Chapter 5

There were two guards at the entrance to what Solo assumed was the lab. Both were looking at the closed door, at least curious or maybe even disturbed by that horrific sound that had so recently come from within.

He darted them both, and both fell to block the door. With a new rush of adrenaline that rivaled what mothers had when they reportedly lifted cars off their children, Napoleon rolled them away as if they were straws.

He opened the door to see Kuryakin wearing only bloody boxers and bound to a steel table by one wrist, both ankles, and his head. One of the three THRUSHes present was placing a combat knife in Illya's free hand.

Solo's heart seemed to turn into a huge panic button that was being pounded at least 150 times a minutes.

Despite the escalating fear that he was too late, Napoleon took great pleasure at dropping that THRUSH, though he wished it had been by bullet. He darted the other two in his rush to Illya's side.

It chilled Napoleon to the bone to see the demented, single-minded expression on his partner's face as he manipulated the blade's handle to suit his purpose. For a brief moment, Illya looked at him. The lack of recognition in those familiar eyes informed him that his Illya was not in there.

Napoleon, his own throat so constricted that any sound was stifled, unhesitatingly stuck his left forearm between Illya's neck and the knife. There was no pain as the blade sliced his arm, though the blood welled up fairly rapidly. He wiggled his fingers, wincing at the pain that was just starting to make itself known. Good; no major damage.

A thwarted Illya took several seconds to realize his throat was untouched.

Napoleon took advantage of the lull to back away and dart Illya in his side—to no effect. Not too surprised, considering UNCLE agents were conditioned to resist the effect of their own sleep darts.

Illya changed his hold on the knife and raised it in preparation to plunge it into his upper abdomen.

Napoleon's vocal cords recovered, allowing him to shout, "Illya! No!"

The startled Russian paused long enough for Napoleon shoot him again.

This time to his surprise, the knock-out serum worked. Illya released the knife, which sliced his skin along a rib on its way to the floor.

Napoleon exhaled his relief loudly as he worked Illya's blood-slicked wrist back in its restraint. "Won't be long before you're free, my friend."

Next thing needing attention was his arm. He had to rummage through two big supply cabinets to find what he needed. In short order, he bandaged his wound with a thick padding of sterile gauze held in place with a tightly applied elastic wrap over the coat sleeve.

He opened the glass-fronted cabinet that held four shelves, each shelf home to small medication vials filled with one of four different colors of fluid. He took one bottle from each shelf and secreted them in his pants pocket. The rest he threw in the sink hard enough to break them. He found a book with notes and formulas and pocketed that as well.

He returned to Illya's side to examine the damage done. In addition to the fresh wound, there were numerous cuts of varying depths and lengths on his left arm, right leg and hip, and torso, none serious but several that would need stitches. Bruises were in the early stages of forming on his trunk. There were multiple needle tracks on the inside of his elbow. To go from these relatively harmless self-inflicted cuttings to throat-slashing, the last dose must have been much greater than or a different formulation from the previous ones.

He silently cursed THRUSH for their all-too-frequent use of U.N.C.L.E. agents, especially his partner, as guinea pigs for their malevolent concoctions. The effect of this particular witch's brew was easy to deduce: the recipient was compelled to cause himself harm. Such a drug would give THRUSH a huge advantage in the field. And not just the field, he added to his analysis.

Napoleon rapidly and sloppily dressed Illya's wounds with gauze and tape. Taking a deep breath to settle his head and stomach and keeping his gun handy in case he had to give Illya another dose, he unfastened the restraints on his ankles and head first, and lastly his wrists.

The skin, as Napoleon expected, was raw, skinless in parts, the bony whiteness of the protuberances at the wrists showing, and briskly leaking serum and blood. You were trying really hard, weren't you, tovarishch. He wrapped the joints but left the head abrasion open to the air.

"Can't go scandalizing the female population of Baton Rouge, IK," he said as pulled Illya's clothes from beneath the gurney he was on. Napoleon worked swiftly to get the slumbering man in his shirt and trousers.

Napoleon briefly stopped to deal with the dizziness from the continued blood loss, head injury, and increasing pain. His flagging energy reminded him they had to leave now because later they might not make it out.

He shoved his Special, almost empty of sleep darts, into the back of his trousers. He liberated Illya's weapon from its holster. "Hope you're not emotionally attached to those proletariat-approved Thom McAn shoes and everything else we're leaving behind." He threw Illya's jacket over his left shoulder then followed with the jacket's owner himself. In his right hand was his partner's gun, ready to shoot anyone getting in their way – including Illya the instant he stirred.

They made it to the property's east edge despite several stumbles and the oppressive summer air that did its best to deprive Napoleon of what little energy he had left and oxygen. His battered and stressed body pleaded for rest. As he started to give in, he heard shouts behind them.

"Damn!" he grumbled angrily. More adrenaline kicked in and he took off running on what seemed to be his bobbling boat again. Holding Illya's dead-but-still-alive weight even tighter against him. Knowing if they were captured, THRUSH would let Illya finish the experiment. This thought pushed him into overdrive.