merrick's nerveless fingers and, without hesitation stabbed it deep into the THRUSH leader's shoulder. He tried to cry out in pain, but Kuryakin pressed the crowbar even tighter to his throat. He leaned into Merrick's ear and spoke in a low voice he could barely hear.
"Napoleon Solo is no fucking coward."
Kuryakin drove the plunger of the syringe home with brutal satisfaction.
TMFU TMFU
'Keep it together, Solo,' Napoleon thought to himself, 'you've got one job here, don't screw it up.'
That one job was to play possum while Illya took out their other two captors. Of course, Illya had been kind enough to refer to his role as backup in reserve, but Napoleon hadn't been fooled for a minute. Illya needed him out of the way for the moment and Solo had enough wits remaining to see the sense in that.
It had been more luck than skill that he had taken out the first THRUSHie. Luck that he had fallen near enough to the crowbar that if fell easily to hand when he groped blindly for a weapon, any weapon, as those footsteps had crept closer and closer. It was instinct – animal instinct, not trained response – that made him lash out with the crowbar. It was luck, and perhaps adrenaline fueled muscles, that the bar struck the man's temple just so.
As he had stood over the dead goon, he saw a look of pride and admiration in Illya's face that he didn't feel he deserved, but for an instant he forgot his fear. Then he had almost blown the whole thing by wasting precious seconds fumbling with the improvised lock pick. In the end, Illya had to pick the lock on his own handcuffs and ankle shackles while Solo began to drag the dead TRUSH man towards the front of the office. It had taken both of them to hoist his bulk into the chair and pose him in a life-like way. Then back to their original positions, but Illya now with the crowbar concealed behind his back.
The rattling of the door knob sent an electric charge of fear through Solo's nerves. He willed himself to hold still, to stay quiet. The first moments were the most critical to the plan. Illya had the weapon and they were counting him being the object of attention. If one or both THRUSH decided to come Napoleon's way first, Illya would lose the precious element of surprise.
Napoleon heard the THRUSH men's voices, the thud, the crack. His fearful mind tried to construct a narrative to fit those sounds. He tried to believe that everything was going according to plan, but the drugs forced other images into his imagination. That it was Illya's head that met the crowbar. That the frightened squeak, the painful, strangled-off yell were from his partner. He tried to rationalize these images away, but found it almost impossible. A few more sounds of shuffling and dragging, then the unmistakable ratchet of handcuffs and footsteps were again approaching his corner.
He had no reason to doubt they were his partner's but the drugs rang an alarm bell in his head anyway. 'What if it's not? What if it's not?' The sound was too much like last time, too close to the sound of the THRUSH goon coming to do him harm. By the third foot fall Napoleon had his arms covering his head, pressed against his ears. His pulse pounded madly in his ears, making him deaf to the sounds of the room.
Except for the footsteps. Those he could feel through the floor.
By the time the footsteps were upon him, Napoleon was so sure they were an enemy he braced himself to be hauled up by rough hands, or to be simply shot dead like an animal. Instead what happened was nothing. No one touched him, no one shot him. All he could hear was a low murmur, like a voice from a distant room. Suddenly feeling foolish, Napoleon uncovered his ears.
"-poleon, can you hear me? It's me, it's Illya. It's over, my friend, we got them!"
Warily, still not daring to believe his ears, Napoleon lifted his head. Illya was crouched few feet away. His split lip was starting to swell and turn a fantastic shade of purple, but otherwise he looked unharmed.
"Illya," Napoleon croaked.
Knowing it was now safe, Illya knelt beside his friend, and, with supportive hands under one of Napoleon's arms, helped him up from the floor. Napoleon was shaking with exhaustion. Now that the threat was past, he had nothing left in the tank, so to speak. He felt weak, he felt useless. He reluctantly met Illya's gaze but, fortunately, he saw no trace of contempt, or worse, pity there.
Impulsively, Napoleon threw his arms around the other man's shoulders. Illya stiffened for an instant, surprised. Napoleon was about to pull back in embarrassment, but then Illya's arms wrapped him in a bear hug. The American agent felt as if a damn burst inside him and all of the terror, the helpless fear and the humiliation of the last 15 hours washed through him at once. For the first time since he'd been a boy, the tears flowed uncontrollably. Illya wasn't quite sure what to do, so he just held onto his partner until his shoulders stopped heaving.
"Sorry," Napoleon muttered several long moments later, finally pulling back and looking away. "I guess I just keep embarrassing myself today."
"Don't be ridiculous, Napoleon," Illya said firmly. "You know I won't judge you and none of our feathered friends are in any position to."
"Both of them are- but I thought I heard handcuffs?"
"The Snake is dead; the boss was… accidently… injected with his own serum."
Napoleon felt his mouth twitch into a half smile. This was one of many times he was glad Illya was on their side.
The Russian offered the American a hand up to his feet and both made their way out of the office, past the whimpering Merrick now handcuffed to Illya's chair. The chair had been repositioned near the doorway of the office, to allowing the UNCLE agents to keep a better eye on their captor-turned-prisoner.
Once in the main warehouse floor, by unspoken agreement, they went first to the crumpled form by the shelf. Illya crouched down and turned the body onto its back. The man, their fellow agent, was clearly beyond their help.
"Garcia," Illya said grimly.
"Damn," replied Napoleon, "he was a good man."
Illya took off his jacket and used it to cover the other agent's face.
Solo and Kuryakin stood side-by-side for a moment longer before Illya clapped his partner on the shoulder and nodded to the other room off the warehouse floor.
The former breakroom had been turned into a makeshift laboratory by this small satrap. A kitchenette counter on the far wall with a small sink was filled with various chemical apparatus. What was once a lunch table was stacked with boxes of files, paperwork and journals. Illya immediately gravitated to the journals and notes, hoping to piece together what these lunatics were working on. Napoleon, however, sank gratefully into the couch lining the side wall of the room. His earlier outburst had actually been quite cathartic, leaving him drained, but more emotionally stable. Now, however, the effects of the drug still coursing through his veins were reasserting themselves. He could feel his uncontrollable, irrational fear building again.
Losing control in front of Illya was one thing; they'd been through so much together, seen each other at their worst so many times, that there was no longer any question about losing the other's respect. But very soon it wasn't going to be just Illya. Once they called into HQ, Waverly would send a clean-up crew from the local UNCLE branch. Agents who knew Napoleon Solo only by reputation, a reputation he was vain enough to be quite proud of. Proud and protective of.
He had little hope that he would be able to hold it together long enough to avoid making a complete fool out of himself during the debriefing. Still, there was nothing for it. He couldn't very well expect Illya to go along with skirting the rules just to protect his pride. Just as he was about to broach the topic of a call to HQ, Illya spoke from the table where he was pouring over a notebook.
"How often did they give you those injections?"
"Every hour, I think."
The Russian checked his watch, frowned and started to search the contents of one of the cardboard boxes.
"We should check in, I think we'll be missed by now," Napoleon said in a voice designed to give nothing away.
"Hmm?" Illya asked as if distracted. "Yes, you're right, of course," he said without looking away from the box. He seemed to give up on finesse and dumped the contents onto the table top.
"The problem is, Napoleon, I've no idea what they've done with our communicators. In all this mess, it could take us 30 minutes, maybe an hour to find them," Illya continued while checking the inside of the box for stray papers. He placed it upside down over the telephone sitting in the center of the lunch table.
"And I don't see a phone around here, do you?"
"You can't think Waverly will actually believe that."
"Do you think he ever believed it took us 40 minutes to get back from Marion Raven's apartment?"
"I'd forgotten about that," Napoleon said with a hint of a wistful smile.
Illya looked Napoleon square in the eye now. "I never will. You waited with me until I could remember who you were and then you sat next to me until I had a grip on myself again. And you've never once treated me any differently."
"No, Illya, that was… this is…" Exhaustion tugged at his mind, preventing him from making a cogent argument. It didn't help that more than anything he wanted exactly what Illya was offering; to rest and let the drugs leave his system before having to face anyone else. Finally, as a last ditch argument he said, "I can't ask you to do this."
"You don't have to."
Those few words made it all so clear. Napoleon had been worrying about keeping the mantle of responsibility, but he didn't have to right now. He could pass it all to his partner, his friend, for a while until he was able to take back his share. The world could do without Napoleon Solo for an hour because Illya Kuryakin was here to take up the slack. Relief and gratitude brought pinpricks of tears to Napoleon's eyes, but he was able to contain himself this time. Sinking back into the cushions, he had another concerning thought.
"Illya," he started, but suddenly felt childish for what he had been about to ask.
Somehow, as always, his partner knew his mind.
"I will not leave this room, my friend, I promise you that. Now get some rest. I know it doesn't feel like it right now, but trust me when I say the fear isn't you; it's only the drugs. Either their effects will go away on their own or we will find an antidote."
Illya spoke with such conviction. Napoleon couldn't trust himself right now, but, as always, he could trust Illya. A few minutes later Napoleon Solo drifted off to sleep.
TMFU TMFU
It was the pain the woke him. A pain so fierce, Napoleon was sure he was being tortured. His head felt as if it were splitting into a thousand pieces. Sharp pain stabbed behind his eyeballs and radiated through his whole skull. His eyes flew open to find, not a THRUSH dungeon, but a drab looking stucco ceiling above peeling wall paper. The events of the last day flew back into his mind. He was now lying down on the couch in the warehouse breakroom.
A familiar blond head just within his field of view reviled Illya sitting on the floor, leaning against the front of the couch, knees drawn up, reading from a laboratory notebook as if it were a bedtime story. Napoleon let his head fall back to the cushion and covered his eyes with his arm.
"How's the head?" Illya asked without looking up.
"How did you know?" Napoleon replied in a voice low and tight.
"Likely side effect of some of the chemicals they were playing with."
"Any aspirin around here?"
"Nothing that I would trust."
Napoleon felt the couch cushions depress as Illya sat next to him. A plastic cone was placed over his nose and mouth, a flow of cool air coming from it.
"Breathe this, as deeply as you can," Illya ordered.
Napoleon complied without hesitation as Illya continued. "It's pure oxygen, I tested it myself. It should relieve your headache."
Napoleon raised a hand to move the improvised face mask aside and ask his friend a question. Illya swatted the hand away.
"You've been asleep for 40 minutes. Our host is right where we left him," Illya nodded past Napoleon's head, beyond his field of view, to where Illya could see Merrick through the two open doors. "I need only glare at him occasionally," Illya paused to demonstrate his best Russian scowl. "to keep him on his best behavior."
Napoleon settled back, satisfied, until another thought struck him. He again raised his hand towards the face mask. Illya again swatted it aside.
"No, I don't see anything in their formula that I would expect to cause any permanent harm. We'll know more after we run some more tests back at HQ. Now, if you would please just do as I ask and breathe this for another," he checked his watch, "three minutes, then I'll answer any other small questions you may have."
Most of the effect of Napoleon's smirk was lost under the plastic funnel/oxygen mask, but he had to admit, the pain in his head was receding.
Once the three minutes were up, Illya pulled he funnel back and closed the valve on the small metal oxygen cylinder.
"Better?"
"Better," Napoleon replied with a sigh.
"And the, uh," Illya gestured in the air vaguely.
"The, uh," Napoleon mimicked Illya's hand waving, "is better too. I feel like myself again."
"Good, now get back to work, lazy," Illya shoved his shoulder good naturedly. "You've done enough lying around on this mission already." He stood and offered Napoleon a hand up.
"You call it lying around," Napoleon replied, accepting the hand, "I call it strategic malingering."
"Hey, look what I found!" Napoleon exclaimed as he lifted the box from the telephone.
After dialing the UNCLE emergency hotline and giving their chief a brief summary of events, Napoleon hung up to await the clean-up team.
"Should we see what we can get out of Merrick while those drugs are still working?"
"You read my mind, IK."
"Care to flip a coin for who gets to be the bad cop?"
Napoleon clapped his friend on the shoulder, "Partner mine, I think this time we should both play bad cop."