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section7mfu2015-08-08 11:45 am
highshore.livejournal.com) wrote in section7mfu2015-08-08 11:45 am
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THE EXPLOSIVE AFFAIR
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highshore at THE EXPLOSIVE AFFAIR
highshore at THE EXPLOSIVE AFFAIRAnother MFU story, which takes on from "Troubles at Vanya's". The OC Stephanie is back, but this time she will drag Illya and Napoleon into a very... explosive affair!
Once again, a million thanks to Glennagirl for her patient editing.
It was 2:00 pm on a Friday afternoon at the House of Vanya, and Illya Kuryakin was regretting - for the hundredth time - his decision to work in the fashion industry when he left UNCLE, ten years before. The end of the day was still a few hours away, and he had already depleted all his energies and his patience. Both his models and his customers were driving him crazy, and today they seemed to share the same need to annoy him in every possible manner.
He was shouting some last-minute instructions to one of his models, who was too busy complaining about something meaningless to listen to him, when he heard his secretary call him from his office.
"Illya, you have a private call. It sounds urgent, too."
A private call? To his office? That was so unusual, that Illya ran to pick up the phone.
"Hello?"
A very familiar voice answered, "Illya? It's Stephanie."
A large smile lit the Russian's face.
"Stephanie! It's been a long time. I thought you were abroad on a mission." She replied in a very anxious tone. "No, I'm in town, but I'm also in trouble, Illya. Big trouble."
His smile disappeared instantly, replaced by a worried expression. "What's the matter, Steph?"
"My team and I chased some suspects into a warehouse in Harlem, but we discovered that the whole place is rigged with explosives. The other two agents are dead, caught in booby traps, and I'm probably next. I'm standing in the middle of a room, and I don't dare make a move because I'm afraid to step on some trigger."
Illya's blood went cold as Stephanie continued.
"Illya, both the police and UNCLE bomb squads are busy on a top-priority call downtown. I hate to expose you to a risky situation, but I remember your file; you're an explosives expert, so maybe you could come over here and defuse these."
A top-priority mission meant that the number of potential victims was high. Stephanie was just one agent, and she had no precedence.
The Russian knew that Stephanie had to be terror-stricken to call him, and her next sentence confirmed it.
"I'm really scared, Illya."
As was he, but he needed her to stay calm, so he spoke in what he hoped was a soothing voice.
"All right, Stephanie, just remain calm and don't move. Give me the address." He jotted down the address the woman gave him.
"Make sure you don't move or touch anything. I'll be right there."
As soon as he hung up, he darted outside his office, shouting to his secretary,
"I have an emergency. Cancel all my appointments for today." She started to protest, but he cut her off, barking a sharp reply.
"No buts. Just do it." The secretary closed her mouth, taken aback by the Russian's unusually abrupt tone.
Illya was glad he had decided to take his motorbike that morning. He often preferred it to his car when the weather was nice, since the New York traffic badly aggravated his already worn out nerves. He quickly put his helmet and leather jacket on, ignited the powerful bike and sped into the thick traffic, easily dodging the slowly moving cars.
The blond rode frantically, not caring about red lights and stop signs, followed by a chorus of angry honks and shouted insults.
He was glad he had to concentrate on his dangerous driving rather than thinking about Stephanie, vulnerable and surrounded by explosives.
Shortly after meeting the attractive female UNCLE agent they shared a few dangerous but exciting days; Illya and his partner Napoleon Solo helped her defeat a gang of drug dealers. He was stabbed by her ex-partner, a man who betrayed the agency and eventually tried to kill the three agents, failing at that task. In spite of the circumstances and the continuing danger, the Russian had grown very fond of Stephanie but never had the opportunity to explore their dawning relationship. Stephanie was sent to South America on a mission before he was released from hospital, and that was three months ago. He had looked forward to seeing her again, but not under such dreadful circumstances.
The closer he got to Harlem the thinner the traffic became, allowing Illya to approach his destination earlier than expected, but not soon enough for his ticking mental clock. Even if Stephanie didn't step on a booby trap he knew that the place could contain some timed bombs, and he also knew that timers were rarely set on more than thirty minutes.
He relaxed slightly when he turned the last corner and made visual contact with his destination. But before he even had a chance to slow down, an explosion shattered all the front windows. Glass splinters were sent flying all over the street, and the shock wave almost threw him off his bike.
Terrified, he came to a screeching halt, jumped off his bike and frantically ran inside the devastated warehouse.
His old training kicked in as soon as he stepped inside, and he forced himself to slow down and look for traps. He was able to defuse three bombs, all the while calling out Stephanie's name, when he saw something laying on the ground approximately ten feet from where he stood. It looked like a bunch of discarded clothes, but then he saw the coppery hair and recognized Stephanie's curled up body and the awful amount of rapidly spreading red stains. It took all his resolve not to run to her side, but he moved slowly, watching for more explosive traps. When he finally reached the battered body, he knelt down and gently rolled her onto her side. His voice trembled when he called her name.
"Stephanie?"
No response. Her eyes were closed and she was completely limp. Illya felt for a pulse, and let out a sigh of relief when he detected a heartbeat, albeit weak. He removed his jacket and placed it under her head, then stood up and looked around in search of a phone. It had to be somewhere near, for he clearly instructed Stephanie not to move when she called him. After a few seconds he found it on the ground a few feet from a knocked-over desk. Still moving with painstaking caution, he reached the telephone and dialed 911. After quickly explaining the situation and giving the warehouse address, he hung up and went back to Stephanie, eager to remove her from that dangerous place. He gently picked her up and quickly made his way out of that dreadful warehouse.
Illya could not bear to look at her bruised face. It was covered with cuts and contusions, and was awfully pale. Her whole body was bleeding from countless wounds, where the burning shrapnels were viciously biting the soft skin.
The Russian was grateful Stephanie was unconscious; he could not imagine how painful her wounds were. He could not stand the thought of Stephanie in pain. Since the very first day they met, he felt fiercely protective of her, probably because the circumstances were very similar: she was wounded, and unconscious. The only difference was that this time her injuries were much more serious, and she was barely alive.
When safely away from the building, Illya crossed the street for good measure, sitting on the sidewalk and gently cradling Stephanie on his lap, mentally urging the ambulance to rush. When the paramedics arrived, he instructed them to call the police bomb squad and informed them of the two dead UNCLE agents that were still inside the warehouse.
He wanted to climb into the ambulance with Stephanie, but the paramedics didn't allow him, so he was forced to follow the vehicle on his motorbike, desperately trying not to think about the injured woman who, a few feet in front of him, was fighting for her life.
When they reached the hospital, after what felt like hours for Illya but was actually less than fifteen minutes, he hurriedly parked the bike on a sidewalk and ran inside, following the stretcher.
Once again he was stopped outside the ER room, and was told to sit down in the waiting room; the doctors promised to inform him of Stephanie's condition as soon as they knew anything. Approximately thirty minutes later a doctor came out of the swinging doors and approached him.
"Are you a relative of the woman with the shrapnel wounds?"
Illya hastily stood up.
"No, I'm just a friend. How is she?"
"Not good, but we stabilized her. Her conditions are still critical, but if she makes it through the night, then she should be out of danger."
"Can I see her?" The doctor shook his head. "No, I'm sorry, she's in intensive care, no visitors are allowed there. As soon as her conditions improve we will move her to a regular room."
"What if her condition worsens?"
"Then we will call you immediately. You can either stay here or give us your phone number and go home."
"I'll stay here, thank you." Illya said resolutely, sitting down and crossing his arms. He was not going to stay away from Stephanie if her conditions were so critical. It was bad enough that they didn't let him see her.
The doctor just shrugged his shoulders and left. Illya wriggled on the uncomfortable chair and prepared himself for a long and difficult night.
Napoleon Solo was playing at the roulette table, surrounded by two stunningly beautiful women, and he was winning a lot of money. An awful lot. At every turn of the little white sphere he doubled his bet, and every time he won. And every time the girls kissed him. One of them seductively leaned closer to his ear, and whispered...
"RIIIIING!!!!"
Solo fumbled with his sheets, groping blindly for the telephone. He mumbled in the receiver, "Who the hell is this?"
RIIIIING!!!!"
Belatedly he realized that the offending device was not his telephone, but the interphone. He forced himself out of bed and hastily went to his luxury suite's expansive living room. He picked up the receiver and barked into it.
"Do you realize it's Saturday morning and it's..." he quickly glanced at his watch, disbelievingly. "For God's sake, it's seven o'clock!"
The doorkeeper's voice was apologetic. "I know, Mr. Solo. I remember you asked not to be disturbed before ten o'clock during weekends, but the gentleman here is quite... resolute." Solo's brain cleared immediately in reaction.
"What's his name?"
"Kuryakin." Napoleon sighed.
"Let him up, thank you."
He barely had the time to wash his face and put on his dressing gown before he heard a muffled knock at the door. When he opened it he was ready to bite his friend's head off for waking him up at such an ungodly hour, but Illya's face stopped him in his tracks.
"My God, Illya. What's the matter? You look terrible."
The Russian just said, in a very coarse voice, "Stephanie." Solo's blood went cold.
"What... what about her?"
Kuryakin walked wearily to a comfortable looking armchair and sagged into it.
"She got caught in an explosion, along with two other men."
"Is she...?" Solo couldn't find the courage to finish the question.
"No. She's still alive. But she's the only survivor, and she's badly injured. I just got back from the hospital. Her conditions didn't worsen during the night, so she's supposed to be out of danger now, but she hasn't regained consciousness yet."
Napoleon put a comforting hand on his friend's shoulder.
"I'm so sorry, Illya. I know what she means to you. You must be going through hell."
"It's nothing compared to what the person who did this to her will go through." Illya’s cold tone was familiar to Solo; it meant big troubles for the receiving end of the Russian's wrath.
He asked: "Do you know who the bomber is?"
"No, but I intend to find out. Do you feel like joining me, Napoleon? Judging by the reaction to her investigations, I think Stephanie got in the way of someone very dangerous and ruthless. I might use some help."
Solo smiled reassuringly. "Of course I will help you, Illya. I was actually getting pretty bored, lately. I'll welcome a change of pace."
Kuryakin's thankful look was worth more than a thousand words to Solo, who could not bear to see his friend in such a distraught mood.
They had met again just three months before, after fifteen years of complete mutual silence, both too busy carrying out their new lives. And these new lives were so different from the years of UNCLE, difficult for two men who were used to living dangerously and somehow uncomfortable without it. Stephanie reunited them, and gave them the chance to refuel their friendship by involving them both in an adventure that forced them back into action. They both had to admit that they had enjoyed the little break from their ordinary, stressful lives. Since then they occasionally met and caught up with each other, successfully reestablishing the trusting relationship they once shared.
So now Solo jumped at the opportunity to both help his overwrought friend and to once again plunge into some real action. He asked the Russian: "Do you have a plan?"
"As a matter of fact, I do. When I was rescuing Stephanie, I had to defuse three explosive devices, and I had a chance to get a good look at them. I recognized one of the detonator's manufacturer. There's only one supplier in town that provides that specific type, and I know who that is."
Solo commented: "Great! Give me half an hour and then we'll go talk to the gentleman."
The Russian complained at that. "Half an hour? Napoleon, you take longer than a woman to get ready!"
Solo protested his friend’s complaint. "Hey, you already deprived me of a few hours' sleep; you don't expect me to skip my breakfast too, do you? Besides, I know you, and I'm sure you haven't had anything to eat since yesterday. Or have you?"
Illya's stomach rumbled loudly in response, and Solo commented drily, "That's what I thought."
_____________
They decided to move independently, so Illya, who was still riding his powerful bike, reached his destination ten minutes before his friend. He took advantage of that extra time to check the faces that were getting in and out of the thrift shop he was watching.
As soon as Napoleon arrived and parked his car in a nearby spot, the two men waited until all customers had left the shop, then entered the premises. Illya went straight to the counter, while Napoleon locked the door and turned the "Open" sign to the "Closed" side.
The owner, a short and balding man in his fifties, was quick to challenge the move.
"Hey, what do you think you're doing? I cannot afford to lose any customers."
The Russian reached over, grabbed the man by the collar and unceremoniously pulled him over the counter, growling his response.
"We are all the customers you need today."
The shopkeeper knew a dangerous man when he saw one, and the blond looked also very angry, a lethal combination. He just shut up and listened to his requests.
Illya pulled a device out of his pocket and showed it to the man, asking him in a growling voice,
"I know for a fact that you are the only supplier in town who sells this type of detonator. Don't even bother to deny it. I want to know who you sold it to as of late."
The man hesitated, and Illya continued, purposely thickening his Russian accent.
"Next time I won't ask as politely. Next time I will show you how we convince stubborn people back in Siberia. I don't think you will like those methods; they tend to leave permanent scars, oth outside and inside."
Maybe it was the Russian's cold voice, maybe his even colder eyes or maybe his barely checked wrath; the shopkeeper decided that it was not in his best interest to challenge the blond man. So he said, in a very low voice.
"His name is Harry."
Illya shook him till his teeth chattered. "Harry what?" The man’s voice sounded desperate.
"I don't know his last name. Just Harry."
The Russian growled again. "You're not being very helpful. I will be forced to..."
The man cringed, and hastily added, "No, wait! I know where you can find him."
Illya's hold relaxed slightly. "That's better. Where?"
"He goes to the Irish Pub down on Wood Drive every day at five p.m. for a shot of whiskey."
The Russian's voice dropped: "You realize that if you're lying you will never see your grandchildren?"
"What grandchild...? Oh."
He nodded, gulping. Illya released him, went to the telephone and pulled the chord until it snapped out of the socket. Then he gestured Napoleon, who handcuffed the man to a floor-to-ceiling metal rack. The shopkeeper protested. "Oh, come on, do you really need to do that?"
Napoleon feigned a conspiratorial whisper. "Shush. You don't want to make him angrier than he already is, do you?" Resignedly, the man just shook his head, looking subdued.
The two former UNCLE agents left the shop looking inconspicuous, heading to their respective means of transportation. Illya, straddling his motorbike, was the first to speak.
"I will wait for this Harry inside the pub. You just keep an eye on the door; I will follow him as soon as he leaves, and you will follow me. If everything goes as planned, you are not to reach me until midnight. Under any circumstance. Will you stick to the plan, Napoleon?"
Solo nodded glumly and got in his car, hoping that his friend would not behave too recklessly, as he used to do when an assignment had personal repercussions.
Five minutes later, he parked in front of the pub, switched the engine off and prepared to keep watch.
Illya walked into the pub, sat in front of the counter and waited patiently for five o'clock and his prey to arrive. At ten past five a man entered the pub and went to the counter, stopping frequently to say hello to many of the patrons. Illya heard one of them calling him Harry, and that confirmed that it was indeed his man.
He waited, unnoticed, until his target finished his glass of whiskey, said goodbye to his friends and left. He counted to ten, then he got up, leaving the money on the table, and swiftly followed him outside. He saw him getting into a sedan parked about twenty feet away, so he straddled his motorbike and prepared to follow him. When he began his pursuit, he knew that Solo was just a few cars behind him, covering his back.
Illya wasn't trying to be particularly inconspicuous in his pursuit. He knew that his bike would help him follow his prey, but it also was more visible than an anonymous car. He was actually counting on it. He rode for approximately twenty minutes, heading to an area of the city that he knew was controlled by dangerous gangs.
When his man stopped and parked the car in front of a building guarded by what looked like two Mister Universe contestants, he dismounted his bike and pretended being busy checking the engine. The man called Harry got out of his car and entered the building; Illya could see that he was about to be politely invited to join the party. Within minutes another pair of brawny gentlemen materialized behind him and grabbed him unceremoniously, prompting him to put up a pretty convincing fight, taking a couple of punches without returning the favor. He feigned unconsciousness and let the two men drag him inside the building. Still limp in their shovel-shaped hands, he waited until they laid him on the floor and tied his wrists behind his back.
"Do you want us to wake him up, Harry?" A deep voice answered.
"Please."
Illya was expecting to receive a bucket of water on his face, instead a vicious kick to his stomach knocked the wind of out him. He rolled on his side, moaning. The man called Harry spoke, his voice cold and unemotional.
"I have only three questions: Who are you? Why did you follow me from the bar? Who are you working for?"
Illya's only answer was a defiant look that triggered the man's anger. He motioned the other two men, who grabbed the blond, lifted him from the ground and kept him upright, while their boss started to repeat his questions in the same flat tone of voice, each of them punctuated by a vicious blow to the Russian's midsection or face when he failed to supply an answer.
If the following hours were very hard for Illya, they were no piece of cake for Napoleon either, who spent them constantly forcing himself not to get out of his car, dispose of the two guards and rush inside the house to help his friend.
He knew he had to stick to the plan, but he didn't have to like it. He hated the thought of Illya in the hands of those ruthless people, especially because he was perfectly aware that his Russian ex partner was particularly gifted in enraging his captors with his stubbornness, his defying attitude and his quick-witted remarks. The only thing he could do until the agreed time was hope that his reckless friend was still alive.
So it was a very impatient and determined Napoleon Solo who stealthy and efficiently subdued the two hefty guards at midnight. He exploited his never forgotten UNCLE agent's experience to get rid of the younger and stronger men, smugly smiling at himself after leaving them unconscious on the ground, effectively tied and gagged to prevent untimely alarms.
Once inside, he quickly took his bearings, heading for what a staircase leading downstairs. He only had to dispose of one other man on his way to help his friend; he was counting on the fact that the security measures would be quite slack during the night shift.
He rapidly spotted a locked door in what looked like the building's cellar. It had a small glass rectangle that allowed him to peek inside. He immediately noticed the curled up form of Illya's battered body. He could see the bruises on his friend's face even from where he stood looking in. When he unlocked the door and entered the room, crouching beside Illya's limp form, he winced when he noticed how badly hurt he was.
One side of his face was turning an angry shade of purple. His nose sported a dried streak of blood and his lips were swollen and chapped. And, judging by his curled up position, he probably had a few cracked ribs, too.
He cursed under his breath, vowing retribution on the man who inflicted such inhumane treatment on his friend. When he gently touched the Russian's arm and tried to move him to have a better look at his wounds, a quiet moan of pain escaped the battered man's lips.
Napoleon sighed: "Oh, Illya. Once again you managed to get more than you bargained for."
He was not expecting an answer, but surprisingly enough the Russian opened his eyes and croaked: "It worked, didn't it?"
Solo was torn between feeling happy because his friend was conscious and evidently not too seriously hurt, and feeling angry at his hopeless recklessness. He settled for a hissed remark: "Damn, Illya, your Russian shell might not hold for long. Or have you forgotten you're not thirty anymore?"
Kuryakin's crooked smile drew a few more drops of blood from his cracked lips.
"Right now I feel like I'm eighty, my friend. Help me up, will you?"
With Napoleon's help, he painstakingly stood, leaning heavily on his friend for support, his cracked ribs sending shots of pain to his nerves.
They slowly moved to inspect the other rooms of the cellar. Just as they expected, one of them was locked, which meant that it probably contained something valuable. Or dangerous. Napoleon let Illya leaning against the wall, and skillfully applied a few drops of a transparent liquid from a small bottle he had in his pocket. As soon as the liquid touched the lock, the metal started smoking and quickly dissolved.
Illya commented: "Wow. Can I borrow it for later on?"
Napoleon smirked: "Sorry, tovarich, I only have enough for two locks, so you cannot waste it on Harry's face."
He missed the Russian's mumbled answer, too busy watching the content of the room in awe. There were probably a hundred wooden cranes, each full of different kinds of explosive substances, judging from the names printed on the sides.
Solo let out a long, low whistle. "Dear goodness. This stuff could blow up a full neighborhood into kingdom come."
When he turned to look at Illya's face, he noticed that his friend was very much torn between dread and reverence.
He scolded him: "Stop looking like a child let loose in a toy shop. This changes our plans."
Kuryakin had to shake himself to overcome the sight of so many explosives. "It sure does. We certainly cannot get rid of this stuff by blowing it up as we were planning to. We would turn the whole area into ashes."
"So what do you propose?"
After a few seconds, the Russian's mouth twitched in a wicked grin. "I think I have a plan B."
Solo commented glumly: "I don't like that smile. It usually means troubles for all parties involved."
"If your famous luck holds, my friend, troubles will fall only on the bad guys, one in particular."
Napoleon's curiosity was now piqued: "Tell me what you have in mind."
While the Russian was explaining his plan, Solo's face broke into a broad smile, too.
Harry was abruptly shaken awake by one of his men, who was holding his head as if he had been recently hit.
"Boss, wake up. We've got a problem."
The haze in Harry's head cleared up immediately. "What?"
"The prisoner, the Russian. He got out of his cell somehow. He's gone."
Harry jolted out of his bed, frantically grabbing his trousers and wiggling into them quickly. "You've got to be kidding. How the hell did he get out?"
"We don't know, boss. He knocked all the men on shift unconscious."
"You're a bunch of incompetent fools, that's what you are." Harry growled angrily.
The two rushed downstairs, where all the other men had gathered, looking bewildered and waiting for instructions.
The door to the Russian's cell was open, and the prisoner was nowhere to be seen.
On a sudden hunch, Harry glanced at the explosives deposit, and noticed that the door was not completely locked. He hastily swang the door open, and what he saw turned his blood into ice. A row of detonators was standing in the middle of the room. The wires ran in a perfect radius and disappeared among the crates of explosives. Gulping noisily, Harry forced himself to approach the devices, and he immediately saw the threatening, blinking timers all set on thirty minutes.
He rapidly examined the circuits, immediately realizing that the Russian had taken the precaution of changing the order of the wires, so he had no hopes of figuring out which one he had to cut in order to stop the timer without triggering the explosions. And probably every detonator had a different sequence, so even if he managed to defuse one of them, the other five would be impossible to defuse within thirty minutes.
Harry yielded to panic and ran out of the room yelling, "Get out of here, all of you. The whole deposit is going to explode in half an hour. It will blow up the whole neighborhood. Get in the cars and run as fast as you can. Move, move!"
All the men scattered, running wildly. Harry didn't even stop to grab his belongings, for fear of being left behind by his panicking men. All he cared about was getting hold of a car and speeding away from that deadly trap.
Illya and Napoleon cautiously peeked out of their hiding place behind one of the crates. Once they made sure that everybody had fled, they ran upstairs and started searching the place. They rapidly and efficiently browsed all the documents that looked important, and soon Napoleon found a very interesting piece of paper. He called to his partner saying, "What do you make of this, Illya?"
The Russian looked at the paper. The letterhead sported the stylized head of a fox. He read the words aloud.
"The Foxy Lady will be ready to depart on Sunday at 7:00 am. Bring the parcel."
Napoleon calculated out loud. "Today is Sunday, and now it's 4:00 am, so we still have time, but where and what might this Foxy Lady be?" When he looked at his friend, he noticed that he was a shade paler than usual.
"Illya? What's wrong?"
"Napoleon, don't you see?" Bewildered, Solo asked, "See what?"
"This is the drawing of a fox, and the name mentioned on the paper is Foxy Lady. You do know the French word for fox, Napoleon."
Solo shook his head. "Actually, you are so critical of my accent, I'm not going to say it."
Planting his blue eyes into his friend's chocolate ones, Illya said, in a droll voice: "The French word for fox is renard."
Solo mumbled: "Damn. That son of a bitch is involved in all this."
"If Renard is involved, I bet that the parcel mentioned in this note is a drug delivery." Solo nodded. "I agree. Now we've got to figure out what Foxy Lady means." The Russian read the note again, considering.
"Look at this, Napoleon. It says the Foxy Lady. Why the article?"
Solo's mouth opened in a smile. "You know, tovarich, I think you've got it!"
Kuryakin looked baffled.
"I have?"
"They used the article in front of the name because it's a vessel."
"A boat?"
"Yes! It's got to be."
Kuryakin mumbled, "I hope you're right, Napoleon, because we have only one shot at it."
Solo grabbed his partner's arm and dragged him out. "Let's go. We'll be at the harbor in half an hour."
Before leaving the place, though, they called the police and told them to come and collect a huge amount of explosives, also mentioning the fact that they might even catch the criminals, who would undoubtedly come back once they realized that the explosions hadn't gone off.
They both got into Napoleon's car, for Illya's ribs were hurting too much for riding his bike. Solo's driving badly aggravated the pain, but the Russian just clenched his teeth and did not complain, because he knew that time was of the essence. He wanted to catch Renard, with whom he had a score to settle. Two, actually. Not mentioning the fact that he just hated drug dealers.
They reached the harbor in less than thirty minutes and, without even bothering to park the car, they bolted out of it and walked as fast as Illya's ribs allowed him. Napoleon, shoving his old UNCLE badge in the face of the bewildered security guard, asked him where the Foxy Lady was and, after a quick check on the harbor’s logs, he got the pier number of the boat. Illya looked at him, his eyes smiling; they were right, it was indeed a boat!
They approached the vessel much more cautiously, their weapons drawn, ready to face Renard and his men. But they never met anyone and the boat looked quite empty. They looked at each other, unsure of how to proceed. Napoleon turned to his partner.
"What do you make of it, Illya?"
The Russian looked suspicious. "I don't like it, Napoleon, not one bit. It looks like a trap."
Solo nodded. "I agree. The question is: a trap for whom?"
Kuryakin expressed his thoughts aloud: "There's no way Renard had enough time to set a trap for us. I'm pretty sure Harry didn't even bother to tell him about our little stunt; he was in such a hurry to leave the rigged house, he barely took the time to put his trousers on!"
"So you think this is a trap for him? But why would Renard want to get rid of his own factotum?"
"Maybe he's getting unreliable. He didn't strike me as the overly efficient type. He certainly let us get to him pretty fast."
Solo asked: "So, what do you suggest?"
Illya looked at him with a thunderous expression in the blue eyes. "I suggest you hide somewhere and wait for Renard to show up, while I get on that boat and defuse the explosives I'm sure are in there. I will then wait for whoever gets onboard and arrest him."
Napoleon looked at him suspiciously. "I don't like your plan, Illya. What if it's not him but them? You will be alone in there."
The Russian smiled warmly at his friend. "I will not be alone, tovarich, you will be watching my back."
Solo shook his head. "I still don't like it, Illya. I think your plan is too dangerous."
"I'm sorry you don't agree, Napoleon, but I really want to get my hands on those bastards. I have a score to settle."
Solo knew that he could not make his stubborn friend change his mind when he was driven by revenge, so he resigned himself to back up his reckless plan once again, and watched unhappily as Illya boarded the boat. He decided to hide in the luxurious yacht moored beside the Foxy Lady.
Kuryakin silently got onboard and, moving stealthier than a cat, searched the boat. As expected, the vessel was empty, but he found many booby traps, all connected to a remotely-controlled detonator. Evidently Renard didn't want to get his hands dirty and planned to trigger the bombs from some remote location. He still had to know when Harry - or the intended victim - was onboard, though, so he had to be watching from somewhere near. Illya was counting on Napoleon's instincts to find Renard, hoping that his friend's attention wasn't too distracted by worry.
Once he was sure he had defused all the explosives onboard, he hid behind the tender and thought about a nice "welcome" to the man who almost killed his Stephanie, the only woman who managed to stir something inside him, something that had been insensitive for too long. While he waited, he tried not to think about her laying unconscious on that hospital bed, her amazing green eyes closed, without knowing if he would have the chance to see them open again. He was so scared she would not survive, he decided that if she made it out of that hospital bed, he would tell her about his feelings, even if he wasn't so sure she indeed reciprocated them. They never had a chance to talk, her job always taking precedence, but now he would not let that happen again; he would take her on a nice, long trip and enjoy her company without having to worry about somebody trying to shoot, stab or blow them up.
While he was planning his much-deserved romantic vacation, he heard someone get onboard. By the sound of it, it seemed to be just one man, but he peeked out of his hiding place for good measure. He was right: Harry was there, alone, carrying a package wrapped in brown paper, and looking around suspiciously. He waited while the man went to the lower deck, then got out of his shelter and followed him surreptitiously.
In the meantime, Napoleon hadn't missed Harry board the boat, and started to thoroughly inspect the area with a pair of binoculars he found on the yacht where he was hiding. He knew that Renard had to be somewhere not too far from the Foxy Lady, because if he really was about to blow up his own lieutenant, then he certainly didn't trust anybody else to carry out his death sentence.
It took less than expected to spot him; he was sitting inside a car parked at the marina's parking lot, directly facing the ocean.
He saw Renard push a button on what positively looked like a remote detonator, but that sight didn't worry Napoleon; he was so confident that his partner had thoroughly cleared the boat of all the explosives, that when he saw the Foxy Lady blow up in a deafening detonation, his brain refused to acknowledge what his eyes were witnessing.
Napoleon barely had the time to duck to avoid the lethal shrapnel that was flung by the explosion, damaging all the surrounding vessels. He had closed his eyes, but he could still see the flames that were devouring what little remained of the Foxy Lady.
When he dared peek out of his shelter, his heart sank at the appalling sight; there was no way Illya could have survived that inferno. He knew that he was in the lower deck when the boat blew up, so he didn't even have a chance to jump off board in time. Solo did look with his binoculars at the surrounding waters in search of his friend, or whatever was left of him, but in his heart he knew that his hopeless search would not yield any results. Illya had got caught in the deadly trap set for Harry.
But Napoleon would not let his friend's death go unavenged; he would get his hands on that ruthless son of a bitch who killed Illya. He darted out of the yacht and ran to the parking lot like a haunted man.
Renard had got out of the car and was watching the fire with a wicked smirk on his unpleasant face. He didn't see Solo until it was too late: the former UNCLE agent never broke his dead run and slammed him against his own car, stunning him. Renard's knees buckled and he slowly slid to the ground, but Napoleon was far from satisfied; he kneeled on the man's torso and started punching him madly, shouting incoherently, eyes blurred with tears that he didn't even realize were rolling down his cheeks.
The whole day was like a nightmare for Napoleon. He almost felt like a man walking in his sleep. He vaguely remembered the marina's security guard trying to prevent him from killing Renard with his bare hands, the policemen interrogating him and trying to get a coherent picture out of his jumbled account. He remembered standing on the pier, glumly observing the divers who were looking for human remains in the waters surrounding the blown-up yacht, and finding them. But what was left was well beyond recognition, so they didn't even let him near them, and he was very grateful for that.
Whenever he closed his eyes, he could hear Illya's voice telling him that he felt safe knowing that Napoleon was watching his back. Well, he had utterly failed watching his friend's back, and now Illya was dead. Along with a part of him that held all those fond memories of his life at UNCLE.
He remembered eventually being summoned at UNCLE's headquarters by Sir Raleigh, who helped him get a grip on himself with his somewhat contagious and very reassuring British self-control, thus getting a fully detailed report out of the distraught former agent. He then informed Napoleon that Stephanie was out of danger, and that she had actually regained consciousness. When he suggested he go to see her, Solo's heart sank even deeper: how could he tell her what happened? But he knew that he was the only sensible choice.
So, at the end of one of the worst days in his life, Napoleon was sitting next to Stephanie's hospital bed, waiting for her to wake up. She was looking so weak and pale in that bed, and he knew that when she would wake up she would be expecting to see someone else sitting beside her. Someone she would never be able to see again.
When he noticed her eyes starting to flutter, he forced a tense smile on his face. When Stephanie's green eyes finally opened, standing out in her pale face like two emeralds on white gold, they took a while to focus on her visitor.
When she recognized him, she smiled weakly and croaked: "Hey, Napoleon."
Solo forced himself to smile back. "Hey, Stephanie. How do you feel?"
"Very lucky", she joked, and Napoleon felt his heart sink, knowing that her luck had come to an end.
And then she finally voiced the dreaded question: "Where's Illya, Napoleon?"
Solo's taut smile disappeared, and he eluded her questioning gaze. He stammered: "Stephanie, Illya is... You see, he's..."
"... terribly late!" Illya's voice exclaimed from the doorway.
Napoleon's head turned so fast that he was sure he pulled a muscle. He stood on unsteady legs, blinking furiously at the impossible sight. His friend was standing in the room, a bunch of flowers in his hands and an apologetic smile printed on his contrite face.
Illya cast an "I'll explain later" look at Napoleon, then hurried at Stephanie's bedside and hugged her as much as he could without displacing her IV and her various bandages.
He murmured in her coppery hair: "I was so scared I had lost you."
Sinking back in his chair, Napoleon muttered: "You're telling me!", but his two friends weren't paying attention, too engrossed in looking in each other's eyes.
When Illya finally acknowledged his presence, Solo said, "You owe me an explanation. A very thorough explanation."
The Russian cautiously sat on Stephanie's bed and cast a rueful look at his friend. "You're right, Napoleon. You see, when I saw Harry board the Foxy Lady holding that package, I suddenly knew that he wasn't carrying drugs; he was carrying the instrument of his own death. That was where Renard had hidden the explosive that was meat to kill Harry. All the booby traps inside the boat were just a decoy. I was not killed in the explosion because I threw myself out of a porthole the minute I realized that. The explosive went off at that exact moment and the pressure wave caught me halfway to the water and hurled me towards the yacht you were hiding on.
Napoleon remembered ducking to avoid getting hit by all the flying fragments, and asked, incredulous, "You mean you were one of those flying debris?"
Illya smiled. "Yes. By the time I landed on the boat I was unconscious, and I only regained consciousness when all the fuss was over. The security guard could not believe his own eyes when he saw me walking unsteadily into his office in my wet and torn clothes. I'm sure he must have thought I was a ghost, especially because the police declared I had died in the explosion."
Solo shook his head. "I can't believe they didn't think of looking in the surrounding boats."
Kuryakin's voice softened when he commented: "You didn't think of it either, Napoleon."
His friend's voice rose. "Dammit, Illya, I was in a freaking shock! I thought you had died!"
The Russian's tone was, by contrast, soothing. "I know, Napoleon. And I'm sorry for what you went through. When I awoke, I didn't know where you were, and of course I had misplaced my communicator in the explosion, so I just grabbed a taxi, went home to change, and came here as fast as I could, hoping to find you here. What I didn't dare hope, though" he added, looking at the confused woman with a sweet smile, "was finding Stephanie out of danger and actually conscious."
She reciprocated his smile, and Napoleon decided he had enough of all that sappiness. Standing up, he commented drily, "Very well, tovarich, I accept your explanation, but don't think you're out of trouble yet. You owe me big for giving me such a scare." Then he added, almost as an afterthought. "Although I'm glad your insufferable self is still around!"
Illya smiled at his friend’s retreating back, then looked back at Stephanie with adoring eyes, and said: “God, you look beautiful!”
She laughed weakly. “Beautiful? I must look awful! My face feels like it’s completely covered in cuts and bruises.”
“It is, but it’s also the most beautiful thing I have seen in a long time. Especially because I can see your incredible eyes. They look so… alive. You have no idea how worried I was, Stephanie.” His eager smile disappeared, thinking of the day he found her in the rigged warehouse.
“I’m sorry, Illya. But I’m glad everything is finally over. Sir Raleigh told me that Napoleon caught Renard – well, he actually almost killed him, but luckily the police stopped him in time – and that his men have all been arrested. At least my two colleagues’ lives have not been wasted.”
They shared a minute of silence, both thinking about what they had lost or almost lost.
When Stephanie shook herself out of that gloomy mood, not wanting to spoil the moment with Illya, she joked, “Have you noticed that we end up seeing each other more in hospitals than out there?”
The Russian took the chance to voice the thoughts he was mulling over while he was waiting for Harry to show up on the Foxy Lady.
“Yes, I’ve noticed, and I’ve decided it’s a very uncomfortable and unproductive way of meeting. See, there are some things I would like to do that would be quite unfeasible when one of us is wounded and hospitalized.”
She cast him a flirtatious look. “Such as?” Instead of answering, he leaned forward and lightly kissed her lips. When he straightened back up, she looked disappointed. “Is that it?”
He smiled teasingly. “I told you: the things I have in mind do not involve IV lines, bandages, and lurking nurses. They might involve a bed, though…” he added, mischievously.
“Why, Mr. Kuryakin, I think you are already speeding up my recovery.”
“Good, because I have plans for us, Stephanie.” He looked at her, and the intensity of his eyes made her heart skip a beat.
“What kind of plans?”
He took her hand and, softly rubbing her palm with his thumb, he said in an earnest tone, “I want to take you someplace quiet where there are no drug dealers or trigger-happy freaks trying to take you away from me. Someplace where I can be alone with you, where I can show you how much I care for you, where I have all the time in the world to tell you how important you have become in my life.”
Wordlessly, Stephanie looked deep into his baby blue eyes. Raising her free hand, she slowly threaded it through his silky blond hair, eliciting a low moan of pleasure from the Russian, who blissfully closed his eyes at her soft touch. Then, yielding to an overwhelming need, she lifted her back from the pillows supporting her and, gently pulling him from the nape of his neck, initiated what ended up being one of the most mind-reeling kisses of her whole life.
When their lips finally parted, they were both breathless.
Finding her voice, she said, huskily, “If this is part of your plans for us after hospital, then I’m in.” Illya flashed her his adorable shy smile, and said: “I’m glad there are no nosy nurses interrupting us, this time.”
When he leaned forward to reciprocate her kiss, he was stopped in his tracks by a shrill voice coming from the door: “Think again, pretty face. Get your hands off my patient and your butt off that bed.”
Groaning inwardly, Illya glowered at the oversized nurse who just spoiled what had started like a very promising reunion. Stephanie chuckled softly and, before letting go of Illya’s neck, she whispered in his ear, “You did mention something about lurking nurses….”
He whispered back: “I also mentioned something about taking you someplace where we can be alone.”
Then, reluctantly standing up, he told the towering nurse, “All right, I’m leaving, but you’d better nurse your patient back to health as soon as you can. You see, we have something very important to discuss.”
The nurse keenly surveyed the handsome blond and said, in a lascivious tone, “You can discuss it with me, while you wait for her to recover, cupcake.”
The Russian’s hasty retreat caused the two women to laugh conspiratorially. Then the nurse said, “I think you shouldn’t let that cutie wait too long for you, honey. You should really get better as fast as you can.”
Stephanie smiled inwardly.
“Oh, believe me, he gave me plenty of motivation.”
And so, with a taste of the long days of recuperation she would spend with her very special Russian, Stephanie closed her eyes to reminisce on their breathtaking kiss, eager to share with him a future that looked quite promising.
THE END
Once again, a million thanks to Glennagirl for her patient editing.
It was 2:00 pm on a Friday afternoon at the House of Vanya, and Illya Kuryakin was regretting - for the hundredth time - his decision to work in the fashion industry when he left UNCLE, ten years before. The end of the day was still a few hours away, and he had already depleted all his energies and his patience. Both his models and his customers were driving him crazy, and today they seemed to share the same need to annoy him in every possible manner.
He was shouting some last-minute instructions to one of his models, who was too busy complaining about something meaningless to listen to him, when he heard his secretary call him from his office.
"Illya, you have a private call. It sounds urgent, too."
A private call? To his office? That was so unusual, that Illya ran to pick up the phone.
"Hello?"
A very familiar voice answered, "Illya? It's Stephanie."
A large smile lit the Russian's face.
"Stephanie! It's been a long time. I thought you were abroad on a mission." She replied in a very anxious tone. "No, I'm in town, but I'm also in trouble, Illya. Big trouble."
His smile disappeared instantly, replaced by a worried expression. "What's the matter, Steph?"
"My team and I chased some suspects into a warehouse in Harlem, but we discovered that the whole place is rigged with explosives. The other two agents are dead, caught in booby traps, and I'm probably next. I'm standing in the middle of a room, and I don't dare make a move because I'm afraid to step on some trigger."
Illya's blood went cold as Stephanie continued.
"Illya, both the police and UNCLE bomb squads are busy on a top-priority call downtown. I hate to expose you to a risky situation, but I remember your file; you're an explosives expert, so maybe you could come over here and defuse these."
A top-priority mission meant that the number of potential victims was high. Stephanie was just one agent, and she had no precedence.
The Russian knew that Stephanie had to be terror-stricken to call him, and her next sentence confirmed it.
"I'm really scared, Illya."
As was he, but he needed her to stay calm, so he spoke in what he hoped was a soothing voice.
"All right, Stephanie, just remain calm and don't move. Give me the address." He jotted down the address the woman gave him.
"Make sure you don't move or touch anything. I'll be right there."
As soon as he hung up, he darted outside his office, shouting to his secretary,
"I have an emergency. Cancel all my appointments for today." She started to protest, but he cut her off, barking a sharp reply.
"No buts. Just do it." The secretary closed her mouth, taken aback by the Russian's unusually abrupt tone.
Illya was glad he had decided to take his motorbike that morning. He often preferred it to his car when the weather was nice, since the New York traffic badly aggravated his already worn out nerves. He quickly put his helmet and leather jacket on, ignited the powerful bike and sped into the thick traffic, easily dodging the slowly moving cars.
The blond rode frantically, not caring about red lights and stop signs, followed by a chorus of angry honks and shouted insults.
He was glad he had to concentrate on his dangerous driving rather than thinking about Stephanie, vulnerable and surrounded by explosives.
Shortly after meeting the attractive female UNCLE agent they shared a few dangerous but exciting days; Illya and his partner Napoleon Solo helped her defeat a gang of drug dealers. He was stabbed by her ex-partner, a man who betrayed the agency and eventually tried to kill the three agents, failing at that task. In spite of the circumstances and the continuing danger, the Russian had grown very fond of Stephanie but never had the opportunity to explore their dawning relationship. Stephanie was sent to South America on a mission before he was released from hospital, and that was three months ago. He had looked forward to seeing her again, but not under such dreadful circumstances.
The closer he got to Harlem the thinner the traffic became, allowing Illya to approach his destination earlier than expected, but not soon enough for his ticking mental clock. Even if Stephanie didn't step on a booby trap he knew that the place could contain some timed bombs, and he also knew that timers were rarely set on more than thirty minutes.
He relaxed slightly when he turned the last corner and made visual contact with his destination. But before he even had a chance to slow down, an explosion shattered all the front windows. Glass splinters were sent flying all over the street, and the shock wave almost threw him off his bike.
Terrified, he came to a screeching halt, jumped off his bike and frantically ran inside the devastated warehouse.
His old training kicked in as soon as he stepped inside, and he forced himself to slow down and look for traps. He was able to defuse three bombs, all the while calling out Stephanie's name, when he saw something laying on the ground approximately ten feet from where he stood. It looked like a bunch of discarded clothes, but then he saw the coppery hair and recognized Stephanie's curled up body and the awful amount of rapidly spreading red stains. It took all his resolve not to run to her side, but he moved slowly, watching for more explosive traps. When he finally reached the battered body, he knelt down and gently rolled her onto her side. His voice trembled when he called her name.
"Stephanie?"
No response. Her eyes were closed and she was completely limp. Illya felt for a pulse, and let out a sigh of relief when he detected a heartbeat, albeit weak. He removed his jacket and placed it under her head, then stood up and looked around in search of a phone. It had to be somewhere near, for he clearly instructed Stephanie not to move when she called him. After a few seconds he found it on the ground a few feet from a knocked-over desk. Still moving with painstaking caution, he reached the telephone and dialed 911. After quickly explaining the situation and giving the warehouse address, he hung up and went back to Stephanie, eager to remove her from that dangerous place. He gently picked her up and quickly made his way out of that dreadful warehouse.
Illya could not bear to look at her bruised face. It was covered with cuts and contusions, and was awfully pale. Her whole body was bleeding from countless wounds, where the burning shrapnels were viciously biting the soft skin.
The Russian was grateful Stephanie was unconscious; he could not imagine how painful her wounds were. He could not stand the thought of Stephanie in pain. Since the very first day they met, he felt fiercely protective of her, probably because the circumstances were very similar: she was wounded, and unconscious. The only difference was that this time her injuries were much more serious, and she was barely alive.
When safely away from the building, Illya crossed the street for good measure, sitting on the sidewalk and gently cradling Stephanie on his lap, mentally urging the ambulance to rush. When the paramedics arrived, he instructed them to call the police bomb squad and informed them of the two dead UNCLE agents that were still inside the warehouse.
He wanted to climb into the ambulance with Stephanie, but the paramedics didn't allow him, so he was forced to follow the vehicle on his motorbike, desperately trying not to think about the injured woman who, a few feet in front of him, was fighting for her life.
When they reached the hospital, after what felt like hours for Illya but was actually less than fifteen minutes, he hurriedly parked the bike on a sidewalk and ran inside, following the stretcher.
Once again he was stopped outside the ER room, and was told to sit down in the waiting room; the doctors promised to inform him of Stephanie's condition as soon as they knew anything. Approximately thirty minutes later a doctor came out of the swinging doors and approached him.
"Are you a relative of the woman with the shrapnel wounds?"
Illya hastily stood up.
"No, I'm just a friend. How is she?"
"Not good, but we stabilized her. Her conditions are still critical, but if she makes it through the night, then she should be out of danger."
"Can I see her?" The doctor shook his head. "No, I'm sorry, she's in intensive care, no visitors are allowed there. As soon as her conditions improve we will move her to a regular room."
"What if her condition worsens?"
"Then we will call you immediately. You can either stay here or give us your phone number and go home."
"I'll stay here, thank you." Illya said resolutely, sitting down and crossing his arms. He was not going to stay away from Stephanie if her conditions were so critical. It was bad enough that they didn't let him see her.
The doctor just shrugged his shoulders and left. Illya wriggled on the uncomfortable chair and prepared himself for a long and difficult night.
Napoleon Solo was playing at the roulette table, surrounded by two stunningly beautiful women, and he was winning a lot of money. An awful lot. At every turn of the little white sphere he doubled his bet, and every time he won. And every time the girls kissed him. One of them seductively leaned closer to his ear, and whispered...
"RIIIIING!!!!"
Solo fumbled with his sheets, groping blindly for the telephone. He mumbled in the receiver, "Who the hell is this?"
RIIIIING!!!!"
Belatedly he realized that the offending device was not his telephone, but the interphone. He forced himself out of bed and hastily went to his luxury suite's expansive living room. He picked up the receiver and barked into it.
"Do you realize it's Saturday morning and it's..." he quickly glanced at his watch, disbelievingly. "For God's sake, it's seven o'clock!"
The doorkeeper's voice was apologetic. "I know, Mr. Solo. I remember you asked not to be disturbed before ten o'clock during weekends, but the gentleman here is quite... resolute." Solo's brain cleared immediately in reaction.
"What's his name?"
"Kuryakin." Napoleon sighed.
"Let him up, thank you."
He barely had the time to wash his face and put on his dressing gown before he heard a muffled knock at the door. When he opened it he was ready to bite his friend's head off for waking him up at such an ungodly hour, but Illya's face stopped him in his tracks.
"My God, Illya. What's the matter? You look terrible."
The Russian just said, in a very coarse voice, "Stephanie." Solo's blood went cold.
"What... what about her?"
Kuryakin walked wearily to a comfortable looking armchair and sagged into it.
"She got caught in an explosion, along with two other men."
"Is she...?" Solo couldn't find the courage to finish the question.
"No. She's still alive. But she's the only survivor, and she's badly injured. I just got back from the hospital. Her conditions didn't worsen during the night, so she's supposed to be out of danger now, but she hasn't regained consciousness yet."
Napoleon put a comforting hand on his friend's shoulder.
"I'm so sorry, Illya. I know what she means to you. You must be going through hell."
"It's nothing compared to what the person who did this to her will go through." Illya’s cold tone was familiar to Solo; it meant big troubles for the receiving end of the Russian's wrath.
He asked: "Do you know who the bomber is?"
"No, but I intend to find out. Do you feel like joining me, Napoleon? Judging by the reaction to her investigations, I think Stephanie got in the way of someone very dangerous and ruthless. I might use some help."
Solo smiled reassuringly. "Of course I will help you, Illya. I was actually getting pretty bored, lately. I'll welcome a change of pace."
Kuryakin's thankful look was worth more than a thousand words to Solo, who could not bear to see his friend in such a distraught mood.
They had met again just three months before, after fifteen years of complete mutual silence, both too busy carrying out their new lives. And these new lives were so different from the years of UNCLE, difficult for two men who were used to living dangerously and somehow uncomfortable without it. Stephanie reunited them, and gave them the chance to refuel their friendship by involving them both in an adventure that forced them back into action. They both had to admit that they had enjoyed the little break from their ordinary, stressful lives. Since then they occasionally met and caught up with each other, successfully reestablishing the trusting relationship they once shared.
So now Solo jumped at the opportunity to both help his overwrought friend and to once again plunge into some real action. He asked the Russian: "Do you have a plan?"
"As a matter of fact, I do. When I was rescuing Stephanie, I had to defuse three explosive devices, and I had a chance to get a good look at them. I recognized one of the detonator's manufacturer. There's only one supplier in town that provides that specific type, and I know who that is."
Solo commented: "Great! Give me half an hour and then we'll go talk to the gentleman."
The Russian complained at that. "Half an hour? Napoleon, you take longer than a woman to get ready!"
Solo protested his friend’s complaint. "Hey, you already deprived me of a few hours' sleep; you don't expect me to skip my breakfast too, do you? Besides, I know you, and I'm sure you haven't had anything to eat since yesterday. Or have you?"
Illya's stomach rumbled loudly in response, and Solo commented drily, "That's what I thought."
_____________
They decided to move independently, so Illya, who was still riding his powerful bike, reached his destination ten minutes before his friend. He took advantage of that extra time to check the faces that were getting in and out of the thrift shop he was watching.
As soon as Napoleon arrived and parked his car in a nearby spot, the two men waited until all customers had left the shop, then entered the premises. Illya went straight to the counter, while Napoleon locked the door and turned the "Open" sign to the "Closed" side.
The owner, a short and balding man in his fifties, was quick to challenge the move.
"Hey, what do you think you're doing? I cannot afford to lose any customers."
The Russian reached over, grabbed the man by the collar and unceremoniously pulled him over the counter, growling his response.
"We are all the customers you need today."
The shopkeeper knew a dangerous man when he saw one, and the blond looked also very angry, a lethal combination. He just shut up and listened to his requests.
Illya pulled a device out of his pocket and showed it to the man, asking him in a growling voice,
"I know for a fact that you are the only supplier in town who sells this type of detonator. Don't even bother to deny it. I want to know who you sold it to as of late."
The man hesitated, and Illya continued, purposely thickening his Russian accent.
"Next time I won't ask as politely. Next time I will show you how we convince stubborn people back in Siberia. I don't think you will like those methods; they tend to leave permanent scars, oth outside and inside."
Maybe it was the Russian's cold voice, maybe his even colder eyes or maybe his barely checked wrath; the shopkeeper decided that it was not in his best interest to challenge the blond man. So he said, in a very low voice.
"His name is Harry."
Illya shook him till his teeth chattered. "Harry what?" The man’s voice sounded desperate.
"I don't know his last name. Just Harry."
The Russian growled again. "You're not being very helpful. I will be forced to..."
The man cringed, and hastily added, "No, wait! I know where you can find him."
Illya's hold relaxed slightly. "That's better. Where?"
"He goes to the Irish Pub down on Wood Drive every day at five p.m. for a shot of whiskey."
The Russian's voice dropped: "You realize that if you're lying you will never see your grandchildren?"
"What grandchild...? Oh."
He nodded, gulping. Illya released him, went to the telephone and pulled the chord until it snapped out of the socket. Then he gestured Napoleon, who handcuffed the man to a floor-to-ceiling metal rack. The shopkeeper protested. "Oh, come on, do you really need to do that?"
Napoleon feigned a conspiratorial whisper. "Shush. You don't want to make him angrier than he already is, do you?" Resignedly, the man just shook his head, looking subdued.
The two former UNCLE agents left the shop looking inconspicuous, heading to their respective means of transportation. Illya, straddling his motorbike, was the first to speak.
"I will wait for this Harry inside the pub. You just keep an eye on the door; I will follow him as soon as he leaves, and you will follow me. If everything goes as planned, you are not to reach me until midnight. Under any circumstance. Will you stick to the plan, Napoleon?"
Solo nodded glumly and got in his car, hoping that his friend would not behave too recklessly, as he used to do when an assignment had personal repercussions.
Five minutes later, he parked in front of the pub, switched the engine off and prepared to keep watch.
Illya walked into the pub, sat in front of the counter and waited patiently for five o'clock and his prey to arrive. At ten past five a man entered the pub and went to the counter, stopping frequently to say hello to many of the patrons. Illya heard one of them calling him Harry, and that confirmed that it was indeed his man.
He waited, unnoticed, until his target finished his glass of whiskey, said goodbye to his friends and left. He counted to ten, then he got up, leaving the money on the table, and swiftly followed him outside. He saw him getting into a sedan parked about twenty feet away, so he straddled his motorbike and prepared to follow him. When he began his pursuit, he knew that Solo was just a few cars behind him, covering his back.
Illya wasn't trying to be particularly inconspicuous in his pursuit. He knew that his bike would help him follow his prey, but it also was more visible than an anonymous car. He was actually counting on it. He rode for approximately twenty minutes, heading to an area of the city that he knew was controlled by dangerous gangs.
When his man stopped and parked the car in front of a building guarded by what looked like two Mister Universe contestants, he dismounted his bike and pretended being busy checking the engine. The man called Harry got out of his car and entered the building; Illya could see that he was about to be politely invited to join the party. Within minutes another pair of brawny gentlemen materialized behind him and grabbed him unceremoniously, prompting him to put up a pretty convincing fight, taking a couple of punches without returning the favor. He feigned unconsciousness and let the two men drag him inside the building. Still limp in their shovel-shaped hands, he waited until they laid him on the floor and tied his wrists behind his back.
"Do you want us to wake him up, Harry?" A deep voice answered.
"Please."
Illya was expecting to receive a bucket of water on his face, instead a vicious kick to his stomach knocked the wind of out him. He rolled on his side, moaning. The man called Harry spoke, his voice cold and unemotional.
"I have only three questions: Who are you? Why did you follow me from the bar? Who are you working for?"
Illya's only answer was a defiant look that triggered the man's anger. He motioned the other two men, who grabbed the blond, lifted him from the ground and kept him upright, while their boss started to repeat his questions in the same flat tone of voice, each of them punctuated by a vicious blow to the Russian's midsection or face when he failed to supply an answer.
If the following hours were very hard for Illya, they were no piece of cake for Napoleon either, who spent them constantly forcing himself not to get out of his car, dispose of the two guards and rush inside the house to help his friend.
He knew he had to stick to the plan, but he didn't have to like it. He hated the thought of Illya in the hands of those ruthless people, especially because he was perfectly aware that his Russian ex partner was particularly gifted in enraging his captors with his stubbornness, his defying attitude and his quick-witted remarks. The only thing he could do until the agreed time was hope that his reckless friend was still alive.
So it was a very impatient and determined Napoleon Solo who stealthy and efficiently subdued the two hefty guards at midnight. He exploited his never forgotten UNCLE agent's experience to get rid of the younger and stronger men, smugly smiling at himself after leaving them unconscious on the ground, effectively tied and gagged to prevent untimely alarms.
Once inside, he quickly took his bearings, heading for what a staircase leading downstairs. He only had to dispose of one other man on his way to help his friend; he was counting on the fact that the security measures would be quite slack during the night shift.
He rapidly spotted a locked door in what looked like the building's cellar. It had a small glass rectangle that allowed him to peek inside. He immediately noticed the curled up form of Illya's battered body. He could see the bruises on his friend's face even from where he stood looking in. When he unlocked the door and entered the room, crouching beside Illya's limp form, he winced when he noticed how badly hurt he was.
One side of his face was turning an angry shade of purple. His nose sported a dried streak of blood and his lips were swollen and chapped. And, judging by his curled up position, he probably had a few cracked ribs, too.
He cursed under his breath, vowing retribution on the man who inflicted such inhumane treatment on his friend. When he gently touched the Russian's arm and tried to move him to have a better look at his wounds, a quiet moan of pain escaped the battered man's lips.
Napoleon sighed: "Oh, Illya. Once again you managed to get more than you bargained for."
He was not expecting an answer, but surprisingly enough the Russian opened his eyes and croaked: "It worked, didn't it?"
Solo was torn between feeling happy because his friend was conscious and evidently not too seriously hurt, and feeling angry at his hopeless recklessness. He settled for a hissed remark: "Damn, Illya, your Russian shell might not hold for long. Or have you forgotten you're not thirty anymore?"
Kuryakin's crooked smile drew a few more drops of blood from his cracked lips.
"Right now I feel like I'm eighty, my friend. Help me up, will you?"
With Napoleon's help, he painstakingly stood, leaning heavily on his friend for support, his cracked ribs sending shots of pain to his nerves.
They slowly moved to inspect the other rooms of the cellar. Just as they expected, one of them was locked, which meant that it probably contained something valuable. Or dangerous. Napoleon let Illya leaning against the wall, and skillfully applied a few drops of a transparent liquid from a small bottle he had in his pocket. As soon as the liquid touched the lock, the metal started smoking and quickly dissolved.
Illya commented: "Wow. Can I borrow it for later on?"
Napoleon smirked: "Sorry, tovarich, I only have enough for two locks, so you cannot waste it on Harry's face."
He missed the Russian's mumbled answer, too busy watching the content of the room in awe. There were probably a hundred wooden cranes, each full of different kinds of explosive substances, judging from the names printed on the sides.
Solo let out a long, low whistle. "Dear goodness. This stuff could blow up a full neighborhood into kingdom come."
When he turned to look at Illya's face, he noticed that his friend was very much torn between dread and reverence.
He scolded him: "Stop looking like a child let loose in a toy shop. This changes our plans."
Kuryakin had to shake himself to overcome the sight of so many explosives. "It sure does. We certainly cannot get rid of this stuff by blowing it up as we were planning to. We would turn the whole area into ashes."
"So what do you propose?"
After a few seconds, the Russian's mouth twitched in a wicked grin. "I think I have a plan B."
Solo commented glumly: "I don't like that smile. It usually means troubles for all parties involved."
"If your famous luck holds, my friend, troubles will fall only on the bad guys, one in particular."
Napoleon's curiosity was now piqued: "Tell me what you have in mind."
While the Russian was explaining his plan, Solo's face broke into a broad smile, too.
Harry was abruptly shaken awake by one of his men, who was holding his head as if he had been recently hit.
"Boss, wake up. We've got a problem."
The haze in Harry's head cleared up immediately. "What?"
"The prisoner, the Russian. He got out of his cell somehow. He's gone."
Harry jolted out of his bed, frantically grabbing his trousers and wiggling into them quickly. "You've got to be kidding. How the hell did he get out?"
"We don't know, boss. He knocked all the men on shift unconscious."
"You're a bunch of incompetent fools, that's what you are." Harry growled angrily.
The two rushed downstairs, where all the other men had gathered, looking bewildered and waiting for instructions.
The door to the Russian's cell was open, and the prisoner was nowhere to be seen.
On a sudden hunch, Harry glanced at the explosives deposit, and noticed that the door was not completely locked. He hastily swang the door open, and what he saw turned his blood into ice. A row of detonators was standing in the middle of the room. The wires ran in a perfect radius and disappeared among the crates of explosives. Gulping noisily, Harry forced himself to approach the devices, and he immediately saw the threatening, blinking timers all set on thirty minutes.
He rapidly examined the circuits, immediately realizing that the Russian had taken the precaution of changing the order of the wires, so he had no hopes of figuring out which one he had to cut in order to stop the timer without triggering the explosions. And probably every detonator had a different sequence, so even if he managed to defuse one of them, the other five would be impossible to defuse within thirty minutes.
Harry yielded to panic and ran out of the room yelling, "Get out of here, all of you. The whole deposit is going to explode in half an hour. It will blow up the whole neighborhood. Get in the cars and run as fast as you can. Move, move!"
All the men scattered, running wildly. Harry didn't even stop to grab his belongings, for fear of being left behind by his panicking men. All he cared about was getting hold of a car and speeding away from that deadly trap.
Illya and Napoleon cautiously peeked out of their hiding place behind one of the crates. Once they made sure that everybody had fled, they ran upstairs and started searching the place. They rapidly and efficiently browsed all the documents that looked important, and soon Napoleon found a very interesting piece of paper. He called to his partner saying, "What do you make of this, Illya?"
The Russian looked at the paper. The letterhead sported the stylized head of a fox. He read the words aloud.
"The Foxy Lady will be ready to depart on Sunday at 7:00 am. Bring the parcel."
Napoleon calculated out loud. "Today is Sunday, and now it's 4:00 am, so we still have time, but where and what might this Foxy Lady be?" When he looked at his friend, he noticed that he was a shade paler than usual.
"Illya? What's wrong?"
"Napoleon, don't you see?" Bewildered, Solo asked, "See what?"
"This is the drawing of a fox, and the name mentioned on the paper is Foxy Lady. You do know the French word for fox, Napoleon."
Solo shook his head. "Actually, you are so critical of my accent, I'm not going to say it."
Planting his blue eyes into his friend's chocolate ones, Illya said, in a droll voice: "The French word for fox is renard."
Solo mumbled: "Damn. That son of a bitch is involved in all this."
"If Renard is involved, I bet that the parcel mentioned in this note is a drug delivery." Solo nodded. "I agree. Now we've got to figure out what Foxy Lady means." The Russian read the note again, considering.
"Look at this, Napoleon. It says the Foxy Lady. Why the article?"
Solo's mouth opened in a smile. "You know, tovarich, I think you've got it!"
Kuryakin looked baffled.
"I have?"
"They used the article in front of the name because it's a vessel."
"A boat?"
"Yes! It's got to be."
Kuryakin mumbled, "I hope you're right, Napoleon, because we have only one shot at it."
Solo grabbed his partner's arm and dragged him out. "Let's go. We'll be at the harbor in half an hour."
Before leaving the place, though, they called the police and told them to come and collect a huge amount of explosives, also mentioning the fact that they might even catch the criminals, who would undoubtedly come back once they realized that the explosions hadn't gone off.
They both got into Napoleon's car, for Illya's ribs were hurting too much for riding his bike. Solo's driving badly aggravated the pain, but the Russian just clenched his teeth and did not complain, because he knew that time was of the essence. He wanted to catch Renard, with whom he had a score to settle. Two, actually. Not mentioning the fact that he just hated drug dealers.
They reached the harbor in less than thirty minutes and, without even bothering to park the car, they bolted out of it and walked as fast as Illya's ribs allowed him. Napoleon, shoving his old UNCLE badge in the face of the bewildered security guard, asked him where the Foxy Lady was and, after a quick check on the harbor’s logs, he got the pier number of the boat. Illya looked at him, his eyes smiling; they were right, it was indeed a boat!
They approached the vessel much more cautiously, their weapons drawn, ready to face Renard and his men. But they never met anyone and the boat looked quite empty. They looked at each other, unsure of how to proceed. Napoleon turned to his partner.
"What do you make of it, Illya?"
The Russian looked suspicious. "I don't like it, Napoleon, not one bit. It looks like a trap."
Solo nodded. "I agree. The question is: a trap for whom?"
Kuryakin expressed his thoughts aloud: "There's no way Renard had enough time to set a trap for us. I'm pretty sure Harry didn't even bother to tell him about our little stunt; he was in such a hurry to leave the rigged house, he barely took the time to put his trousers on!"
"So you think this is a trap for him? But why would Renard want to get rid of his own factotum?"
"Maybe he's getting unreliable. He didn't strike me as the overly efficient type. He certainly let us get to him pretty fast."
Solo asked: "So, what do you suggest?"
Illya looked at him with a thunderous expression in the blue eyes. "I suggest you hide somewhere and wait for Renard to show up, while I get on that boat and defuse the explosives I'm sure are in there. I will then wait for whoever gets onboard and arrest him."
Napoleon looked at him suspiciously. "I don't like your plan, Illya. What if it's not him but them? You will be alone in there."
The Russian smiled warmly at his friend. "I will not be alone, tovarich, you will be watching my back."
Solo shook his head. "I still don't like it, Illya. I think your plan is too dangerous."
"I'm sorry you don't agree, Napoleon, but I really want to get my hands on those bastards. I have a score to settle."
Solo knew that he could not make his stubborn friend change his mind when he was driven by revenge, so he resigned himself to back up his reckless plan once again, and watched unhappily as Illya boarded the boat. He decided to hide in the luxurious yacht moored beside the Foxy Lady.
Kuryakin silently got onboard and, moving stealthier than a cat, searched the boat. As expected, the vessel was empty, but he found many booby traps, all connected to a remotely-controlled detonator. Evidently Renard didn't want to get his hands dirty and planned to trigger the bombs from some remote location. He still had to know when Harry - or the intended victim - was onboard, though, so he had to be watching from somewhere near. Illya was counting on Napoleon's instincts to find Renard, hoping that his friend's attention wasn't too distracted by worry.
Once he was sure he had defused all the explosives onboard, he hid behind the tender and thought about a nice "welcome" to the man who almost killed his Stephanie, the only woman who managed to stir something inside him, something that had been insensitive for too long. While he waited, he tried not to think about her laying unconscious on that hospital bed, her amazing green eyes closed, without knowing if he would have the chance to see them open again. He was so scared she would not survive, he decided that if she made it out of that hospital bed, he would tell her about his feelings, even if he wasn't so sure she indeed reciprocated them. They never had a chance to talk, her job always taking precedence, but now he would not let that happen again; he would take her on a nice, long trip and enjoy her company without having to worry about somebody trying to shoot, stab or blow them up.
While he was planning his much-deserved romantic vacation, he heard someone get onboard. By the sound of it, it seemed to be just one man, but he peeked out of his hiding place for good measure. He was right: Harry was there, alone, carrying a package wrapped in brown paper, and looking around suspiciously. He waited while the man went to the lower deck, then got out of his shelter and followed him surreptitiously.
In the meantime, Napoleon hadn't missed Harry board the boat, and started to thoroughly inspect the area with a pair of binoculars he found on the yacht where he was hiding. He knew that Renard had to be somewhere not too far from the Foxy Lady, because if he really was about to blow up his own lieutenant, then he certainly didn't trust anybody else to carry out his death sentence.
It took less than expected to spot him; he was sitting inside a car parked at the marina's parking lot, directly facing the ocean.
He saw Renard push a button on what positively looked like a remote detonator, but that sight didn't worry Napoleon; he was so confident that his partner had thoroughly cleared the boat of all the explosives, that when he saw the Foxy Lady blow up in a deafening detonation, his brain refused to acknowledge what his eyes were witnessing.
Napoleon barely had the time to duck to avoid the lethal shrapnel that was flung by the explosion, damaging all the surrounding vessels. He had closed his eyes, but he could still see the flames that were devouring what little remained of the Foxy Lady.
When he dared peek out of his shelter, his heart sank at the appalling sight; there was no way Illya could have survived that inferno. He knew that he was in the lower deck when the boat blew up, so he didn't even have a chance to jump off board in time. Solo did look with his binoculars at the surrounding waters in search of his friend, or whatever was left of him, but in his heart he knew that his hopeless search would not yield any results. Illya had got caught in the deadly trap set for Harry.
But Napoleon would not let his friend's death go unavenged; he would get his hands on that ruthless son of a bitch who killed Illya. He darted out of the yacht and ran to the parking lot like a haunted man.
Renard had got out of the car and was watching the fire with a wicked smirk on his unpleasant face. He didn't see Solo until it was too late: the former UNCLE agent never broke his dead run and slammed him against his own car, stunning him. Renard's knees buckled and he slowly slid to the ground, but Napoleon was far from satisfied; he kneeled on the man's torso and started punching him madly, shouting incoherently, eyes blurred with tears that he didn't even realize were rolling down his cheeks.
The whole day was like a nightmare for Napoleon. He almost felt like a man walking in his sleep. He vaguely remembered the marina's security guard trying to prevent him from killing Renard with his bare hands, the policemen interrogating him and trying to get a coherent picture out of his jumbled account. He remembered standing on the pier, glumly observing the divers who were looking for human remains in the waters surrounding the blown-up yacht, and finding them. But what was left was well beyond recognition, so they didn't even let him near them, and he was very grateful for that.
Whenever he closed his eyes, he could hear Illya's voice telling him that he felt safe knowing that Napoleon was watching his back. Well, he had utterly failed watching his friend's back, and now Illya was dead. Along with a part of him that held all those fond memories of his life at UNCLE.
He remembered eventually being summoned at UNCLE's headquarters by Sir Raleigh, who helped him get a grip on himself with his somewhat contagious and very reassuring British self-control, thus getting a fully detailed report out of the distraught former agent. He then informed Napoleon that Stephanie was out of danger, and that she had actually regained consciousness. When he suggested he go to see her, Solo's heart sank even deeper: how could he tell her what happened? But he knew that he was the only sensible choice.
So, at the end of one of the worst days in his life, Napoleon was sitting next to Stephanie's hospital bed, waiting for her to wake up. She was looking so weak and pale in that bed, and he knew that when she would wake up she would be expecting to see someone else sitting beside her. Someone she would never be able to see again.
When he noticed her eyes starting to flutter, he forced a tense smile on his face. When Stephanie's green eyes finally opened, standing out in her pale face like two emeralds on white gold, they took a while to focus on her visitor.
When she recognized him, she smiled weakly and croaked: "Hey, Napoleon."
Solo forced himself to smile back. "Hey, Stephanie. How do you feel?"
"Very lucky", she joked, and Napoleon felt his heart sink, knowing that her luck had come to an end.
And then she finally voiced the dreaded question: "Where's Illya, Napoleon?"
Solo's taut smile disappeared, and he eluded her questioning gaze. He stammered: "Stephanie, Illya is... You see, he's..."
"... terribly late!" Illya's voice exclaimed from the doorway.
Napoleon's head turned so fast that he was sure he pulled a muscle. He stood on unsteady legs, blinking furiously at the impossible sight. His friend was standing in the room, a bunch of flowers in his hands and an apologetic smile printed on his contrite face.
Illya cast an "I'll explain later" look at Napoleon, then hurried at Stephanie's bedside and hugged her as much as he could without displacing her IV and her various bandages.
He murmured in her coppery hair: "I was so scared I had lost you."
Sinking back in his chair, Napoleon muttered: "You're telling me!", but his two friends weren't paying attention, too engrossed in looking in each other's eyes.
When Illya finally acknowledged his presence, Solo said, "You owe me an explanation. A very thorough explanation."
The Russian cautiously sat on Stephanie's bed and cast a rueful look at his friend. "You're right, Napoleon. You see, when I saw Harry board the Foxy Lady holding that package, I suddenly knew that he wasn't carrying drugs; he was carrying the instrument of his own death. That was where Renard had hidden the explosive that was meat to kill Harry. All the booby traps inside the boat were just a decoy. I was not killed in the explosion because I threw myself out of a porthole the minute I realized that. The explosive went off at that exact moment and the pressure wave caught me halfway to the water and hurled me towards the yacht you were hiding on.
Napoleon remembered ducking to avoid getting hit by all the flying fragments, and asked, incredulous, "You mean you were one of those flying debris?"
Illya smiled. "Yes. By the time I landed on the boat I was unconscious, and I only regained consciousness when all the fuss was over. The security guard could not believe his own eyes when he saw me walking unsteadily into his office in my wet and torn clothes. I'm sure he must have thought I was a ghost, especially because the police declared I had died in the explosion."
Solo shook his head. "I can't believe they didn't think of looking in the surrounding boats."
Kuryakin's voice softened when he commented: "You didn't think of it either, Napoleon."
His friend's voice rose. "Dammit, Illya, I was in a freaking shock! I thought you had died!"
The Russian's tone was, by contrast, soothing. "I know, Napoleon. And I'm sorry for what you went through. When I awoke, I didn't know where you were, and of course I had misplaced my communicator in the explosion, so I just grabbed a taxi, went home to change, and came here as fast as I could, hoping to find you here. What I didn't dare hope, though" he added, looking at the confused woman with a sweet smile, "was finding Stephanie out of danger and actually conscious."
She reciprocated his smile, and Napoleon decided he had enough of all that sappiness. Standing up, he commented drily, "Very well, tovarich, I accept your explanation, but don't think you're out of trouble yet. You owe me big for giving me such a scare." Then he added, almost as an afterthought. "Although I'm glad your insufferable self is still around!"
Illya smiled at his friend’s retreating back, then looked back at Stephanie with adoring eyes, and said: “God, you look beautiful!”
She laughed weakly. “Beautiful? I must look awful! My face feels like it’s completely covered in cuts and bruises.”
“It is, but it’s also the most beautiful thing I have seen in a long time. Especially because I can see your incredible eyes. They look so… alive. You have no idea how worried I was, Stephanie.” His eager smile disappeared, thinking of the day he found her in the rigged warehouse.
“I’m sorry, Illya. But I’m glad everything is finally over. Sir Raleigh told me that Napoleon caught Renard – well, he actually almost killed him, but luckily the police stopped him in time – and that his men have all been arrested. At least my two colleagues’ lives have not been wasted.”
They shared a minute of silence, both thinking about what they had lost or almost lost.
When Stephanie shook herself out of that gloomy mood, not wanting to spoil the moment with Illya, she joked, “Have you noticed that we end up seeing each other more in hospitals than out there?”
The Russian took the chance to voice the thoughts he was mulling over while he was waiting for Harry to show up on the Foxy Lady.
“Yes, I’ve noticed, and I’ve decided it’s a very uncomfortable and unproductive way of meeting. See, there are some things I would like to do that would be quite unfeasible when one of us is wounded and hospitalized.”
She cast him a flirtatious look. “Such as?” Instead of answering, he leaned forward and lightly kissed her lips. When he straightened back up, she looked disappointed. “Is that it?”
He smiled teasingly. “I told you: the things I have in mind do not involve IV lines, bandages, and lurking nurses. They might involve a bed, though…” he added, mischievously.
“Why, Mr. Kuryakin, I think you are already speeding up my recovery.”
“Good, because I have plans for us, Stephanie.” He looked at her, and the intensity of his eyes made her heart skip a beat.
“What kind of plans?”
He took her hand and, softly rubbing her palm with his thumb, he said in an earnest tone, “I want to take you someplace quiet where there are no drug dealers or trigger-happy freaks trying to take you away from me. Someplace where I can be alone with you, where I can show you how much I care for you, where I have all the time in the world to tell you how important you have become in my life.”
Wordlessly, Stephanie looked deep into his baby blue eyes. Raising her free hand, she slowly threaded it through his silky blond hair, eliciting a low moan of pleasure from the Russian, who blissfully closed his eyes at her soft touch. Then, yielding to an overwhelming need, she lifted her back from the pillows supporting her and, gently pulling him from the nape of his neck, initiated what ended up being one of the most mind-reeling kisses of her whole life.
When their lips finally parted, they were both breathless.
Finding her voice, she said, huskily, “If this is part of your plans for us after hospital, then I’m in.” Illya flashed her his adorable shy smile, and said: “I’m glad there are no nosy nurses interrupting us, this time.”
When he leaned forward to reciprocate her kiss, he was stopped in his tracks by a shrill voice coming from the door: “Think again, pretty face. Get your hands off my patient and your butt off that bed.”
Groaning inwardly, Illya glowered at the oversized nurse who just spoiled what had started like a very promising reunion. Stephanie chuckled softly and, before letting go of Illya’s neck, she whispered in his ear, “You did mention something about lurking nurses….”
He whispered back: “I also mentioned something about taking you someplace where we can be alone.”
Then, reluctantly standing up, he told the towering nurse, “All right, I’m leaving, but you’d better nurse your patient back to health as soon as you can. You see, we have something very important to discuss.”
The nurse keenly surveyed the handsome blond and said, in a lascivious tone, “You can discuss it with me, while you wait for her to recover, cupcake.”
The Russian’s hasty retreat caused the two women to laugh conspiratorially. Then the nurse said, “I think you shouldn’t let that cutie wait too long for you, honey. You should really get better as fast as you can.”
Stephanie smiled inwardly.
“Oh, believe me, he gave me plenty of motivation.”
And so, with a taste of the long days of recuperation she would spend with her very special Russian, Stephanie closed her eyes to reminisce on their breathtaking kiss, eager to share with him a future that looked quite promising.
THE END
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The Explosive Affair