Chapter 6

Solo's luck was with him, and by extension to Kuryakin: they were just feet away from the unfenced arboretum. Between the weeping willows and magnolia trees, he was sure he could find one with enough low-hanging foliage to conceal them.

Using his jacket sleeve, Napoleon wiped away the sweat cascading down his forehead and blurring his vision further. Dehydration was compounding the dizziness he was having from the head bump. His struggle to breathe air heavy with water vapor was becoming greater by the second. Illya was harder to hold on to because the intense humidity was making him as slippery as an eel. Both his legs and Illya seemed to be gaining weight exponentially. Despite the grave situation they were in, he was beginning to drag his feet. The shouting voices behind them spurred him to find a suitable hiding tree fast.

Some yards into the arboretum, he found, off to his right, a magnolia tree whose branches were laden with thick green leaves that touched the ground. That should work. The downside was the heavily redolent flowers threatening to make the nausea he'd been keeping in check rush forward in full bloom. He choked it back and hoped the scent didn't stimulate the same reaction in his partner.

His first step toward the tree found his dragging foot catching on an unseen tree root, sending the partners to the ground overrun with decaying plant life. As they fell, Napoleon tossed his weapon then cradled Illya's head in his freed palm. They hit with a thud, Napoleon's weight crushing a sizable portion of Illya. Illya simply exhaled audibly.

Now my bruises have bruises, he complained silently. But he'd rather have that than a head injury for his friend. "Sorry, tovarishch," he said as he rolled off Illya. Too fatigued and pained to stand, he began to crawl toward the gun. The next thing he knew he was on his back, opening his eyes to see Bertram Fraiser, a THRUSH mole he'd ferreted out years ago in Toronto.

"Well, well," said Fraiser, his yellowed teeth bared in a savage grin, "if it isn't Napoleon Solo himself, finally awake." His THRUSH-issued rifle was aimed at Napoleon's mid-section.

Napoleon, dismayed that he'd been unaware of blacking out, cleared his throat and smiled Cheshire-cat-like. "Wasn't expecting to see you south of the border, Bertie. Wish I could say it's good to see you. But you'd know that would be a lie." There was one other THRUSH, rifle trained on him and standing between him and Illya. He raised his trunk and supported himself with his forearms.

"I'm delighted to see you, Nappy. Imagine my surprise when the lead at this facility called Central with the latest subject's ID. He was familiar with the name and his status, not his appearance."

Solo almost gasped when out of the corner of his eye he saw that test subject abruptly sit up. Illya seemed disoriented, confused, trying to get his bearings. Is it finally wearing off? He forced himself not to change his respiratory pattern or look directly at his partner. He was astounded that the THRUSHes still weren't paying any attention to Kuryakin. He had to do something quickly, before Illya resumed hurting himself to death. His plan was to carefully maneuver himself into a better position to disarm both men using his feet. He prayed his reaction time would be fast enough, given he certainly would be slower than usual. In the meantime, he had to keep them off balance.

"Ah, so I see THRUSH Central continues to fail to remedy a big mistake."

"What the hell do you mean by that, Nappy?" Fraiser asked, defensiveness in his angry question.

Napoleon started the tedious process of inching into position. "Central doesn't require that all personnel to recognize on sight U.N.C.L.E.'s top two field agents," he replied matter-of-factly. "That's bad for business." He paused for effect. "You know, Bertie, I've always thought it would be ... a kick to have my face on a wanted poster," Solo said, a hint of whimsy in his voice. "Make sure my better side is photographed, would you? And one other thing. Stop calling me 'Nappy.'"

The turncoat grunted his disdain. "Too freaking bad, Nappy, because being nicknamed for baby diapers suits you so well. Regardless, I've been wanting payback ever since you outed me. Because of you I was assigned to this subtropical hellhole. Now I have the chance for revenge. Central wants you alive, but I'm pretty sure you're going to die while escaping." He raised his rifle and aimed it at Solo's head. "Your little friend there—Illya something-Russian, isn't it?—will be going back to the mansion to complete the rest of his shortened life." Fraiser laughed maniacally at his joke.

"Seems you have me at a slight disadvantage, Bertie. How about we strike a bargain, eh? U.N.C.L.E. let you go free before, so how about letting Kuryakin go free now and I'll be your guinea pig."

Fraiser laughed again. "That's a win for me and a double lose for you, Nappy! Kury-whatever will probably kill himself the minute he wakes up and you'll be doing the same soon enough, whether it's from a bullet I put in you or one you put in yourself."

"Oh, I doubt that, Bertie. The drug isn't influencing him any longer. He's just exhausted." Napoleon felt a flash of hope when he saw doubt wing its way across Fraiser's face. Oddly enough, Bertie didn't even look at Illya. Napoleon fractionally re-positioned his butt again, so close to the angle his legs needed.

That was when Illya vaulted to his feet and reached for the rifle held by the unnamed THRUSH.

Napoleon, giving nothing away to the THRUSHes despite the elephantine squeeze in his chest, cursed soundlessly as one of Illya's broad, strong hands connected hard with the THRUSH's jaw. Simultaneously, his other hand encircled the barrel that would be the instrument delivering the bullet ending him.