Author's Note: Please, please, PLEASE forgive me for not updating this sooner! Please believe me when I say that I really do like this story and I really do intend to see it to a rightful conclusion. I've just been interfered by life so my writing time has faulted recently. I am definitely going to try to be more faithful with this story. I really do feel bad for leaving all you great readers in the dark for so long (no pun intended). Anyway, without further delay, here's chapter TEN!
Napoleon swiftly marched through UNCLE headquarters with firm strides. He was in a hurry. The usually sociable agent only spared two syllables of greeting to everyone he encountered and his pace didn't falter a single step as he passed the receptionist's desk. No one was particularly surprised to see him in such a rush. As head of section two, the suave agent always had important matters with which to deal. As he approached Mr. Waverly's office, Napoleon promptly asked, "Is the big man in?"
Mr. Waverly's personal secretary looked up from her notepad. "Yes, he is," she answered. But as Napoleon reached for the handle, the attractive woman asked, "Is he expecting you?"
Napoleon didn't even respond to her question but instead opened the door to swiftly enter. "Mr. Waverly, I need to speak with you."
The older man looked up at Napoleon with a slightly surprised expression. The young agent was usually more refined in his entrances. Waverly held up a single finger and then swiveled slightly in his chair. "Of course, Stevenson. That's entirely understandable," he said into the telephone receiver pinned against his ear. "The more personal aspects of the situation are regrettable, of course, though I do believe it is for the better that this whole affair occurred."
Napoleon struggled to remain patient while the chief finished his conversation, but everything within him was screaming, "HURRY!" He wringed his hands behind his back, trying his best not to lunge forward and press the telephone's cradle down to disconnect the call himself.
"I agree completely. It shall be a good lesson for the next time this sort of confusion occurs," Waverly continued and Napoleon stared impatiently at the ceiling. "Very well, thank you for informing me…of course, I will…right then…yes, same to you, goodbye then." Mr. Waverly swiveled back around in his chair before returning the phone to its base and turning his attention on his chief enforcement agent. "Now, Mr. Solo," he said, "what, pray tell, has you storming into my office at such an early hour and in such an unbecoming fashion?"
Napoleon gulped, "I'm sorry, sir. I wouldn't have barged in like that unless it was for something very important, and I'm afraid this is."
"Well then, what is it?"
"It's Illya, sir. I was supposed to pick him up this morning and bring him to work. But when I got to his apartment, Illya wasn't there. He's gone missing, sir."
Waverly stroked his chin thoughtfully, "Are you certain he isn't simply spending the day in bed at home? After all, the man is still injured, perhaps he just needed some rest."
"I considered that. When he wouldn't answer the door, I was able to pick through the lock and take a look around his house. He wasn't anywhere in the whole apartment."
"Perhaps he's gone out somewhere and lost track of the time."
"Illya knew I was coming by to pick him up this morning. It isn't like him to neglect his appointments, especially not with me. I'm worried that something's happened to him, sir. He's incredibly vulnerable right now and if he were to fall into the wrong hands…" Napoleon couldn't even let himself finish that thought if he wanted to remain composed in front of his superior. Luckily, Waverly seemed to understand his meaning.
The man nodded slowly, "Yes, that could prove to be quite inconvenient. Very well, I'll order a search party."
Napoleon bowed his head slightly in gratitude, "Thank you, sir."
Waverly just nodded, "In the meantime, I have an issue I'd like you to look into."
Napoleon looked grave, lowing his eyebrows in quiet concern. "What kind of issue?" he asked.
"The jurisdiction kind. It seems our people in the New Mexico area have had a bit of a run-in with the local authorities. There's suspicion of THRUSH activities, but we shall need an agent to investigate in order to verify that."
As soon as Napoleon heard the words "New Mexico", he started to blink in confusion. How could he respectfully explain that he didn't want to take a mission right now, that he wanted to help Illya? Somehow he had to make Waverly understand that his partner had to take priority over everything else. "Sir, if I may, I'd really prefer not to take another mission at this time. I'd rather join the search party and help find Illya."
"Mr. Solo, the situation in New Mexico is very delicate. It requires the scrutiny of a high ranking UNCLE agent. The task force here can undoubtedly locate Mr. Kuryakin without your assistance. In the meantime, you're needed in New Mexico."
Napoleon sighed. He wasn't willing to go on a mission without knowing that his partner was safe. But if it came to the point where Mr. Waverly simply ordered him to do so, then he would have no choice in the matter. With that in mind, Napoleon tried to plan his next response very carefully, "Sir, I'm not doubting the importance of this mission. But someone like Conway or Rhymes could certainly handle something of this level. They are both highly trained and competent agents. They could undoubtedly be trusted with such a responsibility, and I'm sure they would welcome the challenge and the vote of confidence. And as for where I'm needed," his face took on a determined expression, "with all due respect sir, Illya is my partner. If he's in trouble, then wherever he is at this moment…that's where I'm needed."
It was a strange business, distinguishing between wakefulness and unconsciousness when one lacked sight as a defining factor. For Illya, wakefulness equaled simple awareness.
As he became aware, and his senses slowly began to charge back to life, Illya struggled to understand where he was. He noticed instantly that he was lying facedown on a hard and cold surface. Illya moved to turn his head, and his cheek scraped against the rough ground, but he didn't care. That small scrape was the least of his pains. His body ached as it did after a mission that was particularly physically demanding. Every minuscule movement he made caused some sort of discomfort deep in his bones and muscles.
He moved his arms, trying to slowly—and with a great deal of pain—push himself up off of the ground. But when he placed his hand against the cool surface, he discovered that it landed in a puddle of some sort of liquid that was pooling around his chest. Fear leapt to the agent's mind. As quickly as he could, Illya rolled over onto his back, grunting at the pain. He reached up and felt his wet chest, searching for a bullet wound. He found several places were he felt for certain he would have some particularly nasty bruises, and he thought he might have cracked a few ribs somehow, but he did not feel the distinguishing sting of open flesh.
Relieved, Illya turned back to the puddle and tried to determine what it was. He dipped his hand in the liquid and brought it to his face to smell it. No, it was obviously not blood. It smelt fowl, but with its consistency, Illya guessed that it was nothing more than dirty water.
At least that mystery was solved, much to the Russian's relief. But Illya still didn't know where he was or how he got there. He tried to replay the last few moments of his memory, searching for any clue towards his current state. He had been walking down the street, on his way home. Then…then…something else happened. Somehow…Illya was attacked…or knocked out at any rate. And now? Now he was…somewhere.
Illya grunted in frustration, but his grunt set him off on a coughing fit. With each cough, a shooting pain hit his ribcage. Now he was positive he had cracked something. It felt as if someone were trying to pry apart his ribs with each forceful cough. After a short while, Illya managed to subdue his choking. He was still uncertain of his surroundings, and the fact that he could be in the hands of THRUSH was always prevalent in his mind. There was a chance that whoever his captors were still thought he was unconscious. If that were the case, Illya might be able to procure an advantage if he could possibly gain his bearings and devise a plan before they were on to him. But he would have to be quick, and he would have to be quiet.
Mustering his strength, Illya slowly began to push himself off of the ground. He managed to get onto his hands and knees, nearly toppling over from dizziness. His equilibrium was completely thrown off and he had to concentrate just to keep himself steady. Once he was securely in a kneeling position, he began to feel his hands around the ground, searching for his cane. It was unlikely that he would be left with his cane in reach. Illya knew that. But the agent had become so dependant on the walking stick that he was just desperate enough to make an attempt. Without that cane, Illya truly felt blind. But his search came to the predictable conclusion; the tool was not in reach. Alright then, he would just have to make due without it.
Slowly, Illya managed to stand upright. Still conscious of his volume level, he tried to suppress his groan when both his knees popped loudly. There was no telling how long he had remained in that position on the ground. In addition to his sense of direction being completely thrown off, Illya's sense of time also suffered. He hadn't the faintest idea if it was morning or evening, or even if entire days had slipped past. But he tried not to worry about that now. At that very moment, the most important thing was getting to safety.
Illya tried to take account of his basic defenses. First thing was first, Illya checked his pockets for his communicator. Like his cane, it was unlikely that his enemies would leave his communicator in his possession, but once again, it was worth a try. If there was any way to contact his partner, Illya would be a lot better off. But all of his pockets were empty. His wallet with all of his identification had been taken from him as well.
It was inconvenient, but not unpredictable that all of Illya's resources would have been taken from him. Unfortunately, because he was not going on a mission but rather a casual walk before work, Illya had not fully prepared himself with all of his typical weaponry, such as exploding buttons and primacord shoelaces. In a situation like this, those items could undoubtedly be helpful. But Illya was profoundly surprised when he reached beneath his jacket and discovered that his firearm was still strapped in the holster. The trained agent's brow furrowed in confusion. That was terribly odd. Why would they leave this with him? He pulled the gun forth and checked its cartridge. All of the ammunition was still in place. Perhaps they loaded it with blanks? But what could possibly be the use of that, except to toy with him? Illya tilted his head slightly in thought; he wouldn't put it past THRUSH. They enjoyed toying with UNCLE agents. Whatever the inspiration behind it was, Illya was not about to begrudge his enemy's possible oversight. It was the one advantage the Russian seemed to have.
With his weapon prepared to fire, Illya methodically went about clearing his surroundings. In order to keep the noise down, he resorted to snapping his fingers and trying to paint a mental picture of his bearings based on the echoes that returned to him. All he needed was a wall. If he could manage to find that, he would at least have something to put his hands on as opposed to floating insecurely in the middle of the room. The snapping method actually seemed to work, much to the Russian's surprise, and soon, Illya had his first clue to his surroundings as his hand connected with a brick wall.
The brick was cool to the touch and felt as though it might even be slightly wet. Sliding his hand across the rough surface, Illya used the wall as a guide, taking slow steps and strained his ears to catch any possible sound. He could hear a distant hum, perhaps from some heavy machinery, or a large computer of some sort. He also heard occasional dripping and its resulting echo across what Illya now knew to be brick walls. The smell of his surroundings was fowl, but it was to be expected. The experienced agent had never been in a prison that had a pleasant aroma.
Suddenly, Illya crashed straight into a large object that reached about his knee area. He stumbled forward, kicking the thing and causing it to skid across the ground with a great noise. Illya winced, both from the pain of jamming his knee, and from the obvious alert to his presence the sound gave. 'Alright, new plan,' Illya thought, strapping his pistol back in its holster, 'navigation first, attack second.' He waved his hands in front of him until he made his way back to the wall and was able to continue on his path.
Soon, Illya's hand left the wall and landed on a door of some kind. He felt around until he found the handle. If he was stunned to find he still had his gun, it was nothing compared to the surprise he felt when he realized the door was unlocked. Something wasn't right. They were making this far too easy for him. Suspicious that he would be playing right into their trap, Illya froze in front of the door, refusing to exit through it. Somehow he knew it would only lead to trouble. But what else could he do? It wasn't as though he could just look around for a better escape. Chances were it was the only door out of there. So, reluctantly and on full alert, Illya stepped through the door, stubbing his toe on the small step.