Chapter 10 :) Short chapter but I just had to write this one fast ;) .

edit: Next update should happen around the end of October. I hope my characters don't die of old age before I finish this story :P

and in the meantime, here's another drawing of Marshall (if you have read the previous story, I think you'll recognize the scene ;) )

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Blake's p.o.v.

Owen Blake cursed between his teeth as he drove away from the cottage at full speed. He shouldn't have played with the KGB agent. He should have been more careful. For some reason, Kuryakin hadn't ingested the poison. He should have killed him quickly, as soon as he'd realized that. But hurting him had been so satisfying. He had enjoyed watching the big, tough Russian crawl on the floor. He had taken great pleasure in making him cry out in pain. He would have loved watching the life go out of those blue eyes. Too bad that unfortunate incident with the knife had compromised his plans. He enjoyed pain and had an exceptionally high pain tolerance, but he was also able to recognize a potentially mortal wound when he saw one, and although killing was one of his favorite activities, dying certainly wasn't. He knew he needed to hurry. He estimated his chance of survival at around 50%. The knife was still in place. He didn't have too far to drive. He had prepared for this scenario. He would have everything he needed where he was going. He would be able to patch himself up.

At least dear Asher is dead. One out of three…

He smiled with sadistic pleasure as he briefly imagined how agonizing the young agent's death must have been. Perfect. He knew that Napoleon Solo would be taken care of as well. Of course the other two would have to be dealt with. Later. Keeping only one hand on the wheel, he carefully raised the other to wipe his face. His clammy face... He froze mid-gesture. Frowning, he pressed two fingers over his carotid artery.

Shit…

He knew what was happening. He had seen it happen many times before, to his victims.

Make that 30%, and dropping…

Apparently the knife had done more damage than he had initially thought. He suddenly became aware of his rapid, shallow breathing.

Dropping fast…

He sighed in frustration, wishing he could drive faster. He ran through a quick mental checklist of all the things he would need to do to keep himself alive. Not enough time. He wasn't going to make it.

Illya's p.o.v

"He has a pulse!"

Of course Gaby had shown no consideration for his consideration. She had briskly snatched her arm out of his grip and had rushed to Marshall's side. She was now leaning over him, checking for a pulse. Illya stepped closer and eyed the agent's body skeptically. His gaze lingered on Marshall's open, unmoving eyes.

"Not possible. You're probably feeling your own pulse through your thumb."

She shot him a furious glance and shifted her position so that she could press her ear against the CIA agent's chest.

"Illya, I can hear his heart!"

What?...

It was his turn now, to rush to the American's side. Frowning, he gently pushed Gaby out of the way and laid his hand on Marshall's chest. And sure enough, the man's heart was beating.

He's alive…

Illya felt his frown deepen. Marshall certainly did not look alive. The agent's body was completely still. Illya quickly waved a hand in front of the open eyes. No reaction. He looked at the man's chest, no sign of breathing. A perfectly convincing corpse. Still, the rapid pounding under his hand was telling a different story. Illya's gaze shifted to Marshall's stomach where a syringe was embedded, and realization suddenly hit him.

"He's paralyzed!", Gaby exclaimed, taking the words out of his mouth.

And he's suffocating…

Illya ripped off the tape covering Marshall's mouth as quickly as he could. How long had it been? Two minutes? More? He pulled the rag out of the agent's mouth, keeping his hand on his chest to monitor his heartbeat. Too fast. He could tell Marshall's heart was struggling to compensate for the lack of oxygen. Respiratory arrest he could do something about, cardiac arrest would be much harder to fix. Illya tilted the agent's head back and, without wasting a second, pinched his nose shut, took a deep breath and started blowing air into his mouth. Just as he was about to administer a second rescue breath, a severe coughing fit prevented him from doing so.

"I'll do it!"

Gaby, who had been watching him helplessly, moved to take his place and started breathing for Marshall. As he watched the agent's chest rise and fall, Illya wondered what Blake had injected him with to induce complete paralysis.

Curare? No. He would already be dead…

Whatever it was, he needed to find a solution, fast. If Marshall's respiratory muscles were paralyzed, rescue breathing would keep him alive for a little while but wouldn't solve the problem. For the second time, Illya's eyes settled on the syringe protruding from Marshall's stomach and he noticed that the plunger had not been depressed. The syringe was still completely full. He hastily stepped around the bed and walked over to the nightstand. There he found another syringe. Empty. And two tiny, half-empty bottles, each containing a yellowish liquid. He read the labels but the inscriptions meant nothing to him. The only salient information was that the inscriptions were not the same on both bottles.

Different substances, two syringes…

Again, Illya looked at the full syringe sticking out of the agent's body and he felt his blood boil.

Is this what I think it is?... Sadistic asshole!…

He pulled the full syringe out and, after a second's hesitation, injected its contents into Marshall's deltoid muscle. He looked up and exchanged a glance with Gaby who was still giving the agent mouth-to-mouth. Illya knew he probably looked as nervous as she did. Maybe he had been wrong. Maybe he had just killed Marshall… well, hastened his death, to be more exact.

Wait and see…

"Come on, Asher, breathe…"

He could hear Gaby whispering encouraging words in between two rescue breaths. He checked the American's pulse. Still going. A few more tense minutes followed, then…

"He's breathing… I think he's breathing on his own!"

Gaby took a step back to give Marshall some air but kept her hand on his forehead and started gently smoothing his hair back. Illya blew out a deep sigh as relief washed over him.

How many times do I have to save your life?...

Marshall still looked slightly more dead than alive but he was breathing-gasping on his own, his chest was rising and falling, his eyes were moving – and filling up with tears. Whatever the antidote was, it was fast-acting. Illya put a hand on Gaby's shoulder and she turned to look at him.

"How did you know?"

"I was not sure. But he was dying anyway…"

Her relieved expression suddenly changed to one of concern.

"Do you think he'll have brain damage?"

Only one way to know…

"Marshall, do you know where you are?"

The CIA agent's eyes focused on him and for a few seconds he didn't answer, then…

"Kuryakin…", he said thickly. "Please tell me I didn't crap myself…"

"I think his brain is fine."

Marshall gave him a weak smile, then his expression changed and once again, Illya caught a glimpse of vulnerability, just like when he had watched the agent sleep a few hours earlier.

"I thought…I really thought no one was coming…" Marshall paused, as if he were trying to figure out what to say next, then simply added "Thanks."

Illya nodded, slightly embarrassed. He liked Marshall but the man was just so...honest. Sometimes it was hard to believe that he was an excellent undercover agent.

"And thanks for giving me the kiss of life, Miss Teller!", Marshall went on, as a cheeky smile slowly worked its way across his face.

Illya saw Gaby blush violently and shoot a furtive glance in his direction.

"Let's get you out of those handcuffs…", she mumbled, apparently eager to change the subject.

She started searching the room for the key and Illya was about to help her when something caught his eye. Blake's backpack.

Cowboy!...

Blake was a killer, Blake had lied about everything…and Blake had probably lied about Solo still being alive, too. Illya opened the backpack and emptied its contents onto the floor. He switched on the listening device, it was still working. Hopefully the tracking device was still working too. Then one object caught his attention. Cowboy's watch. The leather wristband had apparently been cut off with a knife. Illya's heart sank. He had entrusted an extremely dangerous, sadistic killer with his partner's life and now Cowboy was probably dead. How could he have let Blake fool him so easily? He looked up to see Gaby silently staring at the watch, and his feeling of despair suddenly turned into rage. His finger started drumming against his leg, faster and faster…then he felt Gaby's hand in his.

"Illya…"

"I'm going to rescue him."

"It's probably too late…"

"I don't care!"

"I know…I'm coming with you."

He looked at her. Even with the huge bump on the side of her head and the red marks on her throat she was as pretty as ever, and determined. But he couldn't afford to lose another partner.

"No. You stay here with Marshall. And you call Waverly for backup, and medical help for you both. I have a radio in my room."

"Illya you're ill, you'll die if you go alone."

"I won't. And I'm bringing Cowboy back."

Even if it's just his dead body…I'm bringing him back…

At the same moment, torture room

"What did you do to him?!"

"I admit I might have got a little carried away."

"Bloody hell! I told you not to kill him!"

"He's not dead. Just resting. Trust me, I know what I'm doing. I kept the other one alive for more than two weeks. One day of this is not going to kill him."

"…"

"How did it go?"

"They said they would "look into it"."

"And are you satisfied with that answer?"

"Not really. Hence my visit. Wake him up."

"No need, he's coming to."

"I need you to make him talk. I don't care what method you use, I need answers, now."

"I see. What happened to "no harm will come to Carlyle"?"

"Well, if it turns out that we made a mistake, I'll let him go and offer him my most sincere apologies. I highly doubt that it will be the case, though."

"He's fully conscious now. I think we can continue. Would you like to have a go? I can show you where it will hurt him the most…"

"That's not what I'm here for. Not everybody enjoys your sick games. Now, make him talk."

"You don't know what you're missing. Now let's see if we can get something more than just screams out of Mr. Carlyle."

End of chapter 10. I hope you enjoyed this one. I just couldn't let poor Marshall die, could I? :) . Things are not looking good for Solo, though :s