Chapter 13. This one is definitely an "ouch" chapter. Chapter 14 coming soon, two chapters to go and the story will be complete :)

(here are the (updated) designs for Maxime Drancy, Thomas Réant, Conor Reed, Benjamin Shelley, Antoine Barrère , William Wilfred/Owen Blake, and Rolland Cordier (made in character creator 3): "https":"/""/""ibb".co"/"album"/"g9a3qa (just remove the ""))

Wilfred's p.o.v.

He slowly stepped around the chair Illya was tied to. The expression on the Russian's face was so satisfying. Poor Illya looked like he had just been punched in the gut. He had probably been expecting Shelley.

Am I really that much worse than Benjamin ?... Yes, I suppose I am...

His gaze lingered on the Russian's face for a moment, then he turned his attention to the man on the floor. He stepped closer to Solo's sprawled out, trembling body and knelt down beside him. His eyes shifted from the huge bandage around his left hand to the cuts on his other hand, his knees and his feet. He placed his hand on the agent's arm and squeezed it lightly. Solo cried out and his body jerked, as if he had received an electric shock. He smiled. Shelley had apparently made good use of his little gift.

"Fascinating, that poison, don't you think, Illya? At least I don't need to worry about your partner's legendary escape artist skills."

He could read anger in the Russian's eyes. And concern. One thing he had observed during the time he had spent with the team was that Kuryakin was rather protective of his partners.

Wait until you see what I have planned for you, my little friend...

He stood up and walked up to Illya's chair. The agent was tied up in such a way that his range of movement was extremely limited.

"Looks like you're not going anywhere, either, Illya..."

He kept his gaze fixed on the agent's face as he pulled the knife out of his leg sheath.

"Recognize this?", he said, holding the knife up in front of Illya's eyes. "It's yours. I've been meaning to return it..."

He took a second to enjoy the "oh, shit" look in the agent's beautiful blue eyes before he suddenly stabbed the knife into his left thigh. The Russian's strangled gasp of pain and surprise brought a smile to his lips. He watched in silence for a few seconds as his victim struggled to control his breathing.

"Painful, huh? But don't worry, it's not as bad as it feels. And certainly not as bad as a stab wound to the chest. Lungs, heart, aorta... quite a few vital organs and major vessels in there." He pretended to hesitate, letting his finger hover over the agent's chest. "Hmm I think I'll pick the right lung, you'll see, it's quite an interesting experience. But first, I'm going to hurt your soft little heart..."

Illya's p.o.v.

Blake had given him one light pat on the chest, then he had left the room without another word. Hurt his soft little heart... Whatever that meant, he knew Blake, and he knew that he was definitely in for a very unpleasant experience. Not that he was particularly eager to get stabbed in the lung, either... He had honestly thought that this day could not get any worse. He had been wrong. Dead wrong. And soon he would be dead, without the "wrong". He blew out a sigh of frustration and struggled against his bonds as hard as he could. His eyes watered from the burning pain in his shoulders. He knew it was useless, he had tried before. Many times. But he and Cowboy were going to die, and just sitting around waiting for death wasn't exactly the Russian way. He could feel the sharp pain from the knife in his thigh every time he moved his legs. He briefly imagined what it would feel like when that same knife pierced his lung. The thought made him struggle even harder. He was so focused on his futile attempts at freeing himself that the sound of the door opening behind him made him jump. Blake was back. And he was not alone. He could hear two sets of footsteps. Who would it be this time? A guard? Shelley? Yet another sadistic freak? Or...

Gaby.

His heart sank. Now Blake's words were starting to make sense.

"What's the matter, Illya. Aren't you glad to see that our sweet Gaby is still alive?"

The asshole was holding Gaby at gunpoint, she had her hands cuffed behind her back and a huge gag completely covered the bottom part of her face. She was crying. Illya felt a wave of rage and guilt swell inside him. It was his fault. He had failed to kill Blake. And now his friends were going to pay the price of his failure. Blake was staring at him. The bastard was smiling as if he could read his mind.

"Good thing you didn't pull that knife out, Illya. We might not have been able to have that lovely reunion."

The bastard could read his mind. Illya resisted the urge to curse loudly in his native tongue and instead watched helplessly as Blake dragged a chair toward the center of the room, placed it right in front of him, and forced Gaby to sit down on it. The assassin used the same method that the guards had used for Illya to tie her up, connecting her ankles and her cuffed wrists at the back of the chair. Illya winced in sympathy. He knew how uncomfortable that position was. Blake took a few steps back and smiled at him again. Illya would have given anything for a chance to rip that smile off the assassin's face. He looked into Gaby's eyes. Tears were still streaming down her face and he could hear her soft sobs, muffled by the gag.

"Poor Gaby is upset because she has an explosive charge in her mouth. I borrowed the idea from a colleague of mine. What do you think, Illya?"

Although Illya had not yet experienced the pain of getting stabbed in the lung, he certainly had a pretty good idea of what a metaphorical knife through the heart felt like.

No...

He could not let that happen. Not to Gaby. He had to stop this, somehow.

"Don't do this to her, do it to me instead!"

He saw Blake's smile grow wider.

"What's that, Illya? You'd be willing to trade places with Gaby?"

"Yes."

"Hmm, I didn't hear you say "please"."

He knew that the asshole was playing with him, but he had to try anyway.

"Please.", he answered, as he brutally murdered Blake inside his mind. Over and over again.

"All right. If that's what you really want, then why not?"

What?...

"I'm sure Shelley would have appreciated your sense of spontaneity, Illya."

Illya felt a jolt of adrenaline course through his body. Was Blake really going to let him take Gaby's place? And if he did, what would happen to Gaby? It couldn't be that easy, there had to be a catch... He watched tensely as Blake stepped closer to Gaby's chair and positioned himself behind her to remove the gag.

"I have to warn you, though, it's a rather messy way to die and... oh wait..."

The assassin suddenly froze and knitted his eyebrows, as if in deep thought. Then he smiled. One of the most sadistic smiles Illya had ever seen.

"I think I've changed my mind."

Some invisible hand slowly twisted the knife in Illya's heart. The worst thing was that he had caught the tiny flicker of hope in Gaby's eyes just a few seconds earlier, and now all he could see there was sheer terror and despair.

"The charge is coupled with a timer, dear Gaby has fifteen minutes before her face goes "kaboom". This should be enough for you to let her know how you feel about her", Blake said, winking at him. "And since she can't speak, you don't even have to worry about rejection. And don't worry about Solo, either, the explosion won't be powerful enough to harm him, or you. I would watch out for blood spraying and brain tissue fragments, though... Oh, I almost forgot..."

The assassin pulled something out of his pocket. It was a brown kraft envelope. He transferred it to Gaby's pocket and winked at Illya again.

"Parting gift..."

Stunned, Illya tried to think of something he could say that would stop what was about to happen. But of course there was nothing. Nothing he could say, nothing he could do...

"Well, it's time for me to leave.", Blake said as he checked his watch. "I'm expected elsewhere. But don't worry, Illya. I'll be back soon. And then I'll decide what I want to do with your remaining partner..."

Asher's p.o.v.

He cracked his eyes open and blinked several times as he laboriously crawled his way back into the conscious world. Then pain. Sharp. Sudden. Sharp.

What...?

He felt confused and disoriented and it took him a few seconds to figure out what was happening to him. Someone was kicking him in the side. Hard. He needed to protect his ribs. Fast. Unfortunately, 'fast' no longer seemed to be part of his skillset... He groaned and clumsily rolled away from the pain, wrapping his arm around his side at the same time. He looked up at the source of the kicking, froze, and just stared stupidly with his mouth half-open. His first thought was "You can't be serious...". His second thought was "You can't be serious...". His third thought was a mixture of equal parts of "Shit", "Help", and "I'm screwed".

"Welcome back, Asher. How are you feeling?"

Cf. thought number 3...

"You're going to have to get up if you want a chance to win..."

A chance to win...what...?

Blake had obviously read the confusion in his eyes as he promptly and kindly provided an explanation.

"Hand-to-hand combat. Just you and I, Asher. The rules are simple: winner lives, loser dies."

I think I'll pass, thank you...

But of course it was clear from the look on the assassin's face that he did not really have a choice. Asher quickly scanned his surroundings. The room was spacious but empty, the walls were completely bare. There was only one door at the other end of the room, behind Blake. He kept his eyes on the assassin – and a protective arm wrapped around his side – as he slowly got to his feet. If he remembered correctly, the man was a hand-to-hand combat expert. Great. Just great. He had already had a small preview of Blake's fighting skills during his previous mission. But last time, the assassin had only been trying to immobilize him. This time he would try to kill him... The only "positive" point was that Blake was heavier than him so he would probably have a speed advantage...

Come on, Asher, you can do this, just beat the crap out of this bastard…

As he tried his best to conjure the power of positive thinking, he adopted a fighting stance and drew a deep breath, but before he could exhale, Blake was already moving. And he was moving fast... Asher considered himself a fast fighter. But Blake was fast.

So much for the speed advantage...

Feint, punch, dodge, feint again, hook, counter, feint, jab, dodg... oops, too late. Blake's fist barely missed his solar plexus... but not his wounded shoulder. He couldn't suppress a gasp of surprise and pain as he staggered backwards.

"Ooo, what's the matter, Asher? Your shoulder wound, perhaps?"

Before he could react, the assassin hit him again in the exact same spot, sending a vicious front kick into his bite wound. Asher yelped and instinctively gripped his shoulder. It had started bleeding again and a crimson stain was spreading on his shirt.

"Ah, now I can see it..."

The disturbing smile on the assassin's face sent a chill down Asher's spine. A few painful minutes later, his initial – forced – optimism had completely vanished.

He's going to kill me. And it's going to hurt…

As if to illustrate his thoughts, Blake suddenly feinted a jab to his face then immediately threw a powerful cross punch which, this time, failed to miss his solar plexus."Whoosh" went the breath, out of his body. Fortunately, even though the attack had taken him by surprise, he had reflexively leaned his torso back slightly and had not taken the full brunt of Blake's devastating punch. It was still enough to leave him doubled over and feeling as if he would never be able to breathe again. But at least he was still conscious. That was a good thing... right? As he blinked back tears of pain and tried to coax air into his lungs, Asher was vaguely aware of Blake circling around him like a shark. The assassin could have easily knocked him out or killed him. But Blake obviously wanted to make it last. Not that he was complaining. Asher rather enjoyed being alive. And there was always a – tiny – chance that Blake would get overconfident and make a mistake... or trip over his own feet, hit his head and die.

Yeah, you keep telling yourself that, Asher...

As he gradually recovered from the vicious blow, he suddenly noticed a brownish-red substance under his fingernails and realized that it was Drancy's blood. The French agent was probably dead. And there was a good chance that his partners were dead, too.

And there's a good chance that I'll join them soon...

Solo's p.o.v.

"Hurry up, lazy American!"

No need to shout, Peril, I'm not deaf. And what happened to "Please, Cowboy..." and "I know it hurts, Cowboy..."?...

Napoleon let out a gasp of pain as he resumed crawling toward Gaby's chair. He felt weak and everything hurt. It was nothing compared to the excruciating, debilitating pain he had felt before, of course. But still enough to prevent him from standing up. Or moving fast enough. Although he had used his best acting skills to make sure that the assassin wouldn't notice, the effects of the poison had already started dissipating while Blake had been in the room, but it was a slow process and, once Blake had left, it had taken quite a few precious minutes – and a lot of aggressive cheerleading from Illya – before he had finally been able to roll onto his stomach and start crawling toward Gaby. He did not know how much time they had left but he knew that he needed to move faster. Easier said than done... Not being able to support himself with his injured hand was slowing him down. Hopefully, he would be able to reach the chair without needing another break. He looked up and his gaze settled on Gaby's tear-stained face, her wide, imploring eyes were fixed on him. He would definitely reach it without another break. And sure enough, about a minute later, he was on his knees, behind Gaby's chair, trying to remove her gag. It was not an easy task considering that his left hand was completely useless and that his other hand was not working much better. His gestures were uncharacteristically clumsy. And painful. It felt like a million needles were being stuck in his fingertips. He hissed through clenched teeth.

Dammit...

"Hurry, Cowboy!"

"I'd like to see you try with only one hand..."

"She doesn't have much time left..."

"I'm working as fast as I can..."

"Not fast enough! Untie me!"

"I can't untie you with one hand..."

The Russian was silent for a few seconds, then...

"Use the knife."

"What?"

"The knife, in my leg. Use it, now!"

"Illya..."

"Now!"

His partner was right. The serrated part of the blade would easily cut through his bonds. And then he would bleed out. Or maybe he wouldn't. Maybe. There was no "maybe" in Gaby's case, though. He crawled closer to Illya's chair, briefly looked into his partner's eyes, gritted his teeth and pulled the knife out. He winced as he heard Illya's gasp of pain.

Sorry, Peril... payback for that one time you stabbed me...

Napoleon did not even look at the wound, partly because there was no time, partly because of guilt. He quickly sliced through the rope which connected Illya's wrists to his ankles. The bonds around his wrists were the trickiest and he inadvertently cut Illya's palm in the process but he finally managed to free his partner. Exhausted by the simple task, he let himself crumple to the floor as Illya stood up, grabbed the knife, and rushed to Gaby's side. He watched as his partner used the knife to slice through the gag and copious amounts of tape underneath, took the small explosive charge out of Gaby's mouth and threw it across the room, as far away from them as he could. Illya then dragged Gaby's chair even further away from the explosive device and covered her body with his to shield her.

Well... at least Gaby is safe. No need to worry about me. I'll be alright. Blake said it wouldn't be that big of a blast, anyway...

They did not have to wait long before the charge exploded. Blake had not lied, the blast was far from spectacular... unless it happened inside your mouth. The thought of what could have happened if they had been just a couple of minutes too late made Napoleon shudder. He glanced at Gaby, who had probably just had the exact same thought and was crying even harder. Then at Illya, who was also crying. Tears of blood. Out of his leg.

"Peril, you're bleeding."

Illya looked down at his leg as if he had completely forgotten about the knife wound. He quickly cut through Gaby's bonds, then sat down, examined the wound, grumbled an "I'll live.", and used what remained of the gag and a piece of rope to fashion a makeshift bandage. As soon as he was done, he stood up, limped up to the door and carefully cracked it open. Apparently, Blake had not even bothered to slide the bolt shut.

"What are you doing?"

"I have to find Blake."

"Peril, you're injured, you don't have a gun..."

"I'll find one."

"He has Asher.", Gaby suddenly cut in. "He brought him here. He's going to kill him."

She had stopped crying and was staring at Illya intently. There was a moment of tense silence.

"Find a safe place to hide. I will get Asher.", Illya finally said before he walked out of the room.

If Asher is still alive...

Illya's p.o.v.

He did not have a plan, but at least he had a gun. He had found one on the dead guard just outside the basement door. Now he needed to find Asher. That would be much trickier. The place was huge, his wounded leg was slowing him down, and he didn't know how many guards Blake had killed and how many were still alive.

And Asher is probably already dead...

He shook the thought away. No one deserved to die at Blake's hands. And certainly not Asher Marshall. Illya clenched his teeth and forced himself to walk faster. The American was still alive. He had to be.

Asher's p.o.v.

Get up. Get up or you're dead...

He tried to stand up. His body refused.

Well...I guess you're dead, then...

Another kick in the ribs. He heard himself cry out and barely recognized his own voice. Blake was probably making sure that he was not faking it. He wasn't. He suddenly felt a metallic taste in the back of his throat, coughed, and spat out a mix of blood and saliva.

"What's wrong, Asher? Tired already?..."

Already?! Blake had been kicking his butt for a good twenty minutes. It did not seem like much but it certainly felt like a long time when you were facing a hand-to-hand combat expert whose goal was to make your death as painful as possible. He definitely had some broken ribs, maybe more than just "some" – apparently, his ribs were Blake's favorite target – and his whole body felt like one giant bruise. He had also taken a couple of punches to the side of the head which had left him more than a little groggy. At least he had still managed to hit the assassin a few times. He had even given Blake a bloody lip with one of his elbow strikes. But it had never been enough to give him an opportunity to turn the tables and land a finishing blow. Worse, his blows had not seemed to have much effect. If anything, Blake had seemed to enjoy the pain. Asher even suspected that the assassin had let him land a few punches on purpose. He could feel that he was slower and less focused than usual. The lingering effects of the drug Blake had given him probably had something to do with it. Getting beaten to a pulp had not helped, either. He struggled to push himself up to his hands and knees. Blake, of course, chose that moment to brutally stomp on his left hand. Ouch. Ouch. As the assassin diligently crushed his poor hand, Asher grabbed the man's leg to try and throw him off balance. For a few seconds, he actually thought that it was working. Blake's foot lifted and, to his relief, the crushing pressure on his hand disappeared.

Small victories...

But, as the assassin grabbed his arm and he felt Blake's leg hook around his head, another, much less pleasant thought crossed his mind.

Cross armlock...

Before he could do anything, Blake squatted down and rolled onto his back, pulling his arm until it was overextended... He heard a loud, sickening crack as the assassin lifted his hips and pulled down hard, breaking his arm.

Wilfred's p.o.v.

He felt the agent's arm break, heard him scream... and kept pulling. Poor Asher would not be throwing any more straight rights. Ever again. Now, the left side. He kept his hold on the agent's now useless right arm to prevent him from rolling onto his stomach while he shifted his position, transferring his weight onto Asher's torso, crushing his - probably broken - ribs. Gasp, cough, whimper. He used his thumb to wipe the small drop of blood at the corner of the agent's mouth and chuckled. One thing he liked about Asher was that he was very expressive when he was in pain. He gave another chuckle as Asher tried to throw a hook with his only functional arm. The brave little agent was not giving up.

"You're right, Asher, we need to take care of that side, too."

Good thing I didn't let Shelley cut off your fingers...

He grabbed the agent's left wrist, closed his other hand around Asher's index finger and twisted it. Hard. "Snap" went the finger. "Argh" went the agent. He repeated the same process with Asher's thumb and gave a small sigh of satisfaction before he let the agent's arm drop back down. He studied Asher's pain-contorted features for a few seconds. Shelley had asked him if it was worth it. It definitely was. And what he was about to do would be even more satisfying. Like finally scratching an itch he had had for much too long. The sound of Asher's rapid, shallow breathing made him smile in anticipation.

Let me fix that for you, my little friend...

He brought his right leg over to the side of Asher's body, shifting his position to a side control. The agent groaned but did not move. He then went into a scarf hold, slipping his right arm around his victim's head. He pushed Asher's broken arm across then clasped his hands together, trapping the agent's head and shoulder in a tight grip. Now Asher was struggling. Maybe it was the pressure on his broken arm. Or maybe he had recognized the technique... Finally, he pulled Asher's head up while simultaneously leaning back and driving his full bodyweight into the agent's chest. He chuckled softly as he heard the air come out of his victim's lungs.

"I hope you enjoyed your last breath, Asher..."

Although he rarely had occasion to use it, this chest compression choke was one of his favorite techniques. Raising an opponent's head and compressing their chest at the same time prevented their respiratory muscles from elevating the ribs and allowing oxygen into the lungs. This caused a sensation akin to drowning. A sensation which Asher seemed to find particularly unpleasant. The agent was looking at him with wide eyes, his mouth open, as he tried hard to breathe in and nothing happened.

I bet this brings back fun memories. I'm curious to see how long you will last. And I'm not leaving, this time...

"If it makes you feel any better...", he said softly, giving Asher his best smile, "You're actually a really good fighter, Asher."

The smile remained on his lips as he watched his target slowly suffocate. After a short while, the agent's features relaxed and his eyes lost their focus. He gave a soft laugh.

"Uh-oh, you're going to sleep, Asher."

In this position, he could feel the agent's struggling heartbeat directly under his body. He would also be able to feel the exact moment when it stopped. Perfect. Then he heard the sound of the door being kicked open.

Shit...

He barely had time to turn around before he heard a shot and felt something hit him in the chest.

Shit!

Cordier's p.o.v.

"Vous savez quoi faire de celui-là. / You know what to do with this one."

Rolland Cordier watched as two of his men dragged the body out of the room.

"Comment allons-nous justifier le fait de l'avoir abattu? / How are we going to justify killing him?"

"Eh bien, il a tué un de mes hommes. / Simple, he killed one of my men."

As he uttered those words, Cordier pointed his gun at one of his men and pulled the trigger. The bullet caught the man in the forehead and he collapsed on the floor. Cordier gestured with the gun and his two remaining men dragged the dead man out, leaving him and his colleague alone in the room.

"Et lui ?/ What about him ?"

Cordier's gaze shifted to Marshall. The CIA agent was unconscious but he was breathing.

"Lui, oh, malheureusement il était déjà mort avant que nous arrivions. Mort par asphyxie. / Him, oh, unfortunately, he was already dead before we got here. Death by asphyxiation."

Cordier knelt down beside the agent and gave him a few light taps on the cheek, after a few seconds, Marshall's eyes fluttered open. The poor boy looked surprised to be alive. It took another couple of seconds for his gaze to focus on Cordier's face. The Frenchman felt a smile stretch his lips as the agent's eyes suddenly grew wide. He knew exactly what Marshall was looking at. The missing lobe of his left ear. Souvenir of a particularly unpleasant encounter with the Russians when he was still working with the CIA.

Je vois que ce cher Maxime a pris le temps de te parler de moi…/ Apparently, dear Maxime took the time to tell you about me...

He could read fear in the agent's eyes now. Marshall raised his left arm and waved it around in a feeble attempt to hit him. Two of his fingers appeared to be badly broken. Wilfred's handiwork. Cordier gave a soft laugh and grabbed Marshall's flailing hand, crushing his broken fingers. He covered Marshall's mouth with his other hand, just as the agent was opening it to scream, and used his fingers to pinch his nose shut. Marshall started panicking and tried to struggle but he was obviously too weak, too broken. Now all he needed to do was wait.

"Là, là, mon garçon, c'est presque fini. / There, there, son. It's almost over."

Keeping Marshall's airways obstructed, he used his other hand to monitor the agent's pulse. It didn't take long before he stopped feeling the rhythmical throbbing beneath his fingers.

C'est bien, mon garçon... / Attaboy...

"Get away from him."

As he recognized the man's accent. Cordier had to fight the urge to grab his gun, turn around, and shoot the Russian in the face. Instead, he exchanged a brief glance with his colleague and slightly shifted the position of his hand, keeping Marshall's nose pinched shut but no longer covering his mouth. Then he bent down over the agent and blew air into his mouth.

"Kuryakin, I assume.", he said as he stopped administering rescue breathing and switched to chest compressions. "I'm Rolland Cordier from the DST. Maxime Drancy's superior. Listen, your colleague here is in pretty bad shape. I'm only trying to save him…"

No sooner had he finished his sentence than the Russian was roughly pushing him out of the way. He stood up and watched as Kuryakin started pressing down on Marshall's chest – much more aggressively than he had done – only stopping to administer rescue breaths and check his pulse. As the minutes went by, it became clear that the Russian's efforts to revive his partner were in vain. Cordier had to suppress a smile of satisfaction. Marshall would never reveal his little secret. Not to Kuryakin. Not to anyone. It wasn't that he did not want to kill the KGB agent, quite the opposite, actually. But saving all three of Waverly's agents was better than only saving two. Apparently, his British colleague was rather fond of his little international team. He would certainly be grateful, and indebted to him for rescuing his agents. Marshall, on the other hand, was Sanders's boy, he was not part of the team so his death would be of no consequence. Everything was working out just the way he had planned. Parfait... Kuryakin still hadn't given up and he suddenly heard the distinct sound of bones cracking. At this rate, the Russian would soon punch a hole right through Marshall's chest. He stepped closer and put his hand on the KGB agent's shoulder, suppressing a shudder of disgust as he did so.

"I'm sorry, Kuryakin..."

He squeezed the agent's shoulder and gently tried to pull him away from Marshall's body. Kuryakin resisted at first, then eventually stopped turning Marshall's internal organs to paste. As he gave the agent a moment to regain some degree of composure, Cordier's gaze settled on the Russian's trembling hands and his heart began to pound with sadistic joy.

Ça fait mal, hein, mon garçon ?.../ It's really hurts, doesn't it, son?...

End of chapter 13.

I hope you enjoyed the read :)