CHAPTER TWO

Illya stared at the unconscious woman for a few seconds, but years of training kicked in as he bent down to check her injury. The bullet had entered the most peripheral part of her left abdominal muscle, which sported a neat exit hole on the opposite side. No organs had been hit, and all main arteries had clearly been spared, for the blood was slowly oozing out of the wound. The only variable was the time that the woman had spent bleeding. Judging from the small pool of blood on his changing room floor and the quantity absorbed by her clothes it was minimal. However, the woman was clearly in shock, and the wound needed stitching.

On impulse, Illya decided to help her without warning the authorities and without involving a doctor. She seemed pretty serious when she said that her enemies would chase her even inside a hospital. Grabbing a large piece of muslin from a nearby bin, he made a rough bandage and wrapped it around her sides to help stem the bleeding. Illya located a warm coat from a nearby rack and wrapped it around his latest stray, and gently picked her up.

He carried her to his car, which was parked in his private underground parking lot. Nobody saw him, but for good measure he briefly checked the darkest angles of the parking lot in search of intruders. He realized he was being paranoid, but that intensity of caution had often saved him during his most dangerous years.

Illya drove the thirty minutes to his house by constantly checking the rear-view mirror, but he didn't spot any pursuing car. He lived in a beautiful house in Long Island, surrounded by a tall stone wall and protected by a state-of-the-art security system. He opened the automatic gate only when he was in front of it, and waited until it was completely locked, to avoid anyone entering his property during the slow closing motion of the large gate's wings. He didn't bother to park his car in the garage, and just stopped in front of the main door. He cautiously removed the woman from the back seat and carried her to his nicest guest room on the second floor.

The bed was always made in case of last-minute guests, although he rarely had guests at all. He was not known as an exceedingly social person. His gatherings were strictly of a working nature, and he much preferred to spend his spare time in the quiet seclusion of his beautiful property.

Once he had gathered all the tools he needed to stitch the wound, he spread out a large towel under the woman's body and proceeded to undress her. He moved very cautiously to avoid hurting her further. He easily removed her large, shapeless trousers, and quickly cut the man's T-shirt that she was wearing. Her underwear was nothing fancy, but that did little to distract from her shapely figure, something Illya couldn't help appreciating. After the momentary distraction, he resumed his task, covering her with a thick, soft blanket to keep her warm during his ministrations.

She looked in her forties, but she was quite fit, and her face was very attractive: she had a thick mane of unruly coppery curls, and he remembered that her eyes were an outstanding green color, with golden straws around the pupils. Her lips were full and rosy, although right now they looked quite chapped, probably from dehydration. Her skin was very hot at his touch, indicating a temperature caused by the infection that was undoubtedly spreading from her wound.

Illya could not afford to waste any more time. He proceeded to disinfect the injured tissue and the needle, and set to his difficult task with a sigh. Although he had previously sprayed the area with a liquid analgesic, he knew that the sharp pain caused by the needle would cause her to come around rather painfully, but he had no way of avoiding that.

As expected, as soon as the stitching needle entered her inflamed flesh, the woman woke with a start and a shriek. She grabbed his wrist with a surprisingly strong hold and asked: "What do you think you're doing?"

Illya showed her the needle and answered, in what he hoped was a reassuring tone.

"I'm trying to stitch you up. You didn't want to go to the hospital, and you were bleeding in my changing booth, so I brought you here to my home, and now I'm trying to save your life.'

He paused to let her try and absorb the information, then added:

"I don't have any serious analgesic, so I'm afraid you will just have to hang on. Do you think you can stand the pain?"

The woman swallowed, then made a very resolute expression.

"I think so. But do you know what you're doing? I'm not a piece of cloth, you know?"

Illya's lips creased in a small smile, memories once again flooding his mind.

"Don't worry, I've done it many times. On people, I mean, not just on clothes. And I know that you won't have to stand it for very long."

"What do you…. ARRGHH! That hurt!"

While she was talking, Illya had inserted the needle again, and now was proceeding as fast as he could, refusing to be moved by the woman's shouts of pain. As expected, she passed out after a couple of minutes, allowing him to move faster and more efficiently.

After ten minutes he had stitched both sides of the wound, and was happy to notice that the bleeding had subsided. He profusely disinfected the area and skillfully bandaged it. Once he had tucked her body under the covers, he placed a wet cloth on her forehead and gave her two little slaps on her cheeks to revive her.

When she opened her eyes, blinking in confusion, he was quick to explain.

"I'm sorry, but I couldn't let you rest. I want you to take some antibiotics to fight the infection.'

The blond designer turned field surgeon was emphatic.

"Here, swallow these."

She looked at him with a very suspicious frown, eliciting from him a bemused grin.

"Look, I already had half a dozen different chances of killing you, if that were my intention. I would hardly need to poison you. Don't you think you can trust me by now?"

He handed her two brightly colored capsules and a glass of water that she drank thankfully. Then she leaned back on the pillows, looking exhausted.

Having accomplished what was necessary to save the woman's life, Illya thought he deserved some answers from her.

"Do you feel like telling me who you are and what has happened to you?"

The patient opened her eyes and directed a piercing glaze into Illya's, trying to read him. The Russian knew from years of experience that his earnest face and baby blue eyes inspired confidence in most people, so he just looked back at her with his trademark, innocent expression.

It seemed to work, for the woman's own expression relaxed and she started to talk.

"My name is Stephanie Rogers. I work for a government agency and was shot during a mission."

Illya was disappointed: "Is that all? You're not going to tell me what agency you work for and who shot you?"

"I told you, I don't want to involve you. All I can say, I'm with the good guys, so you did the right thing by helping me. But tell me, who do I owe my life to?"

Illya knew a sidetracking strategy when he saw one, but decided to humor her.

"My name is Illya Kuryakin. I own the premises you chose for your hiding place, and I…"

He stopped. She was looking at him with wide-open eyes.

"What's wrong?"

She stammered in search of a reply.

"I… I thought your name was Vanya."

He shook his head. "No, that's just my company's name. Would you please tell me why you keep staring at me with that flabbergasted look?"

"You're Illya Kuryakin?"

She was obviously surprised, and questioning him again about his identity seemed to trigger a hint of anger in the normally cool blond.

"I think I just told you. Why is my name having such a detrimental effect on your cognitive abilities?"

With some difficulties, she regained her composure, straightened up on the pillows and dropped her bomb.

"Mr. Kuryakin, I work for UNCLE."