Chapter 2 :) Ouch...

Here are the designs for Théo Devanne and Loup Briac (I created an updated album for this story): "https":"/""/""ibb".co"/"album"/"gykrVa (just remove the "")

MI6 building, Solo's p.o.v.

"Agent Loup Briac, here, will assist your team during this mission. His expertise in the field of surveillance technologies and his firearms proficiency will certainly prove useful. He has also been briefed about every aspect of the investigation, of course, and..."

"You forgot to mention that he has a death wish.", Sanders cut in, before Devanne could finish his sentence. "I thought you would have learned your lesson after what happened to Drancy, or maybe you are going for a record..."

Napoleon glanced at Waverly who made a point of ignoring his American colleague's low blow. Sanders wanted nothing to do with the French and apparently he was determined to make that as obvious as possible.

"Thank you, Théophile, I'm sure that your agent will be a perfect addition to the team, especially since Kuryakin hasn't returned yet."

Napoleon exchanged a glance with Gaby. Illya's assignment with the KGB was apparently taking longer than expected and they were both missing their Russian partner. He sighed inwardly and turned his attention to their new French colleague. He was a tall, thirty-something man, with short brown hair. His sharp-featured face was probably attractive when he was in a good mood, which was obviously not the case on this particular day.

Our new friend looks almost as happy as Sanders...

Napoleon's gaze shifted to Devanne and he realized that the man had been staring at him. Rolland Cordier had not been able to attend the meeting so his colleague had taken his place, and while Napoleon had yet to form an opinion on teaming up with the French, he had already decided that he disliked Devanne. There was just something about the man that made him uneasy. And if he was completely honest, the episode with the poetry book at Shelley's place definitely had something to do with it. The pre-mission briefing lasted for about another half hour, then both Sanders and Devanne stood up to leave.

"I think I'd better see them out, just to make sure that they don't try to kill each other.", Waverly said, winking at Gaby and Napoleon, before he followed his colleagues out of the room.

Napoleon exchanged another brief glance with Gaby before he turned his attention back to the third person in the room. Briac, who had not moved since the beginning of the meeting, was still leaning against the wall on the opposite side of the room. And he still looked positively pissed off.

Let's see if we can break the ice...

"So... Loup is your actual name? It means "wolf", right?"

The French agent stared at him without answering for an uncomfortably long time.

"Maxime Drancy was my friend and you got him killed.", he finally said, before he stalked out of the room without another word.

This bodes well for the mission... At least his English sounds impeccable...

Two weeks later, Palmer House Hilton hotel, Chicago, Solo's p.o.v.

"You're an excellent dancer, Mr Morgan."

"Thank you. I'll be sure to tell my wife, she's the one who taught me how to dance."

"Your wife?..."

Napoleon's lovely dance partner frowned and her eyes shifted to his left hand. Then she looked up at him and broke into a smile.

"You're such a tease."

"How can you be sure I didn't take off my ring?"

Her smile grew even wider.

"Somehow you don't strike me as the marrying type, Mr Morgan."

"Charles."

"Do you think your wife would mind if you and I had a drink together, Mr Charles Morgan?"

"No, I don't think she would."

"There's nothing stopping us, then. Shall we?", she said as she took him by the hand and led him through the sumptuous reception room, away from the crowded dance floor.

So far, so good...

The undercover mission had required a lot of careful planning, and getting an invitation for the ultra-exclusive private party had not been an easy task, but here he was, enjoying the party as Charles Morgan, a newly minted millionaire entrepreneur, flirting with Celia Harlow, an even richer, charming lady, who also happened to be one of the people on Blake's list. As they sat down at the bar, she leaned over to whisper something in the bartender's ear. The man nodded and left.

"I ordered something special, to celebrate our first encounter."

"Are you trying to impress me, Miss Harlow? I'd be careful if I were you, I might retaliate..."

She gave a soft laugh.

"And how could you possibly hope to impress me, Charles?"

"Well, wouldn't you like to know?"

Gaby and Wolf must be enjoying this...

Napoleon had to suppress a chuckle as he imagined his partners cringing at the unbearably cheesy conversation. Luckily for him, the bartender chose this moment to come back with their special order. The man set the two glasses down in front of them. Napoleon eyed his glass and hesitated. The drink had not been poured in front of him and had potentially been tampered with.

"Don't look so worried, it's just wine.", Harlow laughed. "Very expensive wine at that. One bottle costs about 8000 dollars. It's French."

Of course it would be...

"To a promising friendship?", she said, as she raised her own glass.

"Are you sure you want to drink to friendship?"

"To us, then.", she corrected with a mischievous smile.

He hesitated for another second then decided to humor her. Even if his drink had indeed been spiked – which would mean that his cover had been blown, somehow – he probably wasn't in any immediate danger of dying. She would want to get information out of him before she killed him. He might even be able to learn more that way than by spending the night with her. People usually tended to be more talkative when you were completely at their mercy. And if worse came to worst, he knew that his reluctant French guardian angel would be watching over him. Or at least he hoped so...

"To us."

He raised his glass and took a sip. The wine was good, maybe a little too sweet for his liking. The conversation went on for a few minutes, during which he tried to drink as little of the wine as he possibly could without arousing suspicion.

"Would you like to see my room, Charles?", she suddenly asked. "It's nice and cozy, a quiet place, away from the crowd... we could enjoy the rest of this delicious wine..."

"I think that's an excellent idea."

She grabbed her glass with one hand and his hand with the other. As they left the reception room, Napoleon took a few seconds to assess his physical state. No loss of coordination, no blurred vision... He was fine.

So far...so good...

It wasn't long before his assessment changed, though. Drastically. As they walked along the third floor corridors, the effects of the drug suddenly kicked in. Napoleon felt his legs buckle under him as the whole corridor started spinning.

"Come on, Charlie, we're almost there. You're not going to make me carry you, are you? How ungentlemanly..."

Suddenly, he couldn't hear her voice anymore, the sound was gone, the image soon followed...

...He opened his eyes, grimacing as he felt a sudden, stabbing pain in his head. He tried to raise his hands to massage his temples, only to discover that his hands were already raised, far above his head, and that his wrists, and his ankles, were tied to the posts of the bed he was lying on.

"How are you feeling, Charlie?"

Napoleon made an effort to raise his head and saw Celia Harlow, coming out of what he supposed was the bathroom of her hotel room.

"Confused...and slightly disappointed that I'm still fully clothed. Would you mind telling me what's going on?"

She laughed, her soft, musical laugh.

"You are truly adorable. I think we both know what's going on, Charlie."

Well...So long, Charles Morgan... Let's find out exactly how much she knows about me...

"Did they really think I wouldn't notice? Christopher Warren, Samuel Landry, Nicholas Foster, Albert Copeland... all dead. They're picking us off, one by one. The organization is pruning the tree and so they sent their cute little errand boy to my door."

Napoleon frowned, he already knew what had happened to Warren and Landry, but if he understood correctly, the two other men – whose names were also on the list – were dead too. It couldn't be Blake this time, though...

"I have bad news for you, though.", Harlow went on. "Unlike the others, I have a few powerful friends looking out for me, who warned me that you were coming. So, I'm afraid you're the one who's going to die tonight, errand boy..."

The question is: did her friends warn her about me specifically, or is there an actual assassin without a date, drowning his sorrows at the bar downstairs?...

Napoleon suddenly realized that Harlow had stopped talking and was staring at him, a mischievous smile playing on her lips. After a few seconds she climbed on the bed, next to him, and started unbuttoning his shirt. Slowly.

Oh, okay...

He cleared his throat. Maybe if he kept her talking, he would be able to learn more about those mysterious "powerful friends" she had mentioned.

"Hmm, normally I wouldn't complain, but after our little discussion, I'm afraid I'm no longer in the mood..."

"Shh..", she whispered, putting her finger to his lips.

She undid the last button and opened his shirt wide. Then she got up and disappeared into the bathroom for a few seconds. When she reappeared, she was holding a roll of duct tape in one hand and a glinting object which looked dangerously like a scalpel in the other. Napoleon's pulse began to hammer.

All right, time to use our safe word...

"Wolf...", he muttered, hoping that his partner was listening.

Harlow set the scalpel down on the nightstand and began unrolling the duct tape.

"Wolf!...", Napoleon repeated, louder and more urgently.

This time, Harlow frowned and, with surprising speed, she grabbed the scalpel and pressed the tip of the blade against his throat.

"Shh..."

Napoleon nodded to let her know that he understood the message, but she kept the blade near his throat as she wrapped several layers of duct tape around the lower part of his face. Once she had finished, she lay down on the bed, and nestled against him, resting her head on his chest. He could distinctly smell her fruity perfume...and her psychopathic tendencies.

Don't panic, he'll be here soon... Damn, I miss Illya...

She kept her ear pressed to his pounding heart for a few more seconds then she raised her head and looked into his eyes.

"Well, apparently someone is scared...", she said with a playful smile. "Don't worry.", she added, lowering her voice to a sensual whisper. "I'm only going to kill you, I promise."

She raised the scalpel and slowly brought it close to the center of his chest.

I'm about to die here, what the hell is taking you so long?!...

The blade sliced through his skin and he tried to scream but the tape muffled his voice. She smiled at him and pushed the blade slightly deeper, then wiggled it in the wound. He screamed again and thrashed against his bonds. While one part of his brain was focused on the sharp piece of metal in his chest, the other part was downright indignant. Couldn't his partner hear that he was getting killed?

Dammit, Wolf!...

Then everything happened really fast. He heard a loud bang, a sharp click and Celia Harlow collapsed like a rag doll on the bed next to him.

Is she...dead?...

"Hmmmhmmm!", he shouted angrily as he raised his head and spotted Wolf in the doorway.

The French agent quickly stepped closer to the bed, moved Harlow's body out of the way, and pulled his combat knife out of his leg sheath. He sliced through the layers of tape and unceremoniously ripped it off Napoleon's face.

Ouch...

"You were saying?"

I don't think you want to know...

"Better late than never, I suppose... you might want to get your ears checked, however."

"I got delayed..."

"And I almost got eviscerated."

"I believe the word you're looking for is "thanks""

Napoleon sighed and let his head drop back down on the mattress.

"Thanks. But you didn't have to kill her. You do realize that the aim of the mission was to gather information, right? She's going to be considerably less talkative now."

"I was trying to save your viscera. Maybe I should have shot you instead, it would have spared me the lecture..."

The other agent suddenly fell silent and froze. Napoleon had heard them, too. Voices. Shouting. Getting closer.

"Merde.../ Crap..."

"And what is that?"

"The reason for my delay."

The French agent stepped away from the bed and rushed to the window.

"Wait, what are you doing? Untie me!"

"Relax... I think I've found our way out."

Napoleon watched tensely as Wolf pushed the window wide open, then sprinted back to the bed and started slicing through his bonds with his combat knife. Just as he was about to cut the last piece of rope around Napoleon's left wrist, a man appeared in the doorway. A man with a gun. A gun aimed at the French agent's head...

Dammit!...

"Wolf!..."

Unknown location, Wilfred's p.o.v.

"Good job, Thomas. I think you just beat your own record. How does it feel?"

Very painful, apparently...

Wilfred studied his victim's face for a few seconds. The French agent was bleeding from his nose again and a mixture of blood and saliva was trickling down his chin. Interesting. He grabbed a piece of gauze from the medical tray and, as he gently wiped Réant's face clean, he wondered what could be the cause of the recurrent bleeding. He knew that Réant had been tortured prior to his arrival, but they had not told him exactly what they had done to him. He would have to ask Monroe, his fellow doctor. He couldn't risk killing the French agent. Not yet... He set the used gauze pad down on the tray and turned his attention to Maxime Drancy. So far, the agent's heart seemed to be holding up well, despite the stress he was being subjected to. Drancy's gaze was fixed on his partner and Wilfred could clearly see the pain in his eyes. He felt a smile tug at his lips.

"It's not easy seeing him like this, is it? You can make it stop, Maxime. All you have to do is tell me what I want to know."

From the corner of his eye, he saw Réant make an effort to shake his head and he felt his smile grow wider.

You're making this even harder for him, my little friend...

They were nearing the end of the session. Réant could go through one more round, maybe two, but no more than that. Drancy had not uttered a single word yet, but it didn't really matter. He was just getting started. Drancy obviously cared about his partner and Wilfred had no doubt that the agent would start talking, eventually. It was only a matter of time.

At least, it gives me time to think of a solution to my "little problem"...

Maxime's p.o.v.

"All right, Thomas, let's go for another round, since your partner so thoroughly enjoys watching you suffer..."

Maxime's heart sank as he saw the look of fear in his friend's eyes. He lowered his gaze, unable to look Thomas in the face, and his eyes fell on the electrodes attached to his partner's torso.

"Ready?"

Non, putain, non!.../ No, dammit, no!...

Once again, he could only watch helplessly as Thomas's body suddenly tightened and shook, and a gut-wrenching, gurgling scream came out of his mouth. It lasted even longer than the previous time and when it finally stopped, Maxime realized that he had been holding his breath the whole time. He kept his gaze fixed on his partner's slumped body, expecting him to raise his head and cough or gasp. But this time, nothing happened. Maxime's heart began to pound violently. The assassin casually stepped closer to the chair and grabbed a fistful of Thomas's hair, pulling his head up, then he let go. Thomas's head lolled back lifelessly.

"Don't worry.", the assassin said, winking at him. "He's just taking a little nap. It's time for his break, anyway. I think he deserves it, after everything you put him through..."

Maxime's heartbeat settled somewhat as relief washed over him. However, it was short-lived. As long as Thomas was alive, the torture would not stop. No one would come to rescue them, and he did not know how much longer he could bear to watch his friend suffer. The worst thing was that he knew exactly what his captors were looking for. He had been thoroughly confused at first when the assassin had started talking about some kind of prototype microchip. It was only when the assassin had mentioned the size of the chip, and had asked him if Thomas had given him something before his "death", that he had connected the dots... No wonder Thomas had been staring at his chest so intently. He had been trying to catch a glimpse of the medallion through his open shirt collar. Apparently, what it contained was important enough for his friend to be willing to be tortured to death to protect it. But the medallion was no longer in his possession, which meant that his captors probably had it already, or had thrown it away... The sound of the door opening snapped him out of his thoughts. Two guards stepped into the room, walked up to Thomas's chair and cut his bonds. One of them caught Thomas's limp body before it crumpled to the floor while the other removed the electrodes from his torso. As they dragged him out, a third man walked into the room. He was the man who had left Thomas and him "in the care" of the assassin, earlier.

"It's already over? So soon?"

"You said you wanted him to stay alive. I'm just making sure he does...Sir."

The man gestured in Maxime's direction.

"Has he told you anything, so far?"

"Not yet."

"Hmm, I'm surprised. Maybe you don't quite live up to your reputation, after all... Let's hope that you'll have more luck once Réant's nap time is over."

"I have no doubt that I will, Sir."

"Good. Don't forget what's at stake for you, Wilfred.", the man answered before he walked out of the room, leaving Maxime alone with the assassin.

A few seconds passed in uncomfortable silence. The assassin was staring at him, his face unreadable.

"You and I both know that Thomas is not going to make it out of this place alive.", he finally said, as he stepped closer to Maxime's chair. "Now, I can make it very easy for him. Or...I can make it really slow and unbelievably painful. It's your call, Maxime."

The assassin paused, waiting for an answer, and when it did not come, he let out an exaggerated sigh of disappointment and went on.

"You know, Maxime, I don't think you realize just how long I can go on torturing your friend without even coming close to killing him. Are you sure you want to find out?"

Maxime cursed inwardly. The man had perfectly summed up the situation. Either he gave them what they wanted and Thomas would die, or he kept his mouth shut – just as Thomas had begged him to – and prolonged his friend's ordeal. His heart began to pound again as he finally faced the fact that there was no way out, and he suddenly found himself wishing that his arrhythmia would kill him so that he wouldn't have to make this impossible decision.

Putain... Thomas, je veux pas que tu meures.../ Shit... Thomas, I don't want you to die...

End of chapter 2.