Chapter 9!...Ouchy ouch :P

Secret society headquarters

"…but you said we would be protected…"

- You are protected, Mr. Cleary.

"You don't understand…one of our members was shot. Several others are considering leaving the organization."

- This is a result of your own incompetence. Or maybe you are insinuating that it was our fault?

"No! It's not what I said. Of course not. It's just…there was also that incident with Carlyle…"

- An incident, Mr. Cleary?

"Our files, our data, archives of our transactions with you, extremely sensitive information…everything was destroyed. And…we have reason to believe that Carlyle was involved."

-…

"Sir?"

- I see. Are you sure that everything was destroyed?

"Yes, Sir, it was all in the safe. Nothing could be salvaged."

- How unfortunate.

"But…what about Carlyle?"

- We'll look into it, Mr. Cleary. In the meantime I suggest you stop worrying so much. You'll drive yourself to an early grave and we wouldn't want that, would we?

"No, Sir…Thank you, Sir."

Base-cottage, Asher's p.o.v.

Well…shit…

Asher sighed inwardly. He wanted to live but lately life just didn't seem to want him. He had spent a few minutes beating himself up for not recognizing the killer earlier. In his defense, he wasn't the only one who had been fooled; although Asher had only met him recently, Blake had been working for the CIA for years. Still, the man had tortured him, had laughed while he was screaming in agony. He should have known. … He thought back to that moment on the sacrificial table, in the dark, when he had felt that hand on his chest. He should have trusted his gut. Now everybody was going to die.

Well done, Asher. Not only are you incapable of keeping yourself alive, you're also taking everyone else down with you…

Gaby, Kuryakin, he needed to warn them. He thought about the explosives. Had Blake been bluffing? He had no way of knowing but they were going to die anyway, even if he remained quiet. He tried to scream but the only sound he managed to make was a weak, muffled groan. No one would hear him. Even when he began to suffocate, no one would hear him. He was trying really hard to remain calm. How long had Blake said it would take for the toxin to take effect? Oh, right. The bastard hadn't said. Of course, it made things even worse for him, not knowing. How much time did he have left before paralysis started affecting his respiratory muscles? How many painful minutes would it take before he finally stopped breathing? How many before his heart stopped? He suddenly became hyper-aware of everything going on in his body. All those little things he had taken for granted. Air flowing in and out of his nose. His chest rising and falling. His heartbeat. He was going to go crazy.

Okay, just breathe…

…while you still can, whispered a little voice in the back of his head. He chose to ignore it and forced himself to take one deep breath, then another. As he started drawing a third breath fear suddenly gripped his heart. Was it just his imagination or was inhaling getting harder? Panic overwhelmed him and he tried to scream again, to no avail. No one would hear him. His gaze fell on the syringe still protruding from his abdomen and he desperately tried to move his arms and legs, to twist his body. After a minute of fruitless efforts, he stopped trying.

What are you doing, Asher…you're not getting out of those handcuffs anyway…

He knew there was no way he could get his hands on that syringe, and that was the only reason Blake had left it there, because knowing that the thing that could save him was right in front of him but still out of his reach was pure torture. Asher suddenly felt terribly lonely. He was going to die in this room, a slow, agonizing death, and there was nothing he could do.

I don't want to die like this. I don't want to die…

Illya's p.o.v

He's alone, in his room. No. Not completely alone. There's a huge snake coiled around his chest. Squeezing. It hurts. He wants to get rid of the snake but he can't use his hands. He is holding something and he knows he can't let go. He can't quite remember why but it's important that he doesn't let go. The snake squeezes harder. It's hard to breathe. He closes his eyes and when he opens them again he's on the moors, it's nighttime and it's cold. He's still holding that very important thing, despite the barely bearable pressure on his chest. He knows he should look down but he doesn't want to.

"It's too late, you know…"

He knows it's the snake speaking. He can hear it inside his head. A cruel, mocking voice. He looks down. He's not holding something. He's holding someone. He's gripping Cowboy's hand as tightly as he can. But Cowboy is not gripping back. His body is almost completely submerged in a giant peat bog, only the top of his head is still sticking out. His face is under. He pulls as hard as he can but it has no effect. His strength is gone, his chest hurts, Cowboy is dying.

"I told you it's too late, why don't you just let go?"

Again that mocking voice inside his head.

"He's my friend, you asshole!"

The voice in his head laughs. The coils tighten around his chest, bringing him to his knees. It hurts! He can't breathe. He's going to die too. The voice laughs and laughs.

Illya woke up with a start. The snake was still squeezing his chest! No. Not a snake, just fluid in his lungs. He gagged and was seized by a violent coughing fit. He barely had time to grab his handkerchief. Thick, bloody mucus. Wonderful. As he massaged his aching chest, he thought about the strange, vivid nightmare he had just woken up from. He shot an accusatory glance at the bottle of "sleeping" pills on the nightstand. Never again. At least he had been able to sleep for a few hours. He was not feeling worse than before his drug-induced nap, but he was definitely not feeling better either. The dream had reminded him of his aborted project of calling Waverly to request backup. He got up, put on a clean shirt, and was about to get out of the room when he suddenly remembered that the phone wasn't working. He grabbed his portable radio transmitter from a locked briefcase in the closet and called Waverly. His boss was apparently surprised to hear from him and Illya remembered that Blake had already reported back to both Sanders and Waverly. Illya didn't beat around the bush and immediately explained that they needed at least one more agent, listing several reasons, not insisting too much on the fact that he was ill, and stressing the fact that Blake was busy taking care of Marshall.

- Wait…what did you say?

"Marshall was in bad shape when we found him, he had been tortured and…"

- You mean that Marshall is alive?

"Of course Marshall is alive. I thought Blake called to give you an account of last night's mission."

- He did, Kuryakin. And he also confirmed that Marshall was dead, hence my puzzlement…

Illya felt a sudden rush of adrenaline course through his body. He dropped the radio and pulled his suitcase out from under his bed. He reached under the clothes and grabbed his holster. Empty. His Makarov was gone. So was his combat knife. Rushing back to the closet, he checked the sheath on his tactical vest. His spare knife was still there. Blake had missed it. He quickly unsheathed the knife and walked out into the corridor as silently as possible. As he risked a glance inside the living room, his blood ran cold.

Gaby!…

The bastard had a scarf around Gaby's throat and was strangling her. She was still conscious and struggling but she was no match for Blake. Feeling a murderous rage take hold of him, Illya silently closed the distance between him and Blake and drew back the knife to stab him in the kidney. Then something unexpected happened. Before he could stick the blade into his back, Blake let go of Gaby – who dropped like a rag doll – and grabbed his wrist with one hand, twisting it in a painful wristlock as he spun around. Illya gasped and dropped the knife as Blake twisted harder, forcing him to his knees. The man was impossibly fast. Much faster than Illya. And strong. Blake clicked his tongue disapprovingly and smiled at him.

"Heavy breathing, Illya…"

He twisted even harder until Illya thought that his wrist was going to snap.

"I see you forgot to take your medication. It's okay, I'm here to take care of you."

Blake drew back his free arm and smashed his fist into the side of Illya's head. Then he let go of his wrist and took a step back.

"I'm feeling generous today, so I'll let you try again."

Illya knew that in his current state, he was no match for the American. Hell, even without being ill he wasn't certain that he would have stood a chance against the man. He laboriously tried to get to his feet but before he could stand up, Blake drove his knee into his gut. He gasped and doubled over, completely winded by the blow. But Blake wasn't finished with him. The bastard kicked him in the side, hard. He cried out in pain and Blake kicked him a second time, then a third, precise, vicious kicks meant to cause the maximum amount of pain possible. Blake was trying to incapacitate him. He wrapped his arms around his sides, trying to protect his ribs and Blake chose this moment to kick him in the face, sending him sprawling onto his back.

"Good idea, Illya, just roll over for me. Show me your cute, vulnerable little tummy…"

Stunned, Illya closed his eyes for a moment and when he opened them, Blake was leaning over him. He had his knife in his hand. The knife came down and suddenly he felt a burning line of pain across his stomach. Blake had just sliced open the bottom half of his shirt – and his skin –, exposing his stomach.

"Want to see what your intestines look like, Illya?"

He felt the tip of the blade dig into his skin and adrenaline kicked in, jerking him out of his daze. Grunting with the effort, he gripped Blake's wrist to prevent the blade from going in deeper. At the same moment, he heard a loud crashing sound and looked up to see Gaby holding a lamp which she had just smashed down on Blake's head. With an annoyed groan, the American snatched his hand out of Illya's grip and in the same movement spun around to hit Gaby in the head with the pommel of the knife. Taking advantage of his momentary inattention, Illya pounced on Blake and they both went down, fighting for the knife, rolling on the floor. It wasn't long before Blake overpowered him, though, and without really knowing how, Illya suddenly found himself lying flat on his back with the American looming over him. Déjà vu. The knife. He couldn't see the knife. He checked his own body, then Blake's hands, before finally locating the knife. It was embedded in the right side of Blake's chest. Illya stared at his opponent's face, he didn't seem to be in pain. If anything he looked annoyed. Blake looked down at the knife then at him and for a second Illya thought that the man was going to yank the knife out and stab him in the face. But he didn't. Instead he quickly backed away, closing a protective hand around the handle of the knife, and jumped to his feet. It was then that Illya realized his mistake.

I should have pulled it out…

He didn't get much time to beat himself up - or to do anything else, for that matter - as Blake delivered a brutal stomp kick to his gut before bolting for the front door. He wanted to get up, wanted to go after Blake but instead he was lying on the floor, clutching his stomach, trying hard not to throw up. He heard the engine of a car. It was too late. He didn't even have a gun. And Gaby needed him. He crawled over to her and worriedly pressed his fingers against the side of her neck. She was just unconscious. He gently brushed a loose strand of hair off her face. She had an impressive bump on the side of her head, it was bleeding. Panting with the effort, Illya carefully moved her to the couch and sat down beside her. He leaned over her and gave her a gentle tap on the cheek. She groaned. She was beginning to regain consciousness. Good. He saw her crack one eye open and look at him. He smiled at her encouragingly. She groaned again and raised a hand to the side of her head. He caught her hand in his and gently set it back down on the couch.

"Don't touch. You were hit pretty hard, you're bleeding and…"

Before he could finish his sentence, Gaby suddenly sat up, both eyes wide open, and croaked, "Asher…"

Illya studied her face worriedly.

"No, I'm Illya.", he answered.

She frowned impatiently and shot him a 'please make an effort' look.

"No… Asher…He said Asher was resting!"

Illya felt his heart sink. He had completely forgotten about poor Marshall. Injured, helpless, vulnerable, probably dead Marshall…

There might still be a chance…

Ignoring the burning sensation in his chest, he rushed to Blake's bedroom as fast as he could. He reached the door, flung it open, took a step toward the bed, hoping against hope…

But of course he was too late. One glance was enough for him to realize that the CIA agent was beyond help. He cursed softly and caught Gaby by the arm as she pushed past him to rush to Marshall's side. He knew Gaby considered Marshall a friend and although there was nothing he could do for the dead agent now, at least he could spare her the sight of his corpse. He felt anger rise inside him. He should have yanked the knife out. He should have killed the bastard.

Torture room, Solo's p.o.v.

"You're still standing…impressive. Your colleague would be proud. But I keep forgetting, what's his name again?"

Napoleon made an effort to look up at the cult master who was now standing in front of him.

"Just say his name for me, Mr. Carlyle, and the pain will stop…for a little while."

"I told you I don't kn…"

The whip whistled through the air and Napoleon let out a surprised cry as a thin, bloody mark appeared across his chest.

"Wrong answer, Mr. Carlyle. Let's try something else, you still haven't told me your real name. I must admit that I'm dying to know."

And I'm dying to punch your head in but we don't always get what we want…

"Trevor Carlyle is my real name. You're wasting your time…"

"You're being very uncooperative, Mr. 'Carlyle'. I think it's time to take it up a notch."

The cult master disappeared behind him for a minute. When he came back he was no longer holding the whip…but Napoleon wished he were.

Oh come on…anything but that…

Well maybe not anything but he remembered all too well the excruciating pain inflicted on him by Gaby's deranged uncle and he wasn't exactly eager to experience it again. As he stared at the electric cattle prod, he felt his heart begin to hammer again.

"What, no more lashing? I was just beginning to develop a taste for it."

"Don't worry, we can always come back to it later. In the meantime, I guarantee you're going to tell me your name, your colleague's name and everything else I want to know. And you're going to scream too. A lot."

That's three no's, and one probably…let's just hope that it's not as bad as I remember…

As the man stepped closer and raised the cattle prod, Napoleon couldn't help but flinch ever so slightly.

"Ah, I see I have made the right choice. Finally something you're really scared of, Mr. Carlyle.", the cult master commented, smiling like a kid on Christmas morning. "This is going to be even more enjoyable than I thought."

He raised the prod again and slowly brought it closer to his victim's chest. Napoleon recoiled instinctively but shackled as he was, there was no escape. The electrodes touched his skin and agony coursed through his body. The pain didn't last long. But it was definitely worse than he remembered. And he knew it was only the beginning.

End of chapter 9.

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