Intentionally Misfiled Reports #5- may be read independently
Napoleon Solo stood at the backgammon table, feeling the chill of the ivory dice in his hand. Most of the casino's eyes were upon him, those that had not strayed to the lovely companion he attracted over the course of a few nights. Juliana had been on staff two nights prior, but agreed to meet him again when she was off duty. She had unfortunately been too tired to accompany him back to his hotel that first night, but gave him a saucy wink that promised it would be worth the wait. Her long red hair was twisted artfully to drape over her swan neck, and small emeralds dangled from her ears to match the gown wrapped around her body. Dark red lipstick matched her hair, and dark eyes hinted at the night's future activities. One of her perfectly manicured hands rested on his right shoulder, and her left stroked up and down his side.
Subtly Solo checked to ensure he still had his wallet. Such intimate attentions were an easy way to distract a mark. He would know, having perfected the moves himself. He prided himself on never having returned to Victoria Vinciguerra the ring he removed from her finger. She had been sharp, but she hadn't noticed the results of that light-fingered action. It was understandable to be distracted during a third orgasm. Even she had lost some of her calculating manner after time spent in his nude company, but it had renewed with a vigor the next day.
A simple tournament had run in the casino that weekend, allowing Solo to entertain his own vices. In this final game of backgammon, Solo knew he had one move left to make, and he could win the prize game of the night. His latest opponent had been worthy, but a few choice remarks had him more focused on the attentions of his blonde mistress than the game. While his opponent's woman had smiled at a few other men, she had beamed at almost anything that caught her eye. She was a bit vacant for Solo's taste, and was likely drunk, happy with the obviously faux gems on the long necklace that decorated her voluptuous décolletage. Dice rolls were not enough to save his opponent from the distraction the woman on his right provided. The blonde's attitude had grown haughty, and her eyes roved the room more purposefully after Solo's opponent had made a few condescending remarks about her flirtations. Solo simply viewed it that he was doing the woman a service. If her benefactor was so easily manipulated to envy, she could likely do better. For all her jewellery and clothing being fake and off the rack, she wore it well. Before the game ended, she would storm off, if not soon after.
Solo reached up to squeeze Juliana's hand, "For luck," he whispered in her ear, and she obliged him with a coquettish laugh. Solo tossed the dice, and was happy to see the number he needed. He cleared his last piece off the board. "And that's the game."
The look in his opponent's eyes was relief, he was now free to leave, and take his woman with him. Their argument had drawn eyes, and not a few men seeking her out. It was barbaric, but the mere hint of indecency drew opportunistic men like sharks to chum. Solo felt not a bit guilty for arranging such a wonderful diversion. It made his own work so much simpler.
Solo caught the eyes of the tuxedo-clad worker running the table and winked. "When shall I collect my winnings?" He felt the old familiar buzz of knowing what a large payout he would receive. While his wages covered most of the amenities for living, he had a taste for the finer things. Truffles in his risotto, the newest art on his walls, a new couture dress for Gaby, and the latest gun on his hip. And a quiet kickback to his aging mother, who still believed her son to be a world class art dealer. The CIA had suppressed evidence of his arrest and jail time from public record, which had allowed Solo to maintain the fiction to his relatives.
"Enjoy yourself a little longer. I will ensure the bar knows your drinks are on me tonight. Well played, Mr. Demerais." The man bowed curtly, heading to the back corner offices of the casino. Solo watched him leave and then turned to the beautiful redhead on his arm.
"What shall we have?" Solo asked, leading Juliana to an empty table. He pulled out her seat, and let his fingers linger on the bare skin on her back. "Something sweet?" He pulled his hand up to back of her neck and rubbed his thumb against her pulse point, "Or something stronger?"
"You're being wicked, Mr. Demerais," she said, pupils dark. "Something stronger will do." Solo kept the smile off his face, he knowing he had found a fiery one. "My friend saw you with another woman last night. A short brunette in red. You never left her side." Her green eyes still sparkled good naturedly, but Solo was too good an agent to not see the trap being set.
"A friend. She came to Monte Carlo with her fiancé but he was ill, and I couldn't leave her cooped up all night." Solo signalled the bartender.
"Good answer. My friends also said that you did not lay one ungentlemanly hand on her all night, for all she was dressed to please the eye." She grabbed Solo's hand under the small table and guided it to her knee.
"I only have eyes for you tonight," Solo answered.
"Better have more than eyes, Mr. Demerais." The redheaded vixen replied, and pulled his hand up higher.
Solo smiled at her and reclaimed his hand. "Our drinks are here."
"I will see if there is a room upstairs," she purred into his ear.
"I'm booked across the street." Solo countered. "It's not much of a walk."
"This will be nicer, and it will be free. The housekeeper owes me a favour or two." She sipped her drink and stood, showcasing her long legs. "I'll be right back."
"Don't take too long." He said catching her eye meaningfully. She bit into her deep red lip, and turned to walk away, heading towards the lobby. Solo intently watched her leave.
Two men walked up to his table and blocked Solo's view. He frowned. "What can I do for you?" Solo asked, allowing a bit of irritation to seep into his tone.
"You can come with us, now." The lead grunt spoke up, a thick French accent covering his words.
Solo kept a glare off his face. "Concerning?"
"Your winnings, Mr. Demerais." The second man said his bearing more brutish, his enunciation no better.
"Of course. I plan to cash out tonight. That won't be a problem, I assume? I leave Monaco tomorrow." Solo told them, watching their faces. It was odd that the casino would not send more congenial faces to entertain someone with fresh money, which could easily be reinvested into the casino. Solo expected men more like Juliana's coworkers than these two.
"There should be no problem with you leaving tomorrow." The second man answered. And that was neither entreating him to stay, nor answering his question.
"Excellent. Of course it will be in American currency, correct?" Solo prodded. He glanced around where he was being shepherded. It was not the grandly placed offices for the senior management, or the front desk. He was headed towards the back of the casino floor. A few men on the floor saw him and turned away abruptly. A bit disconcerting, but he had made no real enemies the last few nights, had tipped generously, and despite deeper impulses kept his quick fingers to himself. That was not why he was here, and he had played smart enough and made enough on side bets for the individual backgammon matches to splurge a bit. No one had left his presence feeling cheated. Solo took pride in his ability to take others' money, and have them content to hand it over.
"You'll get what you deserve." The first men said and he felt the tickle of the hair on his neck standing up. He gently tapped his side, and swallowed deeply when his realized his gun was missing. Green eyes mocked him in his mind, but it could have been Juliana or anyone one else who had brushed against him in the push of the casino floor. It was a crowded place, and the press around an active table would have hidden many different people's fingers reaching.
"How will the money be presented? I would hate to be robbed on my way back to my hotel. Quite a few others know I won the tournament." Solo asked for the devil was in the details. If this was the situation he was fearing it might be, he would rather have the men tip their hands before he walked into a situation he could not talk himself out of. For once Solo had kept to the letter of the law, and was innocent of nothing more than being lucky. "Because if you hand me a sack with a green dollar sign, it would be rather obvious." Solo said, and watched the two men become more irritated. Still they shouted no accusation, or offered any real clue as to their motivation. That was the problem with using brainless louts in business. It was impossible to get a read on empty heads.
The three stepped through a door, allowing Solo to enter first. In the small room, five other men, including one of the casino's partners, a well-dressed man Solo recognised from the beginning of the tournament, stood with no cash prize in sight.
The man's face purpled and the veins on his balding temple bulged. "Mr. Demerais, or whatever your name is," the partner spat. "You may play your games in other countries, but you will not profit from them here."
Solo frowned. "Pardon me?" It was unlikely that they knew who he truly was, the thief, or the UNCLE agent.
"We run a fair casino here, and you managed to fraud your way through the games. You were seen exchanging dice before you threw on several occasions, I am told by reputable witnesses. And you were seen last night flashing card tricks at your brown haired girlfriend. Perhaps that German whore was impressed, but we are not. All your winnings tonight are forfeit, and we will suggest you not enter here again." His pot belly heaved with seething fury, and his breath came short as he finished his tirade.
"My companion last night was a lady, and I'll ask for your apology only once." Solo said in a low even but deadly serious tone as the man passed his shoulder. It was a good thing that the Red Peril was not in this company, or apparently listening, because the resulting mess would have been graphic. Solo would wait for an apology, and if not, then decide on the consequences.
The partner froze, a livid look flashing over his face. "You sir, are in a position to demand nothing." He was clearly shocked that Solo had dared to speak back to him, but being in a small room with one self-important man and six thugs was not anywhere near the most humbling experience Solo had in his life. It did not even rank. It was obvious what this room was for, intimidation, and physical recompense of the casino's profits when they believed they were being stolen.
Solo saw that each of the other men's fists were clenched, with billy clubs in two of the men's hands. No knives or guns. All of the men's suits were buttoned, so even if they were properly armed, it would be a long fumble for any of them to draw firearms. He noticed a few old black stains in the carpet. Since they intended to 'teach him manners' regardless of his sins, imagined or not, he saw no reason not to initiate the exchange.
Solo threw the punch Illya had taught him, extending his first two fingers' knuckles, and slammed his arm forwards into what the Russian called a leopard's paw punch. It struck the casino partner in the throat, and he backed away choking.
Solo pushed the partner into the two that had led him into the room, and turned to catch another man by the shoulders, and toss him to the floor over his hip. Solo dodged another strike, pulling that man in front of him by the wrist, and punched hard upwards, snapping the man's head back. He canted away from the falling body, and stepped on the arm of the man down behind him. His stance wobbled, but he was saved from falling when another thug grabbed his suit and pressed him into the wall. Solo regretted not having had time to get it cut for ease of motion as he threw up his arm to wiggle out of the new jacket, and heard it tore.
"That was an Anthony Sinclair," he spat, and could not dodge a fist landing in his gut as he dropped himself down and out of the grip of the fabric. The whisky he had just drunk spewed from his mouth, as the man that had held him stepped back in disgust. Solo tried to straighten, and settled for barrelling his opponent to the floor, putting in a couple of hard blows to his head.
Leaving his opponent moaning on the floor, he swung to face two more men trying to yank Solo back by the shoulders and pin him to the wall. He sidestepped one billy club, but the next swing struck him across the inside of the wrist, as he tried to deflect the blow, and his hand sprung open, paralysed. The first man's weapon caught Solo in the ribs and he tried to press forward, to get inside the man's reach, and reduce the power of the blows. His breath huffed out in a rush, even as he grunted at the pain in his hand. This fight was bad. There was little room to maneuver, and nowhere to run. The heavily barred door that likely led to the alley would not give enough for him to escape through. If he could have held on to his own gun, this fight would have been over by now.
When Solo succeeded in pressing the advantage against one of the men, barring his arm against the man's neck, and pressing him to the wall, Solo left his back open. Solo managed to twist one of the clubs out of the man's hand with a fast flash of Solo's fingers and clocked him with his dead hand across the jaw, as hard he could manage.
The world sparked white as Solo felt something crash into the back of his head. Solo staggered forward over the stunned man. He kept hold of the weapon in his hand, even as he felt another blow across his neck tear his skin, and a fist slammed into his lower back. Pain blinded him, and a foot pushed him to his knees.
Solo rolled into another man hard. The man caught him in a wrestling grip, and locked his arm behind his head. A few more blows rained into his face and stomach. Solo sagged, knowing the man would have to drop him or hold up the dead weight. Thinking he was unconscious, the man let Solo go and he acted quickly, straightening his knees and twisting, snapping the billy club into the back of the thug's head and dropping him like a stone.
Solo squinted through the eye that was not blistering in pain. Into the barrel of a gun. Solo stilled, his breathing hard. The casino partner had one hand to his throat, and was hunched over. His grip shook on the weapon, and it wove back and forth with an amateur's unsteady grip. But in the small space, the gun still spent enough time pointed at Solo that he was nervous. Maybe he should start having his vests lined with the material from flak jackets.
"You should have just taken the beating," the lead thug said. "Would have been quicker." And maybe it would have been, but it was not in Solo's nature to submit to punishment, let alone for crimes he hadn't actually committed.
With the gun still more or less trained on him, a thug wrapped his thick fingers around Solo's neck. Two more men still able to stand took him by the arms. He took pleasure in seeing the three remaining men on the ground, one moving slowly, two not. The two men that held him looked a little worse for wear themselves, but seemed determined to recoup their lost dignity. While Solo could easily break their hold, due to his time spent training with Illya, he would not be able to avoid a gunshot.
"So you plan to kill me." Solo said flatly. "I don't have any of your money."
"Greedy American." The grunt used grip around Solo's neck to slam his head against the wall. A streak of red was left from the impact. "We were told to stop putting bodies in the alley. And you gave us some entertainment." He slammed Solo's head again, and started to squeeze. Fireworks lit off behind Solo's eyes as he tried to shake the men off his shoulders. "So you'll wake up. Probably."
MFU
Gaby idly flipped through the book she was pretending to read. She'd been thrilled to find the books she had access to outside of East Berlin were much more diverse in selection than the carefully screened propaganda pieces. The lack of inventive literature had almost driven her love of reading from her. This book, written by a British author, with elves, talking trees, and dwarves, was fantastical but charming. She refused to let Solo see the cover when she'd bought it, and was wondering how she would talk Illya into reading it so she had someone to talk to about it. He preferred to read for pleasure in Russian, if he did at all. Gaby believed he needed to diversify his tastes from Tolstoy. If nothing else, she could insinuate he needed practice with his English, and mend his wounded pride some other way.
Gaby kept the radio off as she sat curled up on the davenport at the foot of the bed. While she preferred the background noise, missing the cacophony of the auto shop, the man that dozed on the bed found most music utterly distracting. Illya admitted to her he did not like music much, as it gave him no pleasure to hear it, and rang too loudly in his ears. The lights were dim other than a lamp Solo had moved to shine directly on her book. She had pulled all the pillows out of her own room, and had herself propped up on the pile in what Solo called 'the Princess and the Pea'.
The mission in Monte Carlo had concluded in success, but like all of their work it was dangerous. On the mission they had not blown their covers by neatly arresting everyone, aside from a few confirmed dead. Waverly had stopped in to congratulate them, and left saying he was piecing together a few leads, but had nothing solid yet to send them on. In the meantime they were allowed to have some leisure. Illya had wanted to fly back to New York immediately, and Gaby and Solo had talked him around to remaining for a few days to see the sights.
Gaby wondered what had happened to her grand plans of touring. Life in restrictive East Germany had made her crave new experiences and adventure, something Solo would have been happy to take her up on, provided he had his evenings in the casino or his rooms to himself. However, Gaby had found she did not stray far from the hotel rooms they rented. Once she had accompanied him to the grand casino, since Solo had bought her a new dress to wear, and she felt obligated to come down on his arm. While she had enjoyed the evening and her partner's gregarious nature, she could not forget that she wished it was Illya's hand on her elbow.
Solo traversed the casino with a hidden laceration across his back, carefully bandaged to not ruin the Anthony Sinclair suit he bought with his winnings. The Chanel dress he purchased for Gaby had long gloves to match, covering a deep bruise. Illya was recovering more quietly; cracked ribs and bruised knees from a spectacular car crash in an intentional maneuver to put their fleeing suspect into the ditch had killed their quarry. Illya had walked away, but not far. Solo had been openly critical of the maneuver that had eliminated their one chance at finding a link the funds for the latest plot, but Gaby suspected his displeasure was also tinged with the concern they both felt watching the two cars roll down the steep slope at over fifty miles per hour. Illya had grown tired of the enemy agent shooting at them in pursuit, and put an end to the chase.
Gaby realized she felt comfortable here sitting in the chair, with her feet on the expensive coffee table, listening to Illya's quiet breathing, while he lay in bed. She flipped the page in her book, and heard sheets rustle behind her head.
"Why are you still here? Go have fun with Solo, keep him out of trouble." Gaby glanced over her shoulder and tried to keep the smile off her face, Illya's hair was mussed, and though he looked disapprovingly at her, the effect was spoiled by the fact he wore a half unbuttoned pajama top, and had lines from the pillow etched into his face. The Russian had slept poorly the night before, unable to get comfortable and breathe properly with the pain, so Solo had mixed his drink that afternoon.
The previous evening Gaby had stopped by Illya's room pleasantly intoxicated, still in the glamourous dress and makeup she hoped to show off. While she did half-hope that her entrance to his room would wake him to appreciate her appearance, she was frustrated to find Illya sitting in chair staring vacantly at the wall. She meant only to check on him, and to refill the water at his bedside; maybe teasing him a little with Solo's fine taste. That evening Solo had been a perfect host, teaching her a few games, and lending her some of his winnings to squander. His eyes occasionally strayed around the room, but he remained with her, and to her annoyance brotherly discouraged any other company. Gaby did not wish to wander from this new relationship with Illya, but it harmed nothing to appreciate art.
This afternoon, Illya realised his drink was tainted the minute he took a sip of his water, but Gaby tipped the bottom of the glass up, forcing him to either drink or swim in it. It wasn't a high dose, Solo explained, just enough for it to be easier to move and draw a full breath. Illya had chosen to keep drinking, and Gaby knew it was a measure of the trust they had built up. If Solo had spiked the Russian's drink in Rome or Istanbul, there would have been blood drawn, and certainly not Illya's. Solo had stayed to help steady Illya from the armchair to the bed, and disappeared with a wink to Gaby soon afterwards. Gaby who had settled in to keep watch over Illya, a pistol within reach to soothe his unspoken paranoia, now observed him with hidden amusement as he woke from his seven-hour nap.
"I'm sure Solo is perfectly capable of keeping himself in exactly as much trouble as he wishes to be in. I was with him all last night. I suspect he would like more… involved company this evening." Gaby tried to keep the wistfulness out of her voice.
Illya had recently found enough courage to admit his feelings for her, and was admirably trying to break out of his self-imposed isolation for her sake. He'd started to learn to dance, and put up with her whims with good humour. She suspected he'd even asked Solo for lessons, because his skill level had improved dramatically between missions. They had branched out from teaching her only the practical basics of Russian to words for private conversations, or affection. He was becoming more physically demonstrative, but they had yet to do anything but kiss or embrace. Illya was the only man she'd ever heard of being hesitant in the bedroom, and wished he would have a little more initiative. It certainly was not for religious reasons, or moral ones.
Illya grumbled, and shifted his legs off the bed. He stood gingerly, and stiffly walked across the suite to the bathroom. "The Cowboy is entirely too liberal with the company he keeps." Gaby smirked, and hid it behind a cough.
She stretched, and moved to fluff up Illya's linens, and pull back his covers. "You slept so well, I should measure out another dose, and you'll get some rest tonight too!" she called through the closed bathroom door.
"No. Is not good idea." Illya said firmly.
"We could play chess first, or you could read. Why don't you want to get some real rest?" Gaby tried to present a rational argument, frustrated with Illya's attitude. She understood his hesitancy to use anything habit forming, but it was a little ridiculous when he could not lie down to sleep because it was too painful to breathe.
"Slept whole evening again. I am fine to doze in chair tonight. If Solo is out there getting, as the Americans put it, 'wasted', gambling and whoring, one of us should remain alert." Illya answered, shaking water off his hands.
"One of us." Gaby repeated flatly.
"Yes, even off mission it is possible to run into trouble… Oh." Illya stopped, and curled one arm around his chest. "You are angry because I did not include you in my assessment."
"I'm done playing mother for the night." She turned to go, her cheeks coloring, and blinking fiercely. Over the last few missions, she had proved herself to be more than damsel, more than the driver, or the pretty face. She still had bad nights where she could not get back to sleep seeing the faces of men she had killed. On those nights, she slipped into Illya's room and he played chess with himself, and she watched him, sometimes talking, until he woke her up with coffee in the morning. Illya and Solo had better appreciate that she was equally willing to protect them.
"Gaby," Illya began, "Thank you for today. It was nice to have you sit with me." He was so sincere, and did not stammer out a lie to defend his position, meaning he still believed he was right, but did not want to hurt her feelings more with justification. He was being a chauvinist, but he was chivalrous about it.
"Good night, Illya," Gaby turned around to go grab her book, but Illya had crossed the room silently and had it, holding it out to her. She took it from him, and he caught her wrist gently.
"I am tired, and not used to watching out for more than myself, or caring for anyone." Illya said and pulled her closer. "I trust you watch out for us, but I'd rather be able to watch for myself." He rested his head on top of hers. She suspected he was too sore to bend to kiss her. Not that would be enough recompense.
"Illya, nothing is going to happen. Please take the medicine the doctor left you. Sleep. Who knows how long we have before Waverly finds something else amiss he can't trust with a political agency." It was beginning to seem odd how frighteningly frequently men who had anarchist views and the scientists to illustrate their desires were being funded and granted their dreams. UNCLE had been successful in intercepting the new technologies in all the cases they knew about, but what scared them is what was slipping through the cracks. They had not found any solid links to agency funding, or any other Vinciguerra allies.
Gaby heard the beginning of his hummed response, interrupted by there was a knock. Gaby regretfully pulled away, and turned to get the door. "Wait, Gaby. We are not expecting anyone, some caution is due." She stepped back rolling her eyes, and let the man who had more bruises than clear skin on his legs and cracked ribs open the door himself.
Solo nearly fell in on top of them. Illya caught the American and stumbled back, and Gaby flew around them, and under Solo's arm to steady him, so Illya could catch himself on the liquor cabinet. The cupboard rocked dangerously, and Gaby heard the bottles inside clink together, but she had her arms full with Solo who was trying to keep his feet. Illya found his balance and took Solo's other arm guiding him to sit in Gaby's pillow nest. She flipped on the room's lights, she gasped when she took in his appearance.
Solo sat slumped against the cushions in only the formerly crisp white shirt, now ripped, stained with a variety of liquids in red, crimson, and yellow. His trousers were muddy and torn, and his shoes were missing. He let his head drop back revealing red marks on his throat sure to bruise by night, and the swelling lips tipped up as the non-blackened opened to peer at them. "Sorry to barge in like this," his normally smooth voice croaked, "But if one of you could be so kind as to pour me a drink." His breath smelled of strongly of alcohol already, Gaby took in everything and wondered what was still unseen.
"Looks like you need to drink it through a straw." Illya rumbled quietly as Gaby watched his finger tap on his leg. Illya other hand was already moving to comb through the American's hair and he pulled back bloody fingertips. He tilted Solo's chin down. "Just a scrape," Illya murmured. "Who am I having words with tonight?" The Russian said accent thick, bristling with an unmistakable menace.
Solo looked up slowly to his partner's face and took the glass from Gaby. He took a small sip and spoke, his voice not improved. "The casino was informed that I was improving the outcomes of my dice."
Gaby sighed in displeasure. "Solo, I can't believe you were cheating." While she had seen bits of his sleight of hand, practiced enough for a magic act, he had been sparing in using it. On their evening together the night before, she had seen nothing irregular in his play.
"I can believe he was cheating, but not that he was so easily caught." Illya answered, his finger still tapping, as he furrowed his brow. "There is more to this story?"
"For the record, I did not need to use any sleight of hand to win the backgammon tournament. My ability has more to do with strategy than just dice rolls," Solo said indignantly "And while it is possible someone begrudged me their winnings, no one was broken by losing the games. My suit, now ruined, was hardly the best there."
"So there was another motive to discredit you, and have you beaten. The casino thugs?" Illya limped to the bathroom and came back with a wet washcloth and dry towel that he handed to Solo. "Find Solo a shirt of mine to wear, please."
"They asked me to come with them. I assumed at first it was to collect the final cash prize." Solo said, looking a bit sheepish. "Read that situation poorly, but those men are always surly."
"You are arrogant, Cowboy, this and that non-existent safe alarm in Rome, must always be alert." Illya remonstrated, and wiped away mud and gore from Solo's neck.
Gaby felt a little sick as Illya helped Solo out of the ruined clothing. More abrasions and contusions were evident across his back and chest, along with what appeared to be a boot print. If the current mission had not gone so well, along with the prior trip to Scotland, and another to Mexico, she would think she worked with the two most injury-prone spies in the business. She did not relish reporting Waverly in the morning. She found one of the few dress shirts Illya had brought. It would not be too big on Solo only long, and both men were very well muscled.
"If you don't believe it was about money, then it must have been about you." Gaby surmised. "Did you seduce the wrong woman and offend another?"
Solo paused to think, and after a few moments, "A gentleman does not kiss and tell." Illya looked pointedly at him. And Gaby did not smile. Solo's attempts at levity fell flat with the obvious discomfort he was in. "Perhaps, but it is unlikely. Neither of them were married or had obviously removed an engagement ring. The woman I was to see tonight was a redhead in a green princess cut Dior." He shrugged on the shirt Gaby offered. "I came here, because I believe those men are now tossing my room, looking for my earlier winnings. Good thing our gear is up here with the Peril." He grimaced and touched his throat, taking another sip from his glass.
"I'll order you some tea." Illya straightened, and walked to the phone, his limp all but disappeared. Gaby watched him go and saw his back stiffen. Nothing appeared to be wrong with the Russian agent. He ordered curtly, and hung up, shedding his sleepwear with disdain, pulled a black turtleneck over his head, and stepped into his trousers. Gaby watched the muscles in his back ripple with the movement, his hands still shaking. "They are in your room then. I will go chat."
"Peril, not that I don't appreciate the gesture," Solo stopped to choke, wincing painfully. Illya screwed his cap on his head, nearly pulling the hook out of the wall it was hanging on. "Since they were just doing their job, you are going to get booked for assault."
"Only if they remember my face," Illya said, irony in his tone.
"If you could go to the casino, and do a bit of listening instead of homicide, we might be able to figure this out." Gaby interjected. The unexpected nature of Solo's injuries worried her, and she would not risk Illya's life so casually for revenge. Nor would Solo appreciate such a gesture on his behalf.
Solo's eyes were watering, and he slammed down the rest of his drink, as he nodded in agreement. "Good thinking, Teller."
"We'll try your way first. Still like my plan." Illya stopped, and held his coat. "What are you thinking?" He had stopped tapping, and was now fiddling with his case of bugs and tracking devices. Gaby was pleased to see him redirected to focus now on the prospect of a mission.
"If someone had targeting me for whatever imagined slight, they may be boasting about it now, and you could bond over your mutual disregard for my character," Solo said softly, with a quirk to his mouth, "or if it was UNCLE they were targeting, they will head after you."
"I am not so easy to catch." Illya smiled.
"Just leave one alive this time to interrogate." Solo quipped.
"Both of you are beat to hell already!" Gaby stomped her foot. "No fighting, no."
"Gaby, they did not set it up to kill me, just keep me from showing my face there again, unfortunately. I was having a lovely time. So obviously there is something that I shouldn't see. And as you were lustrous last night, and unmistakably in my presence, you will have to sit tight with me." Gaby felt everything lurching out of control with the two men. Solo had a point, but whoever they were up against had the resources to hurt them, and that would only be easier if they separated.
"Illya, promise to be careful, and wear one of your transmitters?" Gaby turned, and Illya pulled her to him, and brushed his face through her hair. Even though Illya betrayed no weakness with how he moved, his body held an unreasonable tension. "You're not wearing that," Gaby mused breaking away from him, and grabbed a dark grey suit.
"It will be okay, Gaby. I promise." Illya said. "And you, Cowboy, better get cleaned up, because we may need to leave quickly."
"I've never asked, why 'Cowboy'?" Solo enquired as he handed Illya the gun from the bedside table. Gaby watched as Solo walked without a limp, but moved guardedly.
"I had eyes on you that night in West Berlin apartment. That was a lovely apron." Illya said mockingly. Gaby smirked as she faintly remembered the beige apron with horses and western art. Illya shrugged on the suit jacket, and thumbed through his few ties.
"The blue one will do nicely." Solo said, and Illya picked the brown.
MFU
Rebelliousrose – I am unable to express my level of gratitude for the beta read.
Hope everyone enjoyed Part One of the casino trope.
If you have the time tell me what you're thinking!
Once again, thank you for all the support for my previous stories. Everyone has been so kind and complimentary.