Delaney Cowl stared at her sometime partner with her jaw slightly dropped. "Say again."

Crawford Oxblood grinned at her, turning his gamin looks a bit scary as he did so. "The big boys from New York are here," he intoned in his horror posh accent. "And we're watchin' em. Boss says they's in trouble and need sittin'."

Del didn't know whether to be more horrified about her partner's badly mixed accent or the fact that the abominable Solo was in town. Not that Del had ever actually encountered the horrid American personally, but he was legendary on his treatment of women as playthings. "Why? Can't the golden boys manage on their own like they always do?"

"If they can't manage to get to Jamaica and end up here, maybe they're not so golden." Again with the drop jawed grin that forcibly reminded her of a dog she'd known.

"So, what are we doing?"

"We heads over to the hotel and keeps an eye on them."

"Right." She eyed his suit which he was under the impression was the latest Mod style. Frankly, she'd have preferred him in rocker leathers. She quickly wiped that image from her mind. It wasn't that Craw wasn't attractive, at six foot two and all lean whipcord muscle, most of which she'd seen at one time or another, he was more up her alley than she was comfortable with. But the insane mixtures of accent threw her right off. Good thing he couldn't keep his mouth shut, she might have been in trouble if he was the strong silent type.

The trip via taxi was a short one. The hotel was midrange. The lobby was a comfortable mix of wood and seating with small tables and access to the bar/restaurant easily observable. Of course, if your quarry doesn't come down to the lobby or bar or restaurant, it's difficult to keep an eye on them surreptitiously. Del made inquiry after Mr. Solo at the desk. The desk rang the room. No answer.

"Craw, we have a problem. They're not answering."

He checked his watch, one of those huge abominations that covered a good two and a half inches of the back of his wrist. "Out for breakfast?"

"Jet lag."

"In for … nyah, Solo'd never let the phone ring. Up we go?"

"Up we go."

The hallway was serene, deeply carpeted for maximum sound deadening. They walked to the door indicated and knocked. Craw supported the wall with his shoulders, arms crossed, fingers of his left hand within easy reach of the gun holstered under his right arm. Del knocked again. She shot a look up and down the corridor when silence met her ears again. With a deft touch, she neatly picked the lock on the door and pushed it open, her Beretta openly in her hand as she did so. "Mr. Solo? Mr. Kuryakin?"

Her voice echoed in the empty room. Craw followed her in, pushing the door to behind them. The room was immaculate, empty.

"Tell me we didn't just Raffles the wrong room," Craw asked, nearly dropping all pretense to any accent.

Del, stepping into the bathroom, shook her head. All was in order, except the damp towel in the provided hamper. "No. They've been here." Working in unison, they expertly checked the room for signs of what happened to the two senior agents. While the room had been made up again, the people responsible had left some evidence behind. The pillows were not pristine; wrinkles from a head lying against the percale case showed that someone had slept here. So did the stray dark hairs on one pillow and pale blond on the other.

"Crap." Del's reaction was succinct as she pulled out one of the new style pen communicators. "Open Channel F, this is Cowl." Shortly she was in contact with her boss. "They're gone. Oxblood's checking with staff to see if anyone noticed. Room's been emptied and straightened. Missed mopping out the shower and left hair on the pillows, other than that, complete straighten up." A corner of paper caught her eye as she perched on the corner of the built in chest of drawers. Trapped under the wastebasket was a sheet of paper with the itinerary on it. "Any reason they'd have booked a flight to Blackpool?"

MFUMFUMFUMFUMFUMFU

Illya became aware of the motion of a vehicle swaying around him as it tooled through traffic. The rough feel of rope around his wrists came into focus. He opened his eyes a slit to see Napoleon, also tied up, lying on a thick chunk of carpet near him. Carefully, he tested the rope. Damn. Not tight enough to cut off circulation, but definitely in the "I could use a knife to cut this" category. From what he could see of his partner's wrists, Napoleon was equally well secured. .

He took his time looking about the inside of the vehicle. Apparently it was a van of some sort, the rear completely separate from the cab area. On the down side, there was no way to see their captors. On the up side, neither could the drivers see them.

"Napoleon." No response. Whatever they'd been given to knock them out was still at work, which was a little odd. With Napoleon's greater height and mass, he was usually the one to awaken first. Illya rolled over and moved toward his partner until he could get his nimble fingers on the rope securing his wrists. It took a few moments, but then he had Solo's wrists freed. If he could just get him to wake up now.

He pulled the other man onto his back and shook him. Still no response. Leaning against Napoleon, Illya levered himself up into a more seated position to get a look at what other damage might have been inflicted. As Napoleon's head lolled over to the right, he noticed fresh blood on the agent's neck. Nothing much, but an injection site just over the carotid might explain why the man was still unconscious. He leaned forward to get a better look. Twin punctures spaced just about the width of a human jaw from canine to canine.

"Nyet!" he denied his first thought explosively. "There are no vampires!"