THE COUNTDOWN TO ANNIHILATION AFFAIR

Chapter 6

"That which does not kill me…will definitely kill you"

Having been given identity-disguising, albeit moth-eaten, clothing, complete with wintry hats to further hide them, Illya Kuryakin and Napoleon Solo were now working with three Russians whom, in decades past, they would've worked against. All of them concerned with stopping THRUSH's destructive use of stolen plutonium.

First, there was Dmitrij Zhamanklov, the Russian PSS sniper who had earlier stopped a potential "hit" on the two older U.N.C.L.E. agents at the safe house; second, there was a Russian-U.N.C.L.E. agent who just happened to be an exotically beautiful twenty-something woman with soft jet-black hair and softer green eyes. Not to mention a shapely body that, as far as the always appreciative womanizer Napoleon was concerned, was quite fetching. Even under so much wintry clothing.

"What did you say your name was again?" asked Napoleon as the four of them lumbered along in the back of a dirty, green KAMAZ 6x6 truck with fixed canvas covering to make traveling incognito that much easier. "And who'd you say was driving this truck?"

Having just ignited the end of a Sobranie Classic cigarette, its acrid smoke causing Napoleon to cough just a little, the lovely Russian's husky, heavily accented voice said, "My name is Yelena Aleksandra Kuznetchnia. The driver is my twin brother, Aleksandr. And ve are the ones saving your American asses. No offense Comrade Kuryakin."

"None taken," said Illya. "As a matter of fact, I am just as proud to be an American as I am of my Russian heritage. And, of course, proud to be an active operative with U.N.C.L.E."

"I'd better report in, Illya," said Napoleon, even as he reached into his trouser pocket and retrieved his pen. Then, with quick fluid motions of his free hand, swiftly transformed it into a pen communicator the likes of which Russian-U.N.C.L.E. Agent Yelena Aleksandra Kuznetchnia had never seen.

"Vhat is that, Comrade Solo?"

"This little thing?" said Napoleon with a furtive smile. "Just a communications device that, when first used by Illya and myself in the 60s and 70s, was considered cutting edge. I suppose its pretty archaic to you newer, younger U.N.C.L.E. agents."

"Vell," shrugged Yelena while fishing out her smallish flip-top cellphone the likes of which one could buy at any mall kiosk in America. "The U.N.C.L.E. headquarters in Moscow has issued these. Unlike publicly purchased cellphones, these are completely secure and make use of special satellite links so that communication can be had even in the frozen vastes of Siberia. But, I must admit, Comrade Solo, your 'pen communicator' is…intriguing."

As a sexually implied look passed between Yelena and Napoleon, he said into the pen communicator, "Open Channel D. Open Channel D."

Suddenly, before such transcontinental satellite contact could be established with the New York U.N.C.L.E. HQ…

BRRRRRROOOOOOMMMMMMM!

…an RPG, fired by a renegade Russian agent working with THRUSH, explosively impacted with the KAMAZ truck, shredding both green cab and lone driver, Aleksandr Kuznetchnia, into unrecognizable chunks of metal mingled with flesh, while also tossing the canvas-covered rear hundreds of feet into the chilled Russian air…

…as four passengers, Illya Kuryakin, Napoleon Solo, Yelena Aleksandra Kuznetchnia, and Dmitrij Zhamanklov, were hurled from within to tumble, bruised, bleeding, and unconscious, a thousand feet away from the partially-destroyed roadway.

Unknown hours later, Napoleon and Illya, both zip-tied securely to two straight-backed metal chairs, having been relieved of their Walther P38s and their pen communicators, slowly regained consciousness to be greeted by the sight of several XM8-armed THRUSH thugs standing guard with single bright-as-the-sun light shining down on them.

"Don't look now, my friend, but I think THRUSH may have the upper hand," said Napoleon via a hushed aside as Illya, who simply nodded.

"Well," Napoleon continued, "at least we don't have to worry about Andrew Vulcan this time. After destroying that laser weapon and their Canadian installation, he's not much more than dog food now."

"Quite amusing, gentlemen," said an oddly familiar, mostly to Napoleon, voice from the dimmer fringes of the singularly-illuminated room. A voice belonging to…

"Darien Driscoll," said Napoleon by way of verbal recognition, even as Illya sighed in tense realization. Then, with a more sarcastic tone, Napoleon added, "You've never looked more handsome, Mr. Driscoll. Does THRUSH have a new plastic surgeon?"

The half-smile, due to the fact only half a face remained, turned into a half-scowl as Darien made delivered a tooth-rattling backhanded blow with his black gloved hand against the side of Napoleon's lined-but-handsome face.

Bringing forth not only a trickle of dark blood, but a sudden grunt from the aging agent.

"That which does not kill me, Mr. Solo, will definitely kill you."

END OF CHAPTER 6