Non Challenge Fic - The Reluctant Traitor Affair Part 6

[otherhawk.livejournal.com]

This took much longer than I was thinking. Although a lot does happen in this chapter, or at least I think so.

Part 1, Part 2, Part 3, Part 4, Part 5 

He hadn't had a full night's sleep in four days now. A foolish concern for a man who was supposed to be cold and ruthless, but then he was struggling with that just a little more than he let anyone see. When he closed his eyes he dreamed of that moment when Nick had shot the guard, remembered the desperate look in the dying man's eyes as he'd turned around and walked away. And sometimes in his dream, Nick handed the gun to him and smiled expectantly, and sometimes Illya pulled the trigger.

The trick, of course, was letting not so much as a hint of that show, especially to Nick. He was ashamed to admit that he had felt his attitude shift – ashamed because the revelation that the THRUSH man was a cold-blooded killer should never have come as a shock. But he had been careless. Nick had seemed harmless enough. More than that, he had seemed friendly and Illya had started to think of him...not as a friend, that would be a gross overstatement, but perhaps less of an enemy. Someone almost neutral. Foolishness, he should have known better.

His stupidity notwithstanding, he was an accomplished actor and an excellent liar and he was more than capable of sitting with Nick and behaving exactly as he had before, whether it was joining in with the plans to hit the train, or commiserating with him over the fact that Lucie seemingly did not know he existed.

She had certainly noticed Illya existed. And that was a complication in itself, but he was able to read the signals – the mix of attraction and distrust, and he remembered the look she had given him back at the hotdog stand, and he knew he might be able to use this to his advantage....no matter how little he wanted to. This was definitely more Napoleon's style than his.

He found her in the kitchen – or she cornered him there, it was hard to say - and he took careful note of the way her eyes swept over him.

“So you've been with us a week now,” she said, her voice low and husky. “Settling in alright?”

He continued making his sandwich without looking round. “Yes, thank you.” She fancied herself a femme fatale, that much was obvious, but truthfully she wasn't the type. Too self-conscious, too deliberate. But she had Nick hanging on her every word and she flirted with Rex out of duty, he thought, and she wanted to captivate him and his indifference was driving her mad. There was something to be said for playing hard-to-get, at least when information was what he was after.

“Are you sure?” she pressed. “I know it must be a shock living communally like this, but I assure you, it has a lot to recommend it.”

He turned, leaning back against the counter. “Oh, really?” he said. “Like what?”

“It's nice to see so much of each other,” she said, stepping forwards and idly brushing fluff off his turtleneck. “You've really brought a breath of fresh air into our dull lives, you know that?”

“I should hardly call your lives dull,” he said dryly.

She rolled her eyes. “Learn to take a compliment, Kuryakin.”

“I can,” he said with what he judged to be an infuriating calmness. “When I believe it to be sincere and not simply part of the game.”

For a long moment she just gazed at him. “You're a strange one,” she said at last.

“Thank you,” he said with a grave smile.

She gave a quick burst of laughter and looked surprised at herself. “That wasn't meant to be a compliment.”

He shrugged. “I have no wish to be ordinary.”

“I never know what you're thinking,” she complained, turning aside restlessly.

“And you are used to knowing what men are thinking?” he asked, slipping just a dash of scorn and amusement into his voice. “Is that what you do around here?” She was intrigued still, but she needed to be provoked.

To his satisfaction, anger flickered briefly across her face. “What's that supposed to mean?”

“Only that it seems you are Rex's messenger and not much else,” he answered coolly, trusting in her wish to impress him, to prove him wrong.

“Well!” She drew a sharp breath. “Let me tell you, Illya, while you're still talking and planning, my side of the operation is already progressing nicely.”

“Your side?” he repeated innocently.

“Yes. How do you think we're going to take the train? We need the driver on our side. And soon he's going to be putty in my hands.”

He blinked guilelessly. “You intend on seducing him then?”

She laughed, evidently enjoying her 'triumph'. “Oh, no. Nothing so unpredictable. He has a daughter. A sweet little thing called Alicia. And he'd do anything for her, if you know what I mean.”

If he hadn't already known this part he wasn't sure he'd have been able to hide his reaction. The pride and vindictive delight on her face was enough to turn his stomach. “Clever,” he said instead with cloying flattery. “Very clever indeed. Your own idea?”

“No,” she said, tossing her hair back. “Originally it was Rex's, but I'm the one who makes it work. It's easy. Deep down, most people like being told what to do. Especially men. Don't you think so, Illya?”

He raised an eyebrow. “Perhaps there is something to what you say.”

“Look at you, for example,” she said, tracing a single, painted fingernail in little circles across his chest. “Always jumping at the commands of your government, then UNCLE, and now Rex. A man with no ambition beyond his own survival - “

“ - a lofty ambition for one in my profession,” he pointed out.

“Have you ever thought perhaps you crave orders?” she went on, ignoring him.

At this point he wasn't even entirely certain if this was a power play or an extremely ill-judged attempt at seduction. Thankfully either way he didn't think succumbing offered him any advantages. He turned his face away as she went to kiss him.

“Sorry, I do try not to get romantically involved with my co-workers. I find it leads to complications.”

“No complications, sweet thing,” she promised, running her hands down his sides eagerly. “Just some good old fashioned fun.”

“Nevertheless.” He twisted away from her easily and picked up his sandwich. “I believe it is altogether safer to simply retire with my book. Goodnight, Lucie.”

She watched him go, her hands on her hips. “You are a very aggravating man, Kuryakin,” she called after him.

“Another compliment I can believe,” he said, throwing her a crooked smile.

And at least now he knew that the train driver was the target. That certainly was information worth passing on.

And he knew too that they planned on getting the access codes from UNCLE headquarters in Washington. He knew because he had told them so.

They would have found out that UNCLE was partially responsible for the security arrangements, and they would have worked out that the access codes were kept in the Washington headquarters, and at that point they would have had every reason to be suspicious as to why he hadn't already told them. This way he could keep his cover and he could pass the information along so that the damage could be minimised – mitigated, even.

But the fact remained that it was his hands drawing out the map to the building, him laying out the security set up, his ideas, his plans. He was the one Rex smiled at with indulgent pride and called a treasure beyond price, he was the one that Kurt glared at, not now because he thought Illya was a traitor, but rather because he thought Illya was stealing the glory and praise that was his by rights.

He had given THRUSH their technology. He was helping THRUSH break into one of their bases. He had attacked a fellow agent, and he had stood by and watched THRUSH execute an innocent without lifting a finger to stop it. If he was not now a traitor, it was only by the merest technicality.

All he could hope was that the information he'd passed on to Napoleon was being acted upon. Not knowing made him tense. If THRUSH succeeded here, if they came into possession of that plutonium...no. Trust Napoleon. He exhaled deeply. He had passed the information along, he could rely on Napoleon doing whatever was necessary. That was how they worked, and that had not changed.

He hoped his partner appreciated the irony of THRUSH buying him dinner.

*

Napoleon had never been any good at waiting around for news; he much preferred to be out there, making things happen. The fact that this affair forced him somewhere more reactive grated on his nerves.

He'd passed on Illya's message to Mr Waverly at once, of course. Fortunately the supposed discussions about who was to replace Illya gave him plenty excuses to need to talk to him without arousing any kind of suspicion. He could tell Mr Waverly was still fractionally irritated with him – or disappointed, maybe? - for the way he'd insisted Illya wouldn't betray them to THRUSH. Never mind that he'd been right, no one was supposed to be above suspicion. If the evidence led them somewhere unthinkable they were supposed to keep an open mind yes, but they were supposed to follow it. Only Napoleon would weigh any evidence you like against the fact that he knew Illya, and that knowledge would win out every time. Illya wouldn't work with THRUSH. It was fortunate that THRUSH did not know him so well.

The problem was making use of the information Illya had given him without leaving any sort of suspicion that Illya might be the one who had given it. So as much as he longed to concentrate all his attention on the plutonium, it was one of three operations he picked out of the current Armdale schedule that he suggested as likely targets, and he assigned other agents including Mark and April to check out the others.

Illya had said they were going after the access codes in headquarters, and that was logical enough that he didn't have to pretend to make some deductive leap They had an UNCLE agent onside, of course they were going to use him. He wondered if Illya was assuming – or hoping – they were going to stop him.

They weren't.

They didn't have enough information yet to risk bringing the affair to an end. Oh, Mr Waverly was already taking all the quiet steps to ensure the plutonium on the train was suitably harmless, and the actual plutonium was transported later, but still they were going to stand and suffer Washington HQ to be broken into.

It didn't sit well with him, even less that Illya was going to be part of it. So many things that could go wrong. He dreaded to think that someone might be killed in all this, and if that thought weighed on him, just imagine how much worse it would be for Illya.

The codes were generated on Monday. If Illya was involved in the planning of this operation it would take place soon after that. His partner generally disliked leaving things till the last minute. He smiled humourlessly to himself; except rescues of course. They could be just as dramatic as you liked.

And in the meantime that left him following up the lead on the driver, a man named Robert Traynor. He realised immediately that the man was under THRUSH surveillance, thankfully long before he'd tried to make an approach. He couldn't risk it. Instead, treading softly as he could, he made concerned enquiries around the neighbourhood and learned in short order that Traynor's young daughter Alicia had recently been diagnosed with some medical condition and her parents had sent her off to some specialist facility. The description of the paediatrician who'd come by the house bore an uncanny resemblance to Lucie Swift.

He'd actually been hoping he might be in time to prevent the kidnapping. Damn. He considered putting the house under surveillance but it would be tricky undetected.

The bug he'd planted on Nicola Golding revealed very little except that she cried when no one else was around. Her daughter was home and that at least was something. But he'd heard the child complaining of being in pain just before the purse the bug was in was put away, and the soft voice had been weary and unsurprised, like the pain was to be expected.

At most he'd learned that contact was made through phone calls and a messaging service. Little used to anyone trying to track them.

Children were missing. Children were being hurt. And he had to pretend not to know, had to pretend that the highest stakes he was aware of was his own supposed rage at Illya.

No one was expecting him to act completely normally, but he had to make a pretence at making a pretence at least. He'd taken Charlotte out for dinner on the Saturday and smiled distantly through her sympathy, just as he smiled distantly through all the whispers at the betrayal.

All the time his mind was somewhere far away.

*

For undercover work to be successful it was necessary to lie to everyone, not least of all one's self. Illya told himself that he was not at all apprehensive as he waited with Nick just outside the secondary entrance to Washington HQ, the one that was simply disguised as a boarded up door. Everything would be fine. He ignored the weight of the gun at his side. Not loaded with sleep darts anymore.

“Ready?” Nick asked expectantly, looking fixedly at his watch.

A second later the power went off in all the surrounding blocks. Illya had taken a leaf out of Mr Hemingway's book, all that time ago. No matter what, their security precautions remained largely based on technology.

Three minutes until the back-up generators kicked in fully and security came back online. He got to work quickly, placing explosives on the door and a second later it blew in.

He ran with Nick down the empty metal corridor until they came to a junction. “There,” he said pointing. “The stairs at the end. You - “

“ - I know,” Nick interrupted, patting his arm with an amused smile. “What, are you not used to a partner that doesn't get lost? Good luck. I'll see you soon.”

“Good luck,” Illya echoed. Nick was heading to the basement to cut the links between the generators and the security system. An entirely necessary role and one Illya sincerely hoped would keep him well away from any UNCLE personnel.

That was for him to deal with. He raced up the corridor in time to see a couple of Section III agents coming out of the security centre, guns already drawn. He had time this operation carefully; Washington headquarters was almost exclusively concerned with matters on US soil and day to day interactions with the US government. It had hardly any Section II agents, fortunately for him, but it did have a large complement of Section IIIs to act as security. At this time in the morning, however, there would be a shift change, and they would be having a handover so the majority of them would be in one place.

The lead agent caught sight of him. “Kurykain,” he snarled, and Illya realised he knew him. Bradley Collins. He'd been captured making a courier run last year and Illya had been assigned to retrieve the information, and along the way he'd rescued Bradley and they'd worked together for a few days while he completed his mission. The other agent had been competent and good company and Illya was the one who had recommended him for the promotion that got him posted to Washington. And now there was hate and disgust in his eyes.

He didn't bother trying to say anything. What was there to say? Instead he threw one of the flashbang buttons from his jacket, and when they instinctively stumbled back through the doorway, he sprinted forwards and slammed it shut, locking it before disabling the lock and fusing the door to the door frame with a clever little incendiary device Rex had given him. It only took a moment and while they were still hammering on that door, it gave him time to sprint round the corner to the other door and repeated the process. And there. Hopefully that was the threat contained. Anything to stop this escalating into a shooting match.

Of course, the truth was the worst threat was never going to come from UNCLE.

He headed back down the corridor and met Kurt at the entrance, giving a crisp nod to the man's glare. Really, he would have rather left him out altogether, but they had needed someone to cut off the power, and suggesting he should just wait in the garage with the get away car had not been appreciated.

“Come on,” he said neutrally. “The sooner we get this over with the better.”

“What's the matter?” Kurt sneered. “Is this bringing back too many memories?”

He ignored that and they headed up to Records. “It is spread over two floors and the access codes could be anywhere,” Illya told Kurt, not for the first time. “You take the upper level and I will stay here and search.” He paused. “You can read, I suppose?”

Another glare. “Do you ever get tired of running your mouth off?”

“No,” he said truthfully and watched, satisfied, as Kurt stomped off. In reality he had a very good idea where the codes were but sending Kurt as far out of the way as possible had been too tempting to resist, in the hope that he would be less likely to encounter anyone.

He found the codes filed in the restricted access section easily enough, but he hesitated for a long moment, gazing at them. He had told Napoleon they – THRUSH – were going after them. So he should just assume that the codes had been altered in some way, or the plutonium was being safeguarded somehow. He trusted Napoleon, he did, but just blithely handing information over to THRUSH....it left a bitter taste in his mouth.

One more betrayal after all.

There was a noise behind him and quickly he tucked the codes away in his jacket and moved soundlessly back towards the stairs. He was out of time to ponder.

He had hoped to get out of here without being spotted, but luck was not with him and he saw the man – a Section III he did not know – on the landing.

He reacted first, his gun trained on the other agent when he'd barely managed to clear his holster. “Drop it and hands up,” he ordered, and tutted slightly, as he complied. “Really, walking around during a security breach with your gun still in its holster? Were I still with UNCLE I would be forced to report you for this.” He was not altogether joking, this whole break in had been a little too easy for his tastes. Security was far more lax here than it was in New York.

“Kuryakin,” the other acknowledged, glaring at him. “Your face is plastered all over bulletins in every station. Do you really think you can just walk in here and not get caught?”

“I have,” he pointed out dispassionately. “And you are the one who is caught.” His mind was racing, trying to figure out what to do. A hostage was the last thing he needed, but he didn't have anything on him to tie him up with.

“We all knew you'd betray us, you know,” the agent said in a low, hateful voice. “It was just a matter of time. Never trust a red. If you'd been sent here we'd have made sure you knew your place.” His words held the dark edge of promised violence.

Illya sighed. “You would have tried. Turn around and get down on your knees.”

He watched the tension in the jaw, the set of the shoulders and stood ready in case he tried anything, but in the end, glancing at the gun in Illya's hand, he shuffled round and did as he was told.

“Just like a commie. Too chicken to look your victims in the eye. At least I'm dying for something I believe in.”

He reversed his grip on the gun and swung it in one easy movement, hitting the agent smartly across the back of the head and driving him into unconsciousness. No doubt he would wake up with a horrible headache and Illya was a little concerned at how little that bothered him.

The things he had said were not true. Empty words coming from one who did not even know him. And yet...

“So there it is.” Kurt's voice rang out behind him and he cursed himself for not having noticed the man approaching. He turned swiftly to see Kurt standing on the landing, a gun in his hand and a contemptuous smile on his lips. “I've got to hand it to you, you almost had me fooled. All those pretty words and you're still just an UNCLE spy.”

Kurt had seen him spare the other agent. And he could see the conviction in Kurt's eyes and he knew immediately that he was never going to be able to convince him. No matter what Illya said, this was it, Kurt would be telling everyone he was a double agent.

“I have the codes,” he said, taking them out of his jacket by way of being a distraction.

“Good.” Kurt scowled at him for a second. “They're still useful. Put your gun down on the floor and walk over to me. I'm taking you back to Rex and this time we're going to do things my way. I'll show you what torture really means, and then when I'm through, I'll send you back to Waverly a piece at a time.”

He laid his gun down and walked unhurriedly up the stairs towards Kurt, the codes held aloft in his right hand to give Kurt something to focus on, which meant he missed it when Illya suddenly lashed out with his left hand, throwing the gun aside. A struggle ensued, fast and brutal and silent, as each fought for the upper hand until Illya kneed Kurt in the stomach sending him backwards, and then Kurt, with his greater strength and bulk charged towards him. The balustrade was behind him. He dropped low and shoved up at the last moment, and Kurt went over the edge and crashed down five floors to the concrete floor at the bottom.

He was already certain but he checked anyway. Kurt was dead.

For a long moment he stood there, gripping the railing tightly, still breathing hard from the fight. This had not been part of the plan. And while he didn't exactly regret Kurt's death, everything was getting twisted up in complications.

Alright. He would plead ignorance. Say he hadn't seen Kurt since they split up, that he'd thought it best to just carry on. He still had the codes, perhaps that would be enough.

With one last look at the man he had killed, he turned back up the stairs to retrieve his gun and get out.

*

By some strange quirk of fate, Napoleon found that he and Marco Cortese had arrived at Washington HQ seconds before the power went off. The building went into lock down immediately.

“The back-up generators will kick in in a few minutes,” Connie, the pretty red head on reception told him.

He nodded. A few minutes could be too long in an attack. Was this Illya? He couldn't be sure, and he certainly couldn't assume that Illya was trusted to handle everything by himself. “We'd better go and check this out,” he told Marco.

“Right.” Marco smiled in anticipation, his lips pulled back across his teeth, just a little too eager.

They met up with a Section III named Cowley near the entrance and they worked to get as many of the support personnel hidden away in the conference room as possible. They should be safe there. Apparently most of the rest of Section III had been at the morning briefing – held at the same time each day, stupidly – and the time when they should have appeared came and went right along with the time the back-up generators should bring the automated security system back online. Both had apparently been taken care of.

Seriously, Illya? Just a little less competent?

With the civilians safe, they left Cowley guarding them and moved deeper into the building. Nothing about this felt right. His gun was in his hand and his mouth was strangely dry.

“Do you think it's Kuryakin?” Marco asked intently, taking him by surprise.

“Probably,” he said shortly. “It's too much of a coincidence otherwise.” Illya was here. Now. With THRUSH. And they had to be allowed to leave, and that meant he had to keep Marco away.

There was a noise from further down the corridor and he signalled Marco to wait behind while he went forwards to investigate. Huh. The door to the security centre had been fused shut and someone was hammering on the other side of it – presumably the rest of Section III. This seemed like a good opportunity to leave Marco away. “See if you can get that door open,” he instructed. “We might need to evacuate the building.”

For a moment, Marco stared at him. “Are you sure?” he asked cautiously. “If it is the traitor....maybe I should be the one to go.”

It took Napoleon a moment to understand why. He took a deep breath. “Are you questioning my professionalism?” he asked, with just a touch of the cold reminder of his authority in his voice.

“Of course not,” Marco said hurriedly, shifting uncomfortably. “Just...remember Mark, and make sure to shoot first.”

Hardly advice he was likely to take. He left Marco behind and moved on. Really, maybe what he should do here is try and find a quiet corner to stay out of sight. He was supposed to be letting Illya go. Except his own curiosity wouldn't allow him to do that, and still he couldn't be completely sure that it was safe to do so. (And he wanted to see Illya.) He pressed on.

The metal corridors so favoured by UNCLE architects had the disadvantage of making it difficult to hear where sound was coming from. He heard the voices – recognised Illya's voice - echoing from further ahead, but he had no idea precisely where they were.

“....where is he.....was with you?”

“....I did not...we wait....”

He couldn't tell how far ahead they were either, which was why he turned the corner towards the garage entrance and walked straight into Illya and his new friend.

For a second, nobody moved. A breathless tableau, and Napoleon stared at the gun held in his partner's hand, the gun pointing directly at his chest, and he was thankful for the reflex that aimed his own gun, the unthinking instinct that made his lip curl into the necessary hateful snarl.

“Illya,” he spat, wondering only a fraction of a second later whether he should have used Illya's surname.

“Napoleon,” Illya replied steadily, gun never wavering.

The THRUSH man was right there. And the little snatch of conversation he had heard, suggested that all was not well. For Illya's sake, he had to make this real. Not least because Illya was a shade paler than the last time Napoleon had seen him, and there was an unsettled look in his eyes, and dark shadows beneath them.

“So how is life as a traitor treating you?”

Even if he wanted to, he couldn't take the shot. Not without Illya shooting him. But why hadn't the other THRUSH man shot yet? He was the one from the photograph, the one Illya had met in the bar, and no one was pointing a gun at him.

Illya sighed as though disappointed. “Must you think in such black and white terms? Yes, I have joined THRUSH. I am sure by now you have heard my reasons. I wished to keep on living. Is that so shocking to you?”

“I trusted you,” he said evenly, hoping that Illya could hear that it was the past tense that was the lie. “I thought we were friends.”

For a moment, as Illya looked at him, he catches sight of something in his eyes, something that passes too quickly for him to interpret. “That was your mistake.”

A sudden bang from back down the corridor interrupted them – Marco getting the security centre door open, Napoleon suspected – and he was thankful because it meant he could take advantage of the distraction to jump back behind the corner and into cover, and he saw Illya dive behind a filing cabinet while the Thrushie darted down the corridor towards the garage door.

“I'll hold him back,” Illya called, and he couldn't get past how strange it was hearing Illya make plans with the other side. “You get the door.”

Which would also be locked down. At least with Illya being the one shooting at him he could count on not dying here, he thought, as a bullet flew past and buried itself in the wall on the other side of the corridor.

“Was it all a lie?” he demanded loudly as he returned fire, carefully making sure the darts hit the side of the filing cabinet with a satisfying – but harmless – crack. “How can you turn your back on everything you – we – believe in?”

“Ideology? Really?” Illya gave a scornful laugh. “The job means we lie, deceive, steal, destroy and kill people, Napoleon. All on orders. I have never cared about the reasons behind those, and you are a fool if you think otherwise. I have skills that I can exchange for my life and for a comfortable lifestyle. That is all that matters.”

There was something uncomfortable about Illya's words. This wasn't what Napoleon had always laughingly referred to as Illya's Rasputin act, dark, dramatic and overblown. It wasn't even the mask of cold and dangerous formality that Illya wore all too often when they were working in Eastern block countries. No, this was something else – ruthless, dispassionate, yes, but there was too much of Illya here, too much that Napoleon recognised. It was like seeing his friend through a dark mirror, recognisable but alien.

“Besides,” Illya added, bright cruelty in his voice. “I would remind you of your dalliances with Angelique, Serena, and countless others. All THRUSH and their allegiances do not bother you. Why so much disgust at mine? Don't tell me I mean more to you. Or could it be that you see me as a thinking human being, while they are merely pretty distractions? Empty vessels, perhaps?”

Napoleon took a deep breath. That would sting coming from anyone. From Illya, it hurt. And it was very THRUSH. Looking for the weak spots, toying with their prey. And he had to answer back. “I suppose I shouldn't have been surprised,” he sneered. “You've always been good at leaving people behind, haven't you? Abandoning them without a second thought, like so much garbage.” He could go on. The words were there, cruel enough that there would be no doubt left that Napoleon Solo hated Illya Kuryakin absolutely. 'Your mother. Your sister. You left them to die.' But he didn't think he could keep the venom in his voice.

(He thought Illya might have heard him say it anyway.)

Another three bullets came his way, hitting further away this time, and he winced and wondered if Illya didn't trust himself to aim too close.

And now he knew Illya would have to reload, which meant for a second he could relax, even as he heard Illya calling out to him. “This was not my choice in the end. Waverly forced my hand. He looked me in the eye and - “

A shot rang out. He was cut off. And when Napoleon looked round the corner, he saw Illya lying on the ground, a pool of blood already spreading out from under him.

“Illya!”

His mouth was clamped shut. That wasn't his voice, full of shock and worry.

He watched as the THRUSH agent rushed forwards to where Illya was lying, and he had the shot and he longed to take it as he saw the man put his hands on Illya, checking him over. If Illya was badly hurt....if Illya was dead....then this affair was already over, but the wound seemed to be in Illya's shoulder, and he would recover. Should recover, even if Napoleon stood back and let THRUSH take him.

“Come on, tovarisch,” the THRUSH agent said fondly, and Napoleon felt his heart twist. “Let's get out of here,” and he was pulling Illya up, an arm beneath his shoulders another wrapped around his waist, dragging him towards the garage. Napoleon made to follow, but he had to dodge back as the agent fired wildly back towards him.

And then they were gone. Illya was gone.

Napoleon looked back from the trail of sticky red blood, round into Marco Cortese's jubilant smile and forced himself to return it. “Good shot,” he heard himself say from some distant nightmare. “A pity they got away. Next time go for the kneecaps.”

Comments

[lindafishes8.livejournal.com]

Playing the part of a traitor is obviously difficult for Illya. Loved everything about the chapter, the snarky dialogue with Lucie, Illya's doubts about himself, and how he was able to take care of Kurt. After this chapter, no one at THRUSH will question his loyalties. Really juicy fic!

[otherhawk.livejournal.com]

Thank you! I think it'd be difficult for him, because it's just not him. Really glad you're still enjoying this fic.