section7mfu | Higher Objectives, Chapter 9

Napoleon let out a quiet sigh.

When am I going to learn to trust that gut instinct of mine? he silently chastised himself. Now was not the time to dwell upon it, however; Illya needed his assistance.

“Alright, Dwayne. Thanks for your help.”

He ended the talk and now began to focus on his next task. The homing device had stopped moving now; they had reached their destination. They were keeping Illya in Brooklyn for the moment; Napoleon had to find them before he was moved elsewhere, somewhere more out-of-reach, or worse—tortured or killed.

And even as Napoleon was heading for that spot, Illya was taking a look around at the dilapidated, old building that he had been forced into; the house had been abandoned for a long time—threadbare carpets, dust-covered furniture, and walls decorated with the graffiti of young troublemakers surrounded him.

“Your Mr. Hoover couldn’t spring for The Ritz?” he deadpanned at his captors. He was stalling for time; even his gut was suspecting that these so-called G-men were ersatz.

All he could do was continue to stall, and hope that if he couldn’t find an opening for an escape himself, then he could be able to count on Napoleon to be the ace up his sleeve.

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