"A T.H.R.U.S.H. and his fez are seldom parted" Chapter 7

[mrua7.livejournal.com]

                                       


The Thrushman Bukhari sat with the General in his office, sipping tea from a fine porcelain china cup and saucer and leisurely reached across to a plate of scones sitting on the desk, selecting one for himself. If anything Akinbade brought some semblance of civilization to this accursed country. Given the General was rather rotund; he had no difficulty indulging himself in the earthly pleasures of fine food and drink, in spite of people starving all around him.

He adjusted his red fez, as he mused about Napoleon Solo being taken prisoner, and not having had to lift a finger himself to capture U.N.C.L.E.'s top agent.

It would be a cherry on top of a sundae if Kuryakin were captured, as then he'd have his codes back. He could take Solo to Central in triumph and have their scientists suck his brain dry of any information vital to U.N.C.L.E. Kuryakin he would leave in the artful hands of the Russian Colonel Zakhrov, to do with him as he pleased...though that pleasure would end in the eventual death of the agent.

Though enjoying  that result, Bukhari still cringed at the thought of the Colonel's fury being unleashed on that little Russian mongrel. It would be quite vicious, no doubt. Kuryakin would get what he deserved, and he would have his revenge against the man, again, without ever having to lift a finger.

This little partnership arrangement he'd made with Akingbade and Zakhrov was turning out to be quite efficacious.

He pushed his fez forward in a sigh of satisfaction as he thought about the fruits of their labors and he bit into the delicious scone.

T.H.R.U.S.H. would have its presence behind the government of Nigeria, and the Russians would be there with military and arms support. Once the dust settled, this would be quite a feather in his fez and might garner him a position on the Thrush Council. Solo and Kuryakin, though an inconvenience, would be a nice bonus to his plans.

He relished that idea with great satisfaction...

.

Napoleon's head was spinning from the drug they'd injected into him, and as they dragged him out into the blinding sun, he forced his eyes shut from the sudden pain of the bright light. When he opened them again, he saw dozens of dark-skinned prisoners gathering round, speaking in a language he unfortunately did not understand but their tone of voice sounded sympathetic to his maltreatment.

He was brought to the middle of the prison yard, and thrown on the ground beside a large piece of canvas. There his shackles were removed and as they lifted the cloth, a deep pit dug into the ground was revealed. The pit, as Zakhrov had called it, was literally that.

The guards rolled the American over, dropping him into the deep hole, covered it with bars made of wood, and flipped the canvas back into place, leaving a small opening for minimal ventilation.

Napoleon moaned as he pushed himself up to a sitting position, letting his eyes readjust to the darkness, and focusing on the slit of hot sunlight shining through the opening in the canvas. There was a terrible stench present, and when he turned, he realized he had company.

A corpse...one of the other prisoners. His body was beginning to putrefy in the heat and there were maggots everywhere. Napoleon gagged, bringing up nothing but stomach bile. He could feel pain creeping into his senses as the serum seemed to be deadening it for now, but the violence of his retching hadn't helped matters at all.

He moved as far away as he could from the body, holding his hand over his nose and mouth, for all the good it would do to ward off the stench.

Within minutes the air was sweltering. There was nothing there, no water to drink and with his head still spinning, Napoleon pressed his body to the ground, absorbing what coolness it offered.

"Illya, where are you buddy?" He whispered as he closed his eyes.

The effects of the truth serum were finally wearing off, allowing his pain to rear its ugly head, and he began to shake. He wrapped his arms around his stomach, and hoped there were no broken ribs. He could feel the sweat trickling down from his skin and without water he knew he wouldn't last long.

Napoleon wondered if this was it...the end of the Solo luck.

He closed his eyes, drifting off until he heard a voice yelling, with the canvas and bars removed from the pit. Napoleon had no idea how long he'd been in there as they lifted him out.

The guards dragged him over to post set in the middle of the the yard, and there he was bound, forced to stand in in the blazing sun. Not long after his knees began to buckle.

Solo was becoming delirious from lack of water, and becoming overheated and begged for a drink, but the guards would only laugh at him.

Every once in a while one of them would take a bucket of water, tossing it on the American, but still giving him nothing to drink. As the rivulets of water ran down his face, Napoleon tried desperately to catch some of it with his tongue.

Finally he was given a cup of water, and he gulped greedily getting little as they pulled it away from his lips.

"More," he croaked, his throat still parched.

"You take what you gettin'," a guard laughed at him.

Every time one of them passed him, they hit him with a thin wooden rod, the type used as a prod for camels. The welts on his chest and face stung, but still the rest of the pain coursing through his body, dimmed by comparison..

It was late in the afternoon, Napoleon was finally released and returned to Zakhrov. He was sat down, and next to him on a table was a pitcher and a glass of water. His wrists were tied to the arms of the chair.

"So Comrade Solo, are you ready to tell me where the Triad Codes are?" Zakhrov spoke gently this time. "Tell me and I will give you all the water you want, and food...plenty of mouth watering succulent food for you to eat."

"Please, give me some water and I'll tell you the truth," Napoleon rasped.

"Ah, good. You have finally come to your senses, but I must say you have lasted longer than I thought you would. You are a credit to your organization and their training."

He handed Napoleon a glass of water and watch as he gulped it down, emptying the glass.

"More please?"

"Very well," Zakhrov filled the glass from the pitcher and after Napoleon downed his second glass of water, he demanded his answer.

"Now as you promised, I want the truth. Where are the Triad Codes?"

"The truth is...I haven't a clue," Solo tried laughing but it sounded more like a croaking frog. "My partner never told me what he did with them. I'm only aware that he did indeed steal then. That's the God's honest truth, Scouts honor."

"Enough!" The Colonel bellowed. "You think you can still play your games with me?"

"I'm not lying. It's the truth."

Zakhrov bellowed his displeasure as he lashed out, slamming his fist into Solo's chin, knocking him unconscious.

"Uvedite yego v kartser. On ne budet dano ni yedy, ni vody._put him in a cell. He will be given no food or water."

.

Illya watched as they dragged his partner out of the building where he suspected they were holding him, and as they dumped him into a sweatbox of sorts in the ground, he knew he would have to move with greater alacrity if he were to effect a rescue.

What he was able to see of his partners condition did not look good...there was a lot of blood.

He surveyed the circumference of the camp, looking for any weaknesses that would allow him to gain access, but found none.

Hours later, Illya observed as they took Solo from the pit, dragging the man's limp body to a nearby pole and stringing him up by his arms. They let him hang there for house in the hot sun, periodically a guard approached with a wooden bucket of water and threw it in his face, and Illya watched as Napoleon struggled, trying to lick some of it into his thirsty mouth.

One guard finally gave Napoleon a drink from a wooden cup and he watched as it was barely touched to his lips before it was taken away.

Solo was filthy, soaked with perspiration. His face was swollen and bruised and there was dried blood on his wrists and arms.

Napoleon was beaten with switches by other guards...

Kuryakin closed his eyes, as he knew it was time. He could not let Napoleon suffer any further; there was no way into the camp to save him...yes it was time. He grimaced as he assembled his carbine, putting the sight in place to complete the conversion.

Illya raised the rifle, aiming it at his partner, but felt overwhelmed as tears welled up in his eyes. He wiped them away and raised the rifle again, still hesitating.

"No, I will not do this. I will free you somehow." He swore to himself, lowering his weapon and continuing to watch as they took Napoleon down from the pole and dragged him off to another building.

It was then he heard the noise, the sound of patrol dogs and they were approaching quickly.

"Oh shit," he blurted out in English. He rose from his crouched position and ran.

Illya could hear them gaining on him as they caught his scent as he dashed through the underbrush; his heart pounding and breathing coming hard as he tried to put as much distance as he could between them.

It was a losing battle as their barking grew nearer. He couldn't surrender, not to such a frightening sort of death. Anything seemed preferable to being torn apart by dogs.

The heat was positively overwhelming and it sapped his strength so much that he stumbled over a downed tree, sending his carbine flying out of his hands. That was when the dogs found him and in an instant they were on him, two huge slobbering black dogs with long yellowed fangs bared as they dove for his throat.

This was one of his nightmares come to life, as he not only hated dogs; he still carried an inexplicable dread of them that could be traced back to his childhood and subsequently to his training days in the GRU.

He had fought against this phobia all his life and won each battle, but not the war. His victories never made the fear go away. In those instances he always had an advantage...a gun, a knife or a stick but now he was without anything to protect himself.

Illya held his arms up in a defensive position, trying desperately to insulate himself as the beasts bit into his forearms, clamping down with their sharp teeth and breaking the skin as they tore and pulled at him.

He let out a scream, acknowledging not only the pain but his terror of being ripped apart by these mad canines.

"Stoi, Masha, Stoi Sonya!" The handler ordered in Russian, and instantly the dogs ceased their attack. "Reliz! " The dogs backed off, sitting behind their handler like two ebony statues of Anubis.

Illya lay there still curled up in a fetal position, the sleeves of his shirt ripped to shreds and his arms and chest covered in blood. He shook violently, letting out a moan from the shock.

"Vstavat'!" The handler yelled as he kicked the downed agent in the side, telling him to get up.

"Ya na mogu dvgat' sya." Illya refused as he moaned. " I need help, please. The dogs have injured me too much."

The soldier leaned forward, grabbing Illya by the shirt collar, intending to pull him upwards.

At that moment Kuryakin sprang his trap, grabbing the Kalashnikov rifle from the man's hands and slamming the butt up under his chin, rolling immediately to the side; he shot the dogs, both in mid-flight as they leapt to the aid of their master.

Comments

[svetlanacat4.livejournal.com]

EEEEEKKKK.... Chap 8 soon? Please? Please?
Well done, Comrade Kuryakin...

[glennagirl.livejournal.com]

Oh Wow! Excellent turn of events in that past paragraph. I fully expected IK to be dragged away into the cruelty of his fellow Soviet. It gets better and better. Skip work tomorrow, you need to finish this one ASAP.

[mrua7.livejournal.com]

Knew this one would get you all excited. Yes, chapter 8 soon. Thankd for the great comment!

[mrua7.livejournal.com]

Skip work? hahahhhaaah hahahaa! There's going to be at least 2-3 more chapters before this one finishes. This was a really gripping chapter, wasn't it? :D Thanks for the really cool cooment!