Chapter 8

The sound of rifle fire reverberated mercilessly in Solo's head and chest, as if the sonic blast was rupturing multiple organs. The thud of Illya hitting the ground was distant but nonetheless too loud in Solo's ringing ears.

The kick's momentum knocked him on his side, blocking his view of Kuryakin. Now, he hesitated to roll onto his back, afraid to witness the outcome, as if seeing it would make Illya deader than he probably already was.

His professionalism and personal need to face what had happened took over. Holding his breath, he peered over his shoulder.

A streak of blood started on Illya's left cheek and ended somewhere in the hair that sweat had colored caramel. Blood coated the detritus of the arboretum floor.

He watched Illya's chest, thought he saw it expand and fall, but his vision was too filmy for him to be sure. Napoleon exhaled, forced himself to believe Illya was still with him. Where there's life …

Too achy to stand, especially with a newly pulled groin, he got to his hands and knees and crabbed over to his partner. He placed two trembling fingers on Illya's neck, closed his eyes, and pressed lightly.

There it was—a too-fast but strong pulse. He thanked all possible gods and a few demi-gods. There's hope, he finished.

Quickly he determined the wound was a deep graze. There were powder burns and stippling on Illya's face and eyelid, indicating he had closed his eyes as he triggered the rifle. In all likelihood, that eye had been spared injury.

He had to get them out of here and fast. Fraiser undoubtedly didn't arrive with just one other THRUSH. The others would be converging on them too soon, thanks to the gunshots. Another swell of adrenaline cleared the haze rapidly invading his brain.

Napoleon couldn't carry Illya; he could barely walk himself. They'd both have to take pep pills—not a good idea given their physical condition but necessary for a chance at surviving. He wasn't carrying any, so he crawled over to Illya's jacket and searched it, counting on it being highly customized. Solo referred to these as Illya's "Harpo Marx" coats, because the over-sized jackets had extra pockets that held all sorts of odd but often helpful items.

He struck gold. He withdrew two small boxes—one containing ammonia capsules and the other orange pills that identified them as a hybrid of pain killers and amphetamines—and handcuffs. Unfortunately there were no bandages or heme-stoppers, a recent Section VIII invention very early in field testing.

Napoleon kneed back to Illya's side. He snapped open an ammonia capsule under Illya's nose. He responded too slowly to suit Napoleon, making him think the injury was worse than a graze. He sat back on his heels and waited. He unintentionally closed his tired eyes and only opened them when he felt his friend turn and move toward the nameless THRUSH.

He followed Illya's fast-moving hand and gasped when he saw the pale fingers encircle the hilt of a knife on the THRUSH's belt.

Napoleon shouted, "No!" but it didn't deter Illya, who had already drawn the knife from its scabbard. How is he doing this? Where the hell is this energy coming from?Solo gripped the armed hand with both of his. Although Illya had the weapon in a death grip, Solo eventually was able to pry it from his grasp.

He tossed the knife a dozen yards away then inhaled sharply as Illya's knee slammed into his kidney. With more agility and energy than he thought he possessed at this moment, Napoleon grabbed Illya's wrists, wrestling him to his back, then straddled him across the thighs. "Dammit, Illya," he hissed. Whoever devised this witches' brew should take it himself—if I don't kill him first.

"Ffffffffffff -" Illya stopped and angrily pursed his lips as he struggled to free himself.

Napoleon's chest tightened at Illya's prolonged stutter. "Come on, IK. Talk to me."

Furious, Illya's eyes met his partner's, and said in a voice coarse from disuse and strain, "Ffffiddlesticks!"

A heartbeat passed before Napoleon made the connection and laughed heartily. "That's the best thing I've heard all day!" he exclaimed.

Solo, keeping his grip tight on his unexpectedly strong partner—Or I am that weak?—he said conversationally, "I might have made a mistake in not taking my pill first then cuffing you, tovarishch." Then he did just that, fighting his squirming and bent-on-escaping friend the entire time until his hands were secured behind his back. Mentally, he apologized for fastening the steel circles on raw wrists only loosely covered with soggy dressings.

Napoleon picked out one of the pills from the other box and tried to feed it to a leery, obstinate Illya, who clamped his lips closed. The American shrugged, then choked the pill down himself. He took another out and held it while his eyes asked Illya to take it.

Illya's expression lost some of its wariness and opened his mouth slightly.

I'll take any amount of trust I can get. Quickly, Napoleon shoved it in and held Illya's lips together until he saw the Russian grimace and swallow repeatedly. "Pretty bitter, isn't it?"

Napoleon gave them a few minutes for the pill to take effect. He stood, shaky at first, then retrieved their Specials. He replaced his at the small of his back and the other he kept in his right hand. Next, he helped Illya up.

He took stock of their status. Dirt clung to them as mud, thanks to their heavy sweating. They could barely stand upright. Their wounds had bled through the dressings. One side of Illya's face and head was bloody. But they were alive.

Not for long, Solo thought as the sound of people yelling not too far behind them reached his ears. Illya gave no indication of noticing that at all.

"We have to go. Now." The defiant attitude emanating from Illya disturbed Napoleon, along with those frosty blue eyes darting between him and the knife, like a bee zeroing in on a coveted flower. His partner was going to prove to be more difficult to deal with than he anticipated.

Illya glowered at him and tried to jerk away when Napoleon demonstrated he'd have none of that when he clenched his left hand around Illya's right arm.

"Forget the damn knife!" He gripped tighter, sending a shock wave of pain up his arm, and dragged his stumbling partner along at a brutal pace despite his groin pain, any concern about Illya's bare feet pushed aside.