Chapter 11! I know I said it was going to be a "small" bonus chapter (because I felt bad for ending on a cliffhanger), it turned out to be a bit longer than I expected (never ending stooooryyyy (8)). Let me know if you like it :)

Warning: creepy character inside :)

edit: first chapter of the sequel ("A simple mission, really") is out! :)

re-edit: if you want to know what Marshall looks like, here is a link to his 'official portrait' :P : "https":"/""/""ibb"."co"/eKx4Fd (just remove the "")

Marshall's hospital room, Marshall's p.o.v.

He was staring at the ceiling, bored out of his mind. During the day, the visit from his boss, the more pleasant one from Gaby Teller, and the coming and going of the doctor and nurses had provided some distraction but it was now nighttime and everything was quiet. He had tried to fall asleep for a while but the dull pain in his ribs and the persistent itch under the bandage on his leg were not helping. He was so bored that he briefly considered using the nurse call button, just to get some company, but he new the nurse would probably murder him. He sighed and closed his eyes, trying for the umpteenth time to make himself fall asleep. Without much conviction, he started conjuring up peaceful mental imagery: the lazy ebb and flow of the ocean on a summer day, dead leaves slowly falling to the ground, the gentle sound of the rain on a window, the crackling of a comforting fire in the chimney, the sound of the door being furtively cracked open…

He opened his eyes and made an effort to sit up. His visitor chose this moment to switch on the light. His eyes being used to the darkness, the sudden brightness blinded him and he groaned.

Thanks…

After a few seconds of furious blinking, he was finally able to identify his visitor. A doctor, judging by his attire. Something was odd though.

What's with the surgical cap and mask?..

He briefly wondered if the doctor had made a mistake and was in the wrong room but the man was looking at him intently and making no move to leave.

"Can I help you with something?"

He knew it was a strange thing to say to a doctor but the whole situation was strange. His visitor's scrutinizing stare was making him slightly uncomfortable. After a few seconds, the man spoke, his voice somewhat muffled by the mask.

"I'm here to give you your medication, Mr. Marshall."

"What, now? What kind of medication? Why didn't you send a nurse?"

"It will help you relax and go to sleep, Mr. Marshall."

The man now had his back turned to him and seemed to preparing something on a small table at the far end of the room.

Three questions, one answer. Not good…

The agent tensed up. None of this made sense. The doctor's visit in the middle of the night, the medication his other doctor had mentioned nothing about, the surgical attire, his visitor's unnerving silence… Marshall's instincts screamed at him to get out of the room, but in his condition, it wasn't really an option. He slowly reached for the call button by his bed and pressed it three or four times.

"It's not going to work, Mr. Marshall."

The man had apparently finished whatever he had been doing and was slowly stepping closer to the bed.

"What do you mean?", Marshall asked as he felt his heart perform a series of somersaults worth a perfect ten.

Instead of answering and before the agent had a chance to move, the man brutally grabbed him by the hair and tilted his head to the side, using his other hand to jab a needle into his neck, just below the angle of his jaw.

What the…?!

He opened his mouth to scream but his attacker covered it with a gloved hand, muffling his protests while at the same time maintaining his head firmly against the headboard. He started struggling but the man was strong and he was in no condition to fight. After a couple of minutes and to his surprise, the man released him and took a step back. He was now standing by the bed, watching him with curious, smiling eyes.

"What…what did you inject me with?", Marshall asked, his voice sounding unusually thick to his own ears.

He raised a trembling hand to his neck and realized with a rising feeling of panic that whatever the fake doctor had injected him with was starting to compromise his ability to coordinate his movements. Never mind his injuries, he needed to get out of there, fast. Gasping in pain, he tried to push himself off the bed. But as his feet touched the floor, his wounded leg gave out. The man caught him just before he collapsed and pushed him back onto the bed.

"Careful, Mr. Marshall, I shouldn't have to remind you that with the injuries you sustained, it's not a good idea to try to get out of bed."

The tone was mockingly chiding, playful with a barely concealed hint of cruelty. The man was enjoying himself. As the agent flopped uselessly on the bed, trying in vain to push himself up, he realized with a mounting feeling of dread that it was too late, he was now completely at the mercy of his attacker. The man carefully laid him flat on his back, took hold of his left arm and held it in front of his eyes, as if to examine it.

"Ah, good thing your wrists are already bruised, Mr. Marshall, it will make my work even easier.", he said, letting his arm drop back down and pulling something out of his coat pocket.

The man moved out of his field of vision and he let out a pitiful groan as he felt his arms being pulled back above his head. He heard familiar clicking sounds and felt cold metal close around his tender wrists.

No, please not again…

The man stepped back into his field of vision, considered him for a second then bent down over him so that his face was close to the agent's ear.

"Don't worry, everything's going to be fine. Just relax, Asher."

He tried to shout for help but his voice was weak. The man pressed a finger against his lips.

"Shh, don't bother trying, no one will hear you anyway. I made sure that we wouldn't be disturbed. I just want to have a little chat with the CIA agent who managed to infiltrate our organization. Congratulations, by the way. Sadly, my employers think that you should not be allowed to live so here is what's going to happen, you're going to tell me everything that you learned during your stay with us. It should be easy since you've probably already done it once for the benefit of your superiors. Then, I will kill you, Asher."

"I won't tell you anything… screw you and your organization."

He had meant to sound determined and aggressive but his weak voice and slightly slurred speech were ruining his performance.

"Well, if I'm completely honest, I was hoping you would say something along those lines. Because it gives me an occasion to engage in one of my favorite activities."

Asher Marshall closed his eyes wearily. It was not hard to guess the nature of that "favorite activity".

Come on…I don't deserve this…

He heard movement and, opening his eyes, realized that the man had left his field of vision again. He tried to raise his head but it felt as if it weighed a ton, as did the rest of his body. Only his heart seemed to have retained the ability to function normally, and it was hammering painfully against his damaged ribcage.

Killer's p.o.v.

Once he had made sure that Marshall was comfortable and knew what to expect, he took a moment to study his target. The agent was a nice specimen, in his late twenties, fit, not bad looking. The drug he had administered would keep him docile but he would still be able to think and talk, even if it took extra effort. And more importantly, the agent would be able to feel what he was about to do to him. He could tell Marshall was scared but was trying his best not to let it show. He particularly enjoyed it when his targets were field agents, they were usually tough guys and the fun lasted longer. For this assignment, his employer had been clear. He needed to make it look like Marshall's death was accidental, or "due to natural causes". Which meant that in order to torture him, he would have to work with the injuries the agent had already sustained and leave as few traces as possible. Perfect. He loved a good challenge. He retrieved Marshall's x-rays from the table where he had set them down earlier and stepped closer to the bed.

"Look what I found, Asher.", he said, holding the x-rays in front of the agent's face.

Calling his victims by their first name was one of his quirks. He had learned from experience that it was one of the simplest but most efficient ways to get the target's heart racing a bit faster.

"I've always found anatomy fascinating. It teaches you most of what you need to know to efficiently inflict pain on someone. Let's have a look at these, shall we?", he said, holding an x-ray up to the light. "Wow. That scientist guy really did a number on you… I don't know which one to pick. Let's see, right here, that's your fifth rib on your right side, quite a nasty fracture. How about we look for it together, Asher?"

He placed a gentle hand on the agent's chest and smiled as he saw panic flicker in his eyes. He could feel Marshall's frantic heartbeat under his palm and his smile widened. This was his favorite part, the moment just before he started inflicting pain, he could feel his victim's fear radiate from his body.

"Anything you would like to tell me before we start?"

"Go to hell."

Brave little agent…

He clamped his other hand over Marshall's mouth to stifle the screams he knew were coming. He could have used tape, or a gag, but he preferred this method, it was much more intimate and satisfying.

"Let's start from the bottom, shall we?"

He brought his hand just below Marshall's ribcage and lightly brushed his finger over his ribs as if he were counting them.

"…Seven, six, five. I think that's the one."

He paused and put on a fake sympathetic look.

"I won't torture you if you tell me what I want to know."

Of course Marshall knew he was lying. He could see it in his eyes. He gave a small chuckle, placed his fingers over the agent's fractured rib and pushed down, slowly. He smiled with sadistic pleasure as he heard Marshall's gasp of pain, muffled under his hand. He increased the pressure slightly, just enough to make the agent scream.

"See, Asher, that's the nice thing about broken ribs, they hurt so bad that it's easy to inflict excruciating pain without causing too much damage."

He waited a few more seconds, then he stopped applying pressure but kept his hand on his victim's chest.

"Hmm, I can tell you didn't like that. Shh, it's okay, just take a deep breath…or maybe don't."

He gave another chuckle. He was enjoying himself too much.

"You know, I don't have to do this again, Asher. Just tell me what I want to know and the pain will end."

He removed his hand from over the agent's mouth but from the look of determination in Marshall's eyes it was obvious that he wasn't ready to talk. Not that it really mattered to him. He was mostly torturing his target for his own amusement. He was paid to kill the agent, obtaining the information was just a bonus. He would prolong the fun for a little while, then he would kill Marshall and move on to his next target.

"Okay, let's pick another rib then!"

hospital, Sanders's p.o.v.

He nodded at the security guards as he entered the building and, despite the late hour they let him through without asking any questions. Adrian Sanders was one of those men who radiated that special type of confidence that comes with power. He had zero tolerance for incompetence, very little patience and was used to having his own way. Consequently, he hadn't thought twice about coming to the hospital in the middle of the night to wake up his injured agent and ask him some follow up questions. He had managed to get some information from Marshall during his visit, that morning, but his agent's doctor had insisted that he should rest and that further "questioning" could wait. But Sanders was growing impatient, he had questions and needed detailed answers and if it meant that his injured agent had to lose a few hours of rest, it was a sacrifice he was more than willing to make. The man was still working for him, after all. Even if he was hospitalized. He quickly made his way through the maze of corridors to Marshall's room. The area seemed quieter and deserted compared to the rest of the building. Good. He had known that he would have less chances of bumping into his agent's doctor during the night. He would just need to make sure he disabled his call button. As he got closer to the door, he thought he heard what sounded like a whimper. Good, that meant Marshall was already awake. He had his hand on the handle and was about to open the door when he heard another whimper, overlapping with a low voice. He cursed inwardly. Marshall was not alone. He silently cracked the door open and saw a white coat and a scrub cap. The doctor had his back turned to him and was bent over his agent's bed, apparently tending to him. Sanders rolled his eyes.

What's wrong with him now? A broken fingernail?

Whatever the doctor was doing to his agent, it sounded painful.

Very painful…

He frowned. Something was off. He had initially thought that Marshall was trying to hold back his cries of pain. But that wasn't it. It actually sounded like his agent was screaming in agony and someone or something was muffling his screams. He silently stepped closer to the bed and saw one of Marshall's legs twitch slightly. Then he spotted the handcuffs and stopped dead in his tracks. At that moment, the "doctor", who obviously doubled as a contract killer, seemed to sense his presence and turned around. In a second, Sanders's gaze jumped from the handcuffs to the man's face, covered by a surgical mask, to the man's hand clamped over his agent's mouth. He started reaching under his coat for his shoulder holster. As an agent handler, he rarely had a reason to quick draw his weapon these days, and time had slightly blunted his reflexes. Slow reflexes did not seem to be an issue for his opponent, however. The moment Sanders started reaching for the gun, the man grabbed a heavy medical tray and hurled it at him. He barely had the time to raise his arm to prevent the tray from hitting him square in the face. He grunted, then cursed, then finally managed to draw his weapon. He looked up in time to see the fake doctor charging at him with a scalpel. He squeezed off a round without taking the time to aim. He heard a satisfying groan of pain and the scalpel clattered to the floor but, carried by his momentum, the much larger man still crashed into him. The impact winded him and he lost his grip on the gun as he went down. Royally pissed off, but also acutely aware of his own mortality, he retrieved the gun and got to his feet much faster than he would have thought himself capable of. Not fast enough to take another shot at his opponent, though. The other man, probably younger and more agile, had not waited for him and had already disappeared out of the room. He rushed out in the corridor. Of course his aim was not to try and catch up with the killer. The man had already demonstrated that he was much faster than him. Instead, he went to the alarm panel on the wall and smashed his hand on the button. One wounded man and a facility full of CIA security, they probably wouldn't need his help for the chase. Holstering his gun, he stepped back into the room to check on Marshall. The young agent was conscious but his eyes had a slightly glazed look. Sanders started checking his agent's body for potential life-threatening wounds. He wasn't exactly sure what the killer had been doing to him and he knew that Marshall would need to be examined by a doctor – an actual doctor – but as far as he could tell, his agent seemed fine.

Well, at least not much worse than he was on my first visit…

"Do you think you're going to be okay, Marshall? Or should I send for someone to get you down to the morgue?"

"That won't be…necessary…Sir."

He noticed that his agent's speech was slightly slurred. The killer had probably drugged him to keep him docile. He briefly wondered how long Marshall's ordeal had lasted before he intervened. He gave and exasperated sigh. Even handling Solo had been less trouble.

"Good. Because I still have a couple of questions that need answers and I won't tolerate any more inconvenience."

Hospital, killer's p.o.v.

He heard the wail of the alarm and accelerated. He needed to get to his room, fast. Fortunately he had rehearsed this type of scenario in his mind a hundred times and he knew that there was little chance of bumping into guards in this part of the building. While he ran, he removed the mask, cap, gloves and the white coat and balled them up. He wasn't worried about the surveillance cameras. He had taken care of that earlier. The bullet fired by Sanders had grazed his arm. He kept the balled-up coat firmly pressed against the wound. He didn't want to leave a blood trail. The stinging pain was delightful but he knew he couldn't allow himself to be distracted by it. He would relish it later.

Marshall is still alive…

No. He couldn't afford to think about that now either. Still he could feel frustration building up inside him. He had been robbed of the satisfaction of killing his target.

Sanders…

He could have easily killed Marshall's handler. In fact he would have greatly enjoyed stabbing that scalpel into his eye and twisting the blade until there was nothing left but a bloody mess. Then a quick, precise stab between the ribs, or to the neck, to finish him off… But Sanders was simply not his target. In his line of work, discipline was key. As much as he hated the comparison, he had to be like a well-trained dog if he didn't want to end up unemployed, or dead. As anticipated, he reached his room without encountering anyone. He closed the door behind him and locked it. He needed to work fast if he didn't want to arouse suspicion. He pulled a suitcase from the closet and stuffed the white coat, mask, cap and gloves inside. He would dispose of those later. He removed his shirt and added it to the contents of the suitcase. Then he took a look at the wound on his arm. It was barely bleeding. The sight of his own blood sent a thrill through him. He wanted to press on the wound but he resisted the temptation. He opened a drawer and grabbed a piece of gauze and some tape. He quickly dressed the wound, put on a clean shirt and strapped on his shoulder holster. Then he unlocked the door and calmly stepped into the corridor.

Now, let's see if we can catch that dangerous individual…

Solo's hospital room, the next day, Napoleon's p.o.v.

Gaby and Illya had arrived early to warn Napoleon that Waverly would be holding some kind of informal meeting in his room that afternoon. What he had not been warned about, however, was that his ex-handler would be there too. As he watched the middle-aged, grumpy man follow Waverly into the room, the thought crossed his mind that if he had known, he would probably have ruptured his stitches on purpose just to be excused from that meeting. It wasn't that he hated his ex-boss. He just liked him better when he wasn't there.

"Solo, Kuryakin, Miss Teller…"

Waverly had his usual "we're-all-friends" smile on. He made formal introductions between Sanders and Gaby. Napoleon noticed that Sanders was looking at him with the usual mixture of contempt and disappointment.

Ah. How I have missed that look…

"So, I suppose you're all wondering what Mr. Sanders is doing here.", Waverly started. He didn't seem bothered by the fact that he was the only one smiling in the room. "Remember your new CIA playfellow, agent Asher Marshall? Well, Solo's former handler, Mr. Sanders here, happens to be Marshall's current handler. Charming coincidence, don't you think?"

Well, my condolences, agent Asher Marshall…

"Is everything okay with agent Marshall?", Gaby asked, and he noticed that she was nervously chewing her bottom lip.

Sanders proceeded to tell them how a killer, disguised as a doctor, hired by the organization they were investigating, had tortured and almost killed his agent in his hospital room during the night.

"We don't know how he managed to get to Marshall, we don't know how he managed to get out. The building was full of security guards, no one saw him, not even on the surveillance feed."

Napoleon raised an eyebrow.

"He's good."

"He's more than good, Solo. If I hadn't had too much work and a bad case of insomnia last night, Marshall would be dead and no one would be able to piece together what had happened. The thing is, I don't think the man will give up so easily. And since you were involved in Marshall's mission, even if it was unintentional, there is a risk that he might target you as well."

I'm sure you would be devastated, Sir…

"I'm afraid that means you will no longer be able to spend time alone with the nurses, Solo.", Waverly added with a small, falsely apologetic smile.

"Pity. I have to say I wouldn't mind getting handcuffed to the bed by one of them."

Napoleon grinned as he saw his former handler's mouth twist into a grimace of annoyance.

"I wonder how you can stand him.", Sanders said, turning to Waverly.

"I just happen to have a sense of humor.", the Englishman answered with a smile, shutting him up in typical Waverly fashion.

The meeting went on for a while, then Sanders left and the atmosphere in the room seemed to lighten.

"It was uncharacteristically nice of Sanders to warn you that your agents might be targeted. I never knew he had a sense of fair play."

"Well, don't forget that you are one of the CIA's assets, Solo. He still thinks of you as one of his little proteges. Besides, he wasn't only warning me that you, Kuryakin, or Miss Teller were potential targets. He was also suggesting that I use my agents as bait to capture the killer."

"Charming."

"I said I would think about it.", Waverly added, winking at them. "Apparently, that's what my colleague from the CIA intends to do with agent Marshall."

Napoleon saw Illya roll his eyes and Gaby resume her nervous lip-chewing.

One lucky fellow, that agent Marshall…

Unknown location, killer's p.o.v.

He took off his shirt and sat down on the bed. He could see a small dried blood stain on the bandage. He removed the tape and gauze, scratched off the coagulated blood and pressed on the skin around the wound to make it bleed. He took a moment to appreciate the stinging pain, then he dressed the wound again. He got up, grabbed the files and spread them out on the bed before him. The first one was Marshall's. He couldn't help but feel a pang of frustration as he read the agent's name. He couldn't wait to get another opportunity to kill him. He wanted to hear Marshall take his last breaths. He wanted to feel his heartbeat falter and stop. He wanted to see the light go out in his eyes. But he knew now was not the right time. Now that they knew Marshall was one of his targets, approaching him would be more difficult. The wisest course of action was to leave Marshall alone for a while and eliminate another target in the meantime. He let his gaze travel from one file to the next. Solo looked so smug in the photograph. Killing him would be fun. The girl he would dispatch quickly, female targets rarely represented a challenge. Kuryakin, now that was a different story. A thrill of excitement ran through him at the prospect of killing the KGB agent. His thoughts were interrupted by the ringing of the telephone. The sudden noise surprised him but not the call itself. He had known it would come, sooner or later. He picked up the receiver and listened without uttering a word. He was not supposed to talk. After a few minutes, the call ended and he made a conscious effort not to slam down the receiver and hurl the phone at the large mirror in front of him. Discipline. Apparently his employers had had a change of heart. He hated it when that happened. They didn't realize how hard it was to take your mind off a target once you had decided that they would die at your hands. He forced himself to calm down by pressing his fingers against the wound in his arm. After all, he knew his employers. And he knew it was only a matter of time before the hunt was on again. He gathered the files from the bed and returned them to his empty suitcase. He couldn't wait.

End of chapter 11 (and of the story, I swear :) )

Many thanks to Tamuril2 who suggested that Sanders join the story as Marshall's handler, it was really fun to write :)

(and thanks for the reviews on chapter 10 :) )