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section7mfuOf all the times for Solo not to be on time, this had to rank amongst the worst; at least, according to Illya. If Napoleon hadn’t called to say he was running behind, the Russian wouldn’t have gone into the diner for a cup of coffee. If he hadn’t gone into the diner, he wouldn’t have ended up in the middle of an armed robbery.
As he sat at the counter, Illya tried to mind his own business, but his training and instincts meant he was always on alert. As a result, he was aware of the older couple in one booth, the four teens in another booth, the two men at the counter but especially the two young men in the corner. Their body language broadcast to anyone watching that they were up to no good. The glimpse of a pistol butt beneath the coat of one of them was more than enough to tell Kuryakin what was about to happen. Knowing he was fast enough to draw his own weapon and dart both men before they could properly do anything, Illya kept a close eye on them. Unfortunately, at the critical moment, the waitress asked him if he wanted a refill. He was only distracted for a couple of seconds, but it was long enough.
“Everyone get down on the floor!” yelled the shorter of the young men, swinging the gun around.
Everyone complied with the exception of Illya. He got down from the stool and held his hands out in a conciliatory gesture. Talking people down was more Napoleon’s area, but Illya had talked his way out of bad situations in the past. His major worry with this one, though, was that these guys were desperate, edgy and obviously out of their depth.
“I would advise you not to follow this course of events.”
“What’s it to you Blondie?” Shorty shouted, aiming the weapon at Illya’s face. “Get onto the floor!”
Kuryakin didn’t react, other than to relax his posture; showing he wasn’t a threat. The other man, whom the Russian mentally called Scruffy because of his unkempt appearance, pointed his gun and the group of teens.
“He said, get down, Blondie.”
Having no other choice at that time, Illya did as instructed, and dropped to his knees; careful to make sure his special stayed covered. If only he could have covered the sound of his communicator, which chose that moment to start beeping. He ignored it, but it was clear to everyone where the sound was coming from.
“What’s that?” demanded Shorty.
“It’s my pager,” the agent replied. “If I don’t answer it, someone will come looking for me.”
“Why? Are you important?”
“Not at all.”
Shorty was clearly agitated, unsure what to do. This made him all the more dangerous.
“Answer it,” he snapped. “But no funny business.”
As he slid his hand into his jacket, he felt the gun snuggly sitting in its holster. It took him a split second to dismiss it. He could take out Shorty, but he was partially blocking Scruffy. It would be too risky. Instead, he pulled out the communicator and activated it.
“Kuryakin.”
“Mr Kuryakin, what took you so long to answer?”
“Sorry Sir,” Illya replied to the rough voice of Mr Waverly, but not giving a reason.
“When do you and Mr Solo expect to arrive in Miami? The timing of this mission is tight.”
“We haven’t set off yet Sir, Mr Solo is running late and I’m held up myself.”
Waverly muttered something about agents doing what they damn well pleased, then requested an ETA as soon as it was known. Putting the communicator away, he looked up to see Shorty had stepped closer.
“Who are you?” he snarled.
“My name is Kuryakin, and I’m nobody.”
The weapon was pressed to his forehead. “Don’t mess with me, man. You’ve got walkie-talkie in a pen and you get sent on missions. Are you some sort of secret agent?”
“I am Illya Kuryakin of the United Network Command for Law and Enforcement.”
“Crap!” Scruffy exclaimed. “He’s a damn cop.”
“Is that right, Blondie? Are you a cop?”
“In a way.”
Without warning, Shorty smacked Illya on the side of the head with the pistol. Pain exploded through the Russian’s skull and he saw stars. He shook his head in an effort to clear his vision, just as the communicator beeped again. At a nod from Shorty, he answered it.
“Hey, Tovarisch,” came the, too chirpy, voice of Napoleon Solo. “I’m here, where are you?”
“I’m going to be a while, grabiteli (gunmen),” Illya replied, his words slightly slurred. “You’d better go without me, zalozhniki (hostages).”
“Okay,” Solo responded, understanding what Illya was saying to him. “I’ll see you when you’re free.”
“What were those words you were saying?” Scruffy called over. “Was it code?”
“No,” Kuryakin lied. “They were just words of friendship. Just as you would say man, or dude.”
“They sound Russian,” snarled Shorty. “Are you a Russkie?”
“I just had a thought,” announced Scruffy, before Illya could respond. “If he’s a cop, then he’s probably armed.”
Shorty cocked his head to one side in silent question. With his fingertips, Kuryakin withdrew the special and handed it over. Shorty whistled in appreciation.
“Nice,” he breathed.
Shorty pointed the special at the waitress, keeping his own gun locked on Illya, and demanded she fill a bag with cash. The terrified woman, who was sobbing almost uncontrollably, immediately did as she was told.
“What is your plan for when you’ve got your money?” Illya asked him calmly. “Are you going to kill everyone? Then what? As soon as you start shooting, you’ll draw outside attention. Even if you do manage to get away from here, my organisation has resources the police can only dream about. Give yourselves up to me now, and it will go much better for you.”
“Yeah right, Blondie,” Shorty scoffed. “How about I use your gun to shoot them all and incriminate you?”
“That wouldn’t be a smart move. Let them all go and you’ll still have me as a hostage.”
Illya really didn’t like how jumpy Shorty seemed to be getting, and it was reflecting onto Scruffy. There was no way to predict how this was going to end, but the odds were on a bloodbath. He couldn’t wait for it to play out and he couldn’t wait for Solo.
“I don’t think so,” Shorty told him, as he pulled the trigger on the Special.
The waitress dropped to the floor, unconscious, and Kuryakin thanked whatever force had prompted him to arm himself with darts, rather than bullets that morning. The shock of the gun not doing as expected caused enough of a distraction for Illya to make a move. In the space of two seconds, he dived forward, pulled Shorty down with him, grabbed the robber’s gun and shot Scruffy in the thigh. By the time everyone had stopped screaming, Illya had gathered up all the guns and had his own trained on Shorty.
“What are your names?” he asked, with a voice as hard as steel.
“I . . . I’m Danny and that is Dean.”
“Help him to a seat while I sort your mess out.”
Illya told everyone that the situation was over, but asked no-one to leave as the police would need statements. The owner of the diner was immensely relieved to learn that his waitress was only asleep, and not actually dead. As soon as everyone was calm, Illya contacted Solo.
“I no longer need the cavalry, Napoleon,” he explained. “The situation is diffused, but an ambulance and the police will be needed.”
“How many casualties?” Solo asked.
“One gunshot wound, non-lethal.”
“Okay, Pal. We traced your location. I’ll be there shortly.”
. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
An hour later, the robbers had been taken away, the other diner patrons had given their statements, and Illya was drinking a cup of coffee and eating a free piece of apple pie.
“What is happening with the mission?” he asked his partner.
“Mark and April have been sent,” Napoleon assured him. “Honestly Tovarisch, can’t you even go for coffee without getting into trouble?”
“Next time you’re late my friend, I’ll just keep waiting where I am.”
As he sat at the counter, Illya tried to mind his own business, but his training and instincts meant he was always on alert. As a result, he was aware of the older couple in one booth, the four teens in another booth, the two men at the counter but especially the two young men in the corner. Their body language broadcast to anyone watching that they were up to no good. The glimpse of a pistol butt beneath the coat of one of them was more than enough to tell Kuryakin what was about to happen. Knowing he was fast enough to draw his own weapon and dart both men before they could properly do anything, Illya kept a close eye on them. Unfortunately, at the critical moment, the waitress asked him if he wanted a refill. He was only distracted for a couple of seconds, but it was long enough.
“Everyone get down on the floor!” yelled the shorter of the young men, swinging the gun around.
Everyone complied with the exception of Illya. He got down from the stool and held his hands out in a conciliatory gesture. Talking people down was more Napoleon’s area, but Illya had talked his way out of bad situations in the past. His major worry with this one, though, was that these guys were desperate, edgy and obviously out of their depth.
“I would advise you not to follow this course of events.”
“What’s it to you Blondie?” Shorty shouted, aiming the weapon at Illya’s face. “Get onto the floor!”
Kuryakin didn’t react, other than to relax his posture; showing he wasn’t a threat. The other man, whom the Russian mentally called Scruffy because of his unkempt appearance, pointed his gun and the group of teens.
“He said, get down, Blondie.”
Having no other choice at that time, Illya did as instructed, and dropped to his knees; careful to make sure his special stayed covered. If only he could have covered the sound of his communicator, which chose that moment to start beeping. He ignored it, but it was clear to everyone where the sound was coming from.
“What’s that?” demanded Shorty.
“It’s my pager,” the agent replied. “If I don’t answer it, someone will come looking for me.”
“Why? Are you important?”
“Not at all.”
Shorty was clearly agitated, unsure what to do. This made him all the more dangerous.
“Answer it,” he snapped. “But no funny business.”
As he slid his hand into his jacket, he felt the gun snuggly sitting in its holster. It took him a split second to dismiss it. He could take out Shorty, but he was partially blocking Scruffy. It would be too risky. Instead, he pulled out the communicator and activated it.
“Kuryakin.”
“Mr Kuryakin, what took you so long to answer?”
“Sorry Sir,” Illya replied to the rough voice of Mr Waverly, but not giving a reason.
“When do you and Mr Solo expect to arrive in Miami? The timing of this mission is tight.”
“We haven’t set off yet Sir, Mr Solo is running late and I’m held up myself.”
Waverly muttered something about agents doing what they damn well pleased, then requested an ETA as soon as it was known. Putting the communicator away, he looked up to see Shorty had stepped closer.
“Who are you?” he snarled.
“My name is Kuryakin, and I’m nobody.”
The weapon was pressed to his forehead. “Don’t mess with me, man. You’ve got walkie-talkie in a pen and you get sent on missions. Are you some sort of secret agent?”
“I am Illya Kuryakin of the United Network Command for Law and Enforcement.”
“Crap!” Scruffy exclaimed. “He’s a damn cop.”
“Is that right, Blondie? Are you a cop?”
“In a way.”
Without warning, Shorty smacked Illya on the side of the head with the pistol. Pain exploded through the Russian’s skull and he saw stars. He shook his head in an effort to clear his vision, just as the communicator beeped again. At a nod from Shorty, he answered it.
“Hey, Tovarisch,” came the, too chirpy, voice of Napoleon Solo. “I’m here, where are you?”
“I’m going to be a while, grabiteli (gunmen),” Illya replied, his words slightly slurred. “You’d better go without me, zalozhniki (hostages).”
“Okay,” Solo responded, understanding what Illya was saying to him. “I’ll see you when you’re free.”
“What were those words you were saying?” Scruffy called over. “Was it code?”
“No,” Kuryakin lied. “They were just words of friendship. Just as you would say man, or dude.”
“They sound Russian,” snarled Shorty. “Are you a Russkie?”
“I just had a thought,” announced Scruffy, before Illya could respond. “If he’s a cop, then he’s probably armed.”
Shorty cocked his head to one side in silent question. With his fingertips, Kuryakin withdrew the special and handed it over. Shorty whistled in appreciation.
“Nice,” he breathed.
Shorty pointed the special at the waitress, keeping his own gun locked on Illya, and demanded she fill a bag with cash. The terrified woman, who was sobbing almost uncontrollably, immediately did as she was told.
“What is your plan for when you’ve got your money?” Illya asked him calmly. “Are you going to kill everyone? Then what? As soon as you start shooting, you’ll draw outside attention. Even if you do manage to get away from here, my organisation has resources the police can only dream about. Give yourselves up to me now, and it will go much better for you.”
“Yeah right, Blondie,” Shorty scoffed. “How about I use your gun to shoot them all and incriminate you?”
“That wouldn’t be a smart move. Let them all go and you’ll still have me as a hostage.”
Illya really didn’t like how jumpy Shorty seemed to be getting, and it was reflecting onto Scruffy. There was no way to predict how this was going to end, but the odds were on a bloodbath. He couldn’t wait for it to play out and he couldn’t wait for Solo.
“I don’t think so,” Shorty told him, as he pulled the trigger on the Special.
The waitress dropped to the floor, unconscious, and Kuryakin thanked whatever force had prompted him to arm himself with darts, rather than bullets that morning. The shock of the gun not doing as expected caused enough of a distraction for Illya to make a move. In the space of two seconds, he dived forward, pulled Shorty down with him, grabbed the robber’s gun and shot Scruffy in the thigh. By the time everyone had stopped screaming, Illya had gathered up all the guns and had his own trained on Shorty.
“What are your names?” he asked, with a voice as hard as steel.
“I . . . I’m Danny and that is Dean.”
“Help him to a seat while I sort your mess out.”
Illya told everyone that the situation was over, but asked no-one to leave as the police would need statements. The owner of the diner was immensely relieved to learn that his waitress was only asleep, and not actually dead. As soon as everyone was calm, Illya contacted Solo.
“I no longer need the cavalry, Napoleon,” he explained. “The situation is diffused, but an ambulance and the police will be needed.”
“How many casualties?” Solo asked.
“One gunshot wound, non-lethal.”
“Okay, Pal. We traced your location. I’ll be there shortly.”
. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
An hour later, the robbers had been taken away, the other diner patrons had given their statements, and Illya was drinking a cup of coffee and eating a free piece of apple pie.
“What is happening with the mission?” he asked his partner.
“Mark and April have been sent,” Napoleon assured him. “Honestly Tovarisch, can’t you even go for coffee without getting into trouble?”
“Next time you’re late my friend, I’ll just keep waiting where I am.”
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