Chapter 9
They were sucking in the moist air almost desperately when they stumbled into a sunny meadow carpeted with orange milkweed and swarming butterflies. Napoleon, only marginally less tired and painful, wanted nothing more than to lie down among the flowers and sleep, like Dorothy in the poppy field.
It was Illya contorting himself to snatch the gun Napoleon had tucked in his waistband that dashed that dream. He picked up the pace. Butterflies scattered in winged frenzy around them.
About fifty yards later, without warning, Illya yanked the pair of them to the left as hard as he could, bringing Solo down on him.
"What the …?" Napoleon whispered. He looked at Illya beneath him, who then nodded at something behind him. He turned in time to see a diamondback rattlesnake dangerously close to his foot slither off a rock away from them.
"Thanks. You saved me again. Do you know why?"
Illya studied him closely. Intense brown eyes in a face reddened with exertion and creased with worry stirred something in his brain. "Moy brat." He chuffed at the questioning look on the man's face. With effort, he translated to English. My … bbbbbrother," he said, a heavily accented half-statement, half-question.
Napoleon grinned his elation, leaning in until forehead touched forehead. You're coming back to me.
"Well, brother mine, the drug seems to be wearing off," Solo declared. "You seriously need to stop volunteering as a guinea pig for fiendish science projects." He rolled off Illya, in the process releasing his hold. Foggy-headed, he let his guard down and came to rest on his side, back to Illya.
Perceiving that there was a threat of some kind, Illya seized the opportunity to curl into a ball. He slid his cuffed hands under his butt, and slipped one leg then the other through them, ignoring the growing awareness of pain. He lunged for the gun at the man's back, freed it, and flipped the switch to bullets in one smooth, rapid motion.
Napoleon realized immediately what had happened but wasn't fast enough to stop his partner. "No!"
Entire body vibrating like a spinning top, Illya gripped the gun with both hands then propped his forearms across the man's side for stability. He fired multiple times at the danger that had finally manifested itself.
Napoleon had automatically turned his gaze to follow Illya's aim. He watched four THRUSHes at the edge of the meadow fall to earth, each with a new, and likely fatal, hole in their bodies. Not for the first time, he thought, I'm glad you're on my side, Illya.
Illya slumped off Napoleon and sat down hard on his rump. He inhaled sharply and held it while he stared wild-eyed at the gun that shook so hard Napoleon thought the clip would eject itself.
Napoleon rolled back until Illya's legs stopped his progress. Moving cautiously, he firmly clamped his hand around the hot muzzle, ready to wrench the pistol from Illya. He felt the quakes, the uncertainty, in it, a reflection of what must be happening in his partner's nervous system.
In his trademark calm command tone, Napoleon said quietly, "Breathe, Illya. Just breathe and let it all go."
Illya exhaled as he felt something in his head snap, filling it with flame and smoke. He looked skyward and shrieked in agony until, long moments later, he freed himself from the weapon. The fire in his brain started burning itself out, the smoke clearing. He took a deep breath before turning back to regard the man—Napoleon.
Solo gulped at the blue eyes that now fully recognized him, once again carried their impish humor he concealed from everyone except Napoleon and a few select others. In a voice taut with emotion, he said softly, "Welcome back."
"Nuh-nuh-Napoleon, uncufffff mmm ..." The innocent smile that belied the sinister tone abruptly changed to a tight-lipped grimace of pain in a face abruptly gone very pale. He gagged before getting sick all over Solo. Eyes rolling up, he blacked out, and fell forward into Napoleon.
The stench of the emesis almost triggered an episode for Napoleon, but he resisted. He laid his unconscious partner gently on the ground softened by the milkweed. Carefully, he removed his communicator and placed it between his teeth. Next, he ripped the left sleeve from his soiled jacket and shrugged out of what remained intact. He folded it so the worst of the discharge was on the inside. He then placed it with exceptional gentleness under Illya's still-bleeding head.
He began searching for the cuffs' key, only to recall he'd neglected to take it from Illya's jacket. Damn. I'm a dead man if he wakes up while he's still cuffed. He briefly considered darting Illya a time or two as soon as he showed signs of waking up, but thought better of it, since it would simply make the Russian even madder later.
Napoleon sighed. The pep in the pill was no longer a match for the extreme fatigue and rapidly depleting reserves. He doubted he even had the energy to open the communicator. Yet his intense urge to complete the mission and ensure both of them survived had him opening a channel to HQ.
"Yes, Mr. Solo."
Napoleon gave Waverly a brief rundown of the mission to date and ended with, "Sir, this new potion is exceedingly dangerous. I highly recommend a team be pulled from the Shreveport mission to take care of this lab at all possible speed. I managed to secure samples and a notebook, but it's probably best to assume there is more."
"Indeed, Mr., uh, Solo. How bad are your and Mr. Kuryakin's injuries?"
Napoleon sighed as he looked at Illya's bleeding head, shirt splotchy with blood from cuts beneath it, deeply abraded wrists, ankles, and feet. He refused to catalog his own injuries.
"Nothing immediately life-threatening, sir, but we both need medical care. Illya may still be at risk for harming himself, and I don't think I ..." Solo stopped speaking, no longer able to generate one more word. Protect us from the flying monkeys, Toto, was his last thought before triggering his beacon and passing out.