Paris Nights
Apr. 24th, 2013 09:49 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
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section7mfuTwo men walked among debris and tumbled bricks. What this spot lacked in ambience was overshadowed by the sense of danger it exuded.
“So Illya, how does it feel to be back in Paris? Do you still love the City of Lights?”
The Russian snorted at the comment.
“I find it … How to say it? It is less romantic, perhaps, than I would have liked. This is not exactly the kind of neighborhood in which I lived.”
Napoleon Solo chuckled. No one should have to live in a neighborhood like this, especially when THRUSH was part of the local color.
A noise alerted the UNCLE agents to another presence in this slum, potentially a deadly one. Without a word the two communicated their intentions to separate and wait to see who it might be. Solo took the doorway to their left, Kuryakin a large trash bin on the right. As the small blond squeezed in between the battered can and a crumbling brick wall, another sound was heard.
Napoleon tumbled out of the doorway and onto the littered alleyway. Behind his crumpled body a figure emerged.
“Come out, come out my little Russian UNCLE agent. I know you are here, and if I don’t see your pretty blond head I will put a hole in his brown one. Comprenez vouz?”
Illya had no choice but to come out from behind his hiding spot and face the woman holding a gun over his partner.
“Hello Monique. I see you are still as charming as ever.”
The woman was tall and well dressed in a black Chanel suit accented by a string of pearls. It was an incongruous sight, more like a fashion editorial than a real life encounter with one of THRUSH’s more devious assassins.
“Mon cher, you flatter me. Of course you also lie, but I will forgive you since it will most likely be the last one you tell.”
Illya saw a flicker of movement from Napoleon; an arched brow, nothing more. It was all he needed.
“Oh, I don’t know about that, Monique. For instance, I might tell you that this position is known to our other associates and you are now in their sights. We have drawn you out just as we planned.”
The woman laughed, a surprisingly delicate sound considering the list of men she had killed. In truth they had not come here looking for Monique, and to be found by her was galling to the Russian.
In a movement so keenly calculated that it defied detection, Napoleon grabbed the woman’s ankle and jerked hard on it, causing her to fall from the heights of her three inch heels and down into a puddle of water and oil. She squawked like a bird, firing off a shot that pinged against some of the old brick. Shards splintered into small projectiles, some of them landing in Kuryakin’s scalp. He ignored them and held his weapon steady on the THRUSH assassin while his partner sprang up from the ground, kicking away her gun.
“Nice work, Napoleon. It seems we have caught ourselves a bonus this time. It seems Paris has been good to us after all.”
Monique glared at the UNCLE agents and then smiled as she bit down on the cyanide capsule. She knew the end when it came, and like the assassin she was, it was of her choosing. Illya and Napoleon were momentarily stunned by her action, unable to stop the poison from doing its work as she writhed at the effects and then died, falling back into the dirty pool of water into which she had fallen.
“Call it in, will you…’
The American felt a surge of dizziness hit him. It might be the bump on his head. He looked down at Monique, her face contorted by the effects of the cyanide.
“City of Lights … no more lights for you, my dear.”
Napoleon sat down on the stoop to the old building from which she had emerged only moments earlier; he was never able to rejoice over the death of another human being, even one whose life had been perverted by blood lust.
Not even a night in Paris could make this scene one he would want to remember.
“So Illya, how does it feel to be back in Paris? Do you still love the City of Lights?”
The Russian snorted at the comment.
“I find it … How to say it? It is less romantic, perhaps, than I would have liked. This is not exactly the kind of neighborhood in which I lived.”
Napoleon Solo chuckled. No one should have to live in a neighborhood like this, especially when THRUSH was part of the local color.
A noise alerted the UNCLE agents to another presence in this slum, potentially a deadly one. Without a word the two communicated their intentions to separate and wait to see who it might be. Solo took the doorway to their left, Kuryakin a large trash bin on the right. As the small blond squeezed in between the battered can and a crumbling brick wall, another sound was heard.
Napoleon tumbled out of the doorway and onto the littered alleyway. Behind his crumpled body a figure emerged.
“Come out, come out my little Russian UNCLE agent. I know you are here, and if I don’t see your pretty blond head I will put a hole in his brown one. Comprenez vouz?”
Illya had no choice but to come out from behind his hiding spot and face the woman holding a gun over his partner.
“Hello Monique. I see you are still as charming as ever.”
The woman was tall and well dressed in a black Chanel suit accented by a string of pearls. It was an incongruous sight, more like a fashion editorial than a real life encounter with one of THRUSH’s more devious assassins.
“Mon cher, you flatter me. Of course you also lie, but I will forgive you since it will most likely be the last one you tell.”
Illya saw a flicker of movement from Napoleon; an arched brow, nothing more. It was all he needed.
“Oh, I don’t know about that, Monique. For instance, I might tell you that this position is known to our other associates and you are now in their sights. We have drawn you out just as we planned.”
The woman laughed, a surprisingly delicate sound considering the list of men she had killed. In truth they had not come here looking for Monique, and to be found by her was galling to the Russian.
In a movement so keenly calculated that it defied detection, Napoleon grabbed the woman’s ankle and jerked hard on it, causing her to fall from the heights of her three inch heels and down into a puddle of water and oil. She squawked like a bird, firing off a shot that pinged against some of the old brick. Shards splintered into small projectiles, some of them landing in Kuryakin’s scalp. He ignored them and held his weapon steady on the THRUSH assassin while his partner sprang up from the ground, kicking away her gun.
“Nice work, Napoleon. It seems we have caught ourselves a bonus this time. It seems Paris has been good to us after all.”
Monique glared at the UNCLE agents and then smiled as she bit down on the cyanide capsule. She knew the end when it came, and like the assassin she was, it was of her choosing. Illya and Napoleon were momentarily stunned by her action, unable to stop the poison from doing its work as she writhed at the effects and then died, falling back into the dirty pool of water into which she had fallen.
“Call it in, will you…’
The American felt a surge of dizziness hit him. It might be the bump on his head. He looked down at Monique, her face contorted by the effects of the cyanide.
“City of Lights … no more lights for you, my dear.”
Napoleon sat down on the stoop to the old building from which she had emerged only moments earlier; he was never able to rejoice over the death of another human being, even one whose life had been perverted by blood lust.
Not even a night in Paris could make this scene one he would want to remember.
