THE QUOTE: Look back, and smile on perils past" - Walter Scott
There were two men in a cell about the size of a midtown hot dog stand. Cramped quarters didn't begin to describe the lack of space, and one of the two was stretched the length it as he tried to relieve the pain in his left leg. He was bleeding… still.
Illya had tried to stop the bleeding by stripping off his shirt and creating a tourniquet for Napoleon's wounded limb. Now both men shivered in the cold, damp little room; one from the onset of shock and the other from near nakedness.
How this had happened was just another sad tale of being duped by a THRUSH operative who had counted on the kind nature of most UNCLE agents. A young woman, seemingly the victim of some type of mugging, had cried out in anguish as the two men approached her. The streets of the small town to which they had traveled in pursuit of another Hierarchy antagonist was darkened save for the small lamplight under which the woman was sprawled, seemingly in pain.
Illya had cautioned his partner, ever the pragmatist in these situations. Napoleon paused only momentarily before going to her aid. He could be wrong, but if indeed she were in trouble then it was better to risk himself than to let her suffer. Solo would always save an innocent life, or what appeared to be one.
The attack had been swift. Illya almost escaped but was stopped by the beefy fist of a towering giant whose impact left little room for doubt. The Russian crumpled to the ground as Napoleon tried to avoid the knife wielding woman whose cries had brought him so near.
Now they were both miserable, cold and at least temporarily, without hope. Napoleon's groans of discomfort increased the chill on Illya's skin, his mind racing for a solution to this unacceptable scene.
"Napoleon, do you remember the last time we were in a similar situation?" Kuryakin hoped his partner could hear him, could maneuver past the pain and approaching delusions.
"We were on that train, and they put us behind bars alongside a stack of cognac…" Napoleon smiled at the memory in spite of his stupor.
"I like cognac. Did you find any?" Illya's look of annoyance was mixed with concern for his friend.
"No, not here. But there it came in very handy." The memory of the Adriatic Express, of the fire that had served to free them from their cell… But there was not any cognac here.
"What about that exploding money clip you used to carry? Anything on you today?" Napoleon seemed to be a little more alert as the need for a plan began to stir in his mind. He wasn't ready to succumb to shock; he could will himself into being alert and helpful.
"I do not have one with me, nor do I have anything else. They turned out my pockets and stripped me of every device. I … what about you?" It occurred to Illya now that because of Napoleon's leg injury he hadn't been searched. THRUSH was sometimes obligingly inefficient.
Napoleon was tingling now with anticipation of their escape. This was not the day that THRUSH would have a victory of him or his partner. He motioned to Illya to check the jacket he wore, his own movements being hindered by the leg injury. In the hem of his suit jacket was a wire, slender and supple, and just the thing for blowing off doors and knocking down the odds.
Illya was nearly giddy with relief. Thanks to the R&D people would come later, for now he stripped out the wire and set about making it into a ticket out of this place.
The explosion was respectable, the escape awkward at best. Illya went through several guards like a Ninja from hell, his speed and accuracy carving a way out of the building and onto a street that was beginning to reflect the rising sun. Smoke billowed out from behind them, giving them time enough to slip away into an alley as they made their way back to where they hoped to find the car where it had been parked the previous day.
It stood there, the light of day gleaming across the blue metal and reflecting the hope it contained for a getaway. They would retreat for now, call in help and consider it a job, if not well done, at least accomplished. The satrapy was a shambles, and the resulting chaos would slow down the operation until more UNCLE personnel could finish it off.
Napoleon needed a doctor, and so Illya pointed the car in the direction of Home, that sprawling city where all things began and ended. The stories, the escapades, all of that resided deep within the bowels of UNCLE Headquarters. Medical would stitch up the CEA, Illya would slip into a black turtleneck and reports would be filed.
They were their own history, their own futures… The perils of their adventures paled in comparison to the satisfaction of accomplishing their goals.
Call them crazy, but they really did believe that good would prevail. They might die trying to prove it, but so far it was a footrace they were winning.