THE COUNTDOWN TO ANNIHILATION AFFAIR
Chapter 7
"…could you direct me to the nearest haberdasher?"
Darien Driscoll, the new THRUSH chief with the half-scarred face, thanks to Napoleon Solo's and Illya Kuryakin's explosive completion of their first mission affair in decades, had sealed the fate of two over-the-hill U.N.C.L.E. agents.
Or so he believed.
Napoleon thought solemnly, Gotta keep this Andrew Vulcan wannabe busy until Illya and I can figure some way out of this.
"What's the matter, Mr. Solo?" rhetorically asked Darien, half his once handsome face a melted mass of flesh. "No snappy come-backs?"
"Uh," said Napoleon as he worked his secured-by-PlastiCuffs hands behind the straight-backed metal. "Only that the silver-lining in your situation would be that you only have to shave half your face now. Quite a time-saver."
Once again provoked beyond self-control, the black leather gloved hand was, again, firmly planted against Napoleon's still-aching jaw. Once again bringing forth a trickle of blood to mingle with the first.
Though experiencing throbbing pain in the twice-struck half of his face, Napoleon Solo nevertheless maintained his sense of humor by saying, "You know, Mr. Driscoll, Illya's here, too."
"That's okay," said Illya Kuryakin, picking up on Napoleon's attempt to stall for time. "It would appear you and my esteemed colleague have a lot of catching up to do. I'll just sit quietly."
With mocking laughter and half-grin on a half-ruined face, Darien stepped over, while saying, "Now, now, Mr. Kuryakin, I wouldn't want you to feel…left out."
That same black gloved appendage backhanded Illya against his jaw, bringing forth a trickle of blood as well.
"What? No witticism, Mr. Kuryakin?" said Darien with notable sarcasm to both tone and half-expression. "Good. Then allow me to bring in your Russian counterparts."
Already suspecting the identities of said "Russian counterparts", both Illya and Napoleon, especially Napoleon, stopped working their bound hands to gaze at the only door leading in and out of the large, heavily shadowed room.
At first, all they could see, just beyond the illuminated fringes of the straight-down bright lighting, were two heavily shadowed silhouettes.
One a man and the other most definitely a woman.
Oh, no, thought Napoleon Solo while swallowing hard enough for Illya Kuryakin to hear, the blonde-haired agent to briefly glance in his direction. Not again.
Sure enough, as Illya had already deduced and as Napoleon had hoped against, once the two, their own hands secured via PlastiCuffs behind their respective backs, were roughly shoved into the overhead-supplied lighting…
"I'm sure both of you know that this burly Russian man is PSS agent, Dmitrij Zhamanklov," said Darien sadistically and sarcastically as said Presidential Security Service agent was pushed hard by one of the armed-with-XM8 assault THRUSH goons.
It was clear that the combination of RPG-caused injuries along with violent treatment by these beret-wearing THRUSH operatives had not only physically marked Dmitrij, but psychologically as well.
It was also clear that his training and experience as a PSS agent along with years spent in the FSB, had helped him remain steadfast and strong.
"Are you all right, Mr. Zhamanklov?" Illya asked in Russian.
Inclining his battered and bleeding head in a deportment Illya knew to be that of a proud Russian, Dmitrij replied in Russian, "No matter what these insignificant worms do, I shall not 'break', Comrade Kuryakin!"
Napoleon, concerned about the lovely young woman standing next to Dmitrij, softly asked, "Are you all right, Yelena?"
Already knowing that Napoleon Solo did not speak Russian, the sensuous woman from the Moscow-based U.N.C.L.E. headquarters said in heavily-accented English, "I am relatively uninjured, Comrade Solo. Thank you for your concern."
"Well, now," began the half-disfigured Darien Driscoll, while moving to stand on the other side of the bound Russians, "I can only assume, Mr. Solo, that our Russian U.N.C.L.E. agent, Yelena Aleksandra Kuznetchnia, is of special interest to you. Good. She will be the one to suffer the most. While PSS agent Zhamanklov…"
With a curt nod from the half-ravaged THRUSH chieftain, the jumpsuit-and-beret wearing operative directly behind Dmitrij Zhamanklov quickly brought the business end of his XM8 up to rapidly fire a single 5.56 NATO round…
Bam!
…that instantly blew apart Dmitrij's head in the same messy manner a sledgehammer's impact would cause with an overripe watermelon.
Needless to say, blood, bone, and brain matter flew in every direction, easily landing on not only the murderous THRUSH operative with the still-smoking XM8, but Yelena, who half-turned and ducked her face, Illya and, mostly, Napoleon, before the now-headless corpse collapsed with a sickening thud where the now-dead PSS agent had stood.
"Well, Mr. Solo?" said Darien sarcastically. "Any snappy repartee?"
"Just one," said Napoleon as he glanced down at the blood and tissue spatter on his already dressed-down clothing, "could you direct me to the nearest haberdasher? I seem to be in need of a clean set of clothes."
END OF CHAPTER 7
