section7mfu | "A T.H.R.U.S.H. and his fez are seldom parted" Chapter 2

link to chapter 1: http://section7mfu.livejournal.com/412363.html

As the agents entered the market, the place became even more crowded, offering them less view of anyone approaching, yet at the same time the congestion gave them some cover.

The place was filled with umbrella and lean-to covered stands; merchants selling their wares piled in crates and woven baskets, everything from animals, fruit, clothing, trinkets and most importantly to the Russian, roasting meat.

They stepped up to a woman selling the goat meat kababs, using a half a beat up oil drum as her grill. She’d filled it with stones to help maintain the heat from the burning wood.

Illya held up two fingers, and coin to the woman, and was handed two skewers, one for himself the other for his partner.

“Seun,” he said, thanking her.

Napoleon crinkled his nose for a second time, looking at the kabob and how it had been prepared, but changed his mind when he found the aroma surprisingly enticing as the meat was cooked with bits of onions...his favorite garnish, next to ketchup. He bit into it and nodded his approval, pleasantly surprised that it tasted a bit like lamb but with a little spice to it.

“Not bad, chum. Hey, I didn’t know you spoke Nigerian.”

“Not Nigerian. I said thank you in Yoruba, one of their main dialects. Unfortunately I know only a few words and am lacking in fluency, something I need to remedy.” Illya dug into his feast with the enthusiasm of a starving man.

“You’re kidding, a language you actually don’t speak? My heart be still.” Solo grabbed his chest, mocking the moment.

His partner ignored his joke.“Yes, there are a fair few that I have yet still to master.” Illya had his kabob half gone and was contemplating a second when he spotted them, the tell-tale red fezzes.

“Awww, we have company,” pointed out with a nod of his head as he swallowed the last piece of meat from the skewer.

They walked from the stand, trying not to draw attention to themselves, but it was no use as the Thrushmen had spotted them and were already moving their way.

The U.N.C.L.E. agents took off, shoving their way through the market, and in the process knocked over a few people with their wares careening in different directions. There were curses uttered and shaking fists as the two robed men were chased by four men with red fezzes.

That caught the attention of the soldiers who in turn took off behind the Thrushmen, and it became a free-for-all as they all ran out from the bazaar to one of the narrow streets adjoining it.

‘Split up!” Napoleon called, watching his partner instantly pivot, going left as he went right.

The Thrush operatives went straight after Illya, no surprise there, but the soldiers went after Solo. He ran, making turn after turn as the streets became narrow alleys where one could barely see the sky above, until finally his luck ran out as he hit a dead end.

Napoleon stopped, raising his hands above his head as he heard the sounds of weapons being cocked behind him, and he turned slowly to face them.

“Excuse me, but you wouldn’t happen to know where there’s a men’s room, I’ve been running around trying to find one and haven’t had a bit of success,” he shrugged his shoulders trying to look blissfully innocent.

Solo's demeanor and question were to no avail as a rifle butt came down on his head, knocking him out cold.

Illya dodged through a small alleyway, hoping his four pursuers had missed it and as he kept moving forward, he realized he’d run right into dead end. Looking around quickly, there was nothing there to offer him any coverage. Some large potted plants, lines of laundry, a few awning-covered doors to private homes, but there was simply nowhere to hide.

The red-fezzed men tore around the corner, guessing the Russian had gone there but as they reached the end of the alleyway they found it empty.

They pounded on the doors, opened by some very angry husbands, being protective of their wives and homes as they yelled out in Arabic at the men for their insolence.

“Curse that son of a dog. He got away from us again,"Hassan el-Hazziz barked as he and his men left the alley. “If Central gets word of this, we are dead men for certain. This is the second time that accursed Kuryakin has stolen the Triad Codes.”

Their voices trailed off and when everything became silent, with only the muffled echoes of city life filling the air, Illya Kuryakin rolled out from atop of one of the awnings, landing softly on his feet like a cat. He grabbed a grey robe from the laundry line, leaving his... a much better quality robe in trade, then pulling up the hood, he verified the fezzes had gone, allowing him to disappear to the narrow city streets.

He stepped into the shadows after doubling back, pulling out his communicator.

“Channel F,” he whispered. “Napoleon?” No answer. That could mean one of two things, his partner was still on the run and couldn’t respond or he was in trouble. Illya activated a homing device, locking in on the communicator's transponder. Thankfully it was still active. There was a fairly strong signal, and the Russian hoped Napoleon and his communicator had not become separated.

Kuryakin moved quickly, slipping in and out among the pedestrians on the streets, arriving back at the bazaar just in time to see the limp form of his partner being lifted by soldiers into the back of a canvas covered deuce and a half military truck.

“Chyort…” Illya whispered a curse under his breath.

"A T.H.R.U.S.H. and his fez are seldom parted" Chapter 2

no subject

no subject