Skating Bye - What's My Line?

[glennagirl.livejournal.com]

The Prompt: You're late!

The street was filled with young people, many of them on skateboards and anxious to impress the bystanders.  A few girls stood on the sidewalk and pointed to the boys they thought were cute, several of them commenting on one in particular whose slender build and shock of blond hair made him stand out from the others, many of whom wore caps and seemed exceptionally filled out.

The thin blond had his eyes on a couple of those muscular youth, his own skills rivaling theirs in spite of the age difference.  Luckily no one considered that he might be old enough to be a spy.

The gathering was intended to be a promotion for a local business; a sporting goods store that was counting on some new business from a rise in interest regarding the relatively new skateboarding phenomenon.  When he wasn’t selling skateboards, Howard Pringle headed up a regional THRUSH satrapy that excelled in recruiting young people whose lives were in need of redirection.  Unfortunately, those who signed on for Pringle’s Sporting Goods Youth Camp soon found themselves mired in propaganda and false dreams; ultimately they also landed within the grasp of the evil supranationional organization known as THRUSH.

Illya Kuryakin was skilled and talented on the skateboard, his small stature aiding him in the acrobatics he was able to achieve as the board skitted beneath his feet.  Watching from the sidewalk was his partner, Napoleon Solo.  The American agent just shook his head in amazement as his friend exhibited skills he wouldn’t have dreamed of, shuddering slightly when the Russian missed a jump and tumbled onto the pavement.

“Ouch!” The assembled onlookers added a collective gasp as Illya hit the ground hard, then applauded when he scrambled up quickly, ignoring the bloody scrape on his left forearm.  Napoleon heard a few of the girls expressing concern and then giggling at how they’d volunteer to nurse him back to health.  Once again he shook his head in disbelief.

One of the young THRUSH recruits came over to see if Illya was all right, or so it seemed.  Another joined him and together they each took one arm and began to escort the blond away from the crowd and towards the front entrance of Pringle’s Sporting Goods.  Illya cast a look back over his shoulder, a sure sign to his partner that the ruse had been discovered.

That was all it took for Napoleon to give up his place on the sidewalk to another spectator, ambling across the street as he headed towards the store.  Just a few yards from the door he stopped.  Standing next to one of the skateboarders was someone he recognized, and would undoubtedly recognize him as well.

Inside the store Illya was led down a main aisle, the Action Aisle, where top sellers were interspersed with promotional items intended to bulk up any customer’s purchases.  He didn’t have time to notice a young girl hiding inside a rounder full of clearance priced ski wear, but he did see the double swinging doors to which he was being practically carried by the taller, brawny youths who had his arms in vice like grips.

Napoleon had his own set of troubles; standing at the door of Pringle’s talking with the man himself was a pair of men that he recognized from a previous encounter in England, and not a pleasant one at that.

Phillip Cornell and Lester Worthy were THRUSH accountants, and not the kind who counted money.  They kept account of a satrapy’s success and failures, which meant that if they were here then Pringle was in some sort of trouble with Central.  Solo and Kuryakin had been sent in to investigate the Camp being run by the store, the blatant recruiting scheme being perpetrated on unsuspecting young people whose situations were catapulting them towards acts of desperation.  The so-called Camp lured them in with free admissions and promises of job training and more.  The ‘more’ sounded like a future, but in reality it would turn into serving the Heirarchy.

As Solo tried to figure out a way into the store without encountering the two Englishmen, Illya was hanging from some electrical conduits in the stockroom.  The youthful appearance of the man had been replaced by steely resolve to get free of this encumbrance and then beat his two tormentors into writhing pulps of muscle and skin.  Sometimes his own sense of revenge came as a shock even to him, but he didn’t have time to analyze his psyche right now.  The long term intentions of these two was clear and if something didn’t happen soon he’d be one of the many ‘former’ partners of Napoleon Solo.

The big stockroom was filled to the rafters with boxes and cartons of sporting goods, clothing and something else.  Between blows to his midsection and jaw, Illya had the presence of mind to see that some of the containers were emblazoned with the familiar logo of THRUSH.  This place was a holding center for supplies in addition to being a legitimate retail establishment.  If it were to be gutted of its inventory the Russian surmised that a good portion of the East Coast would be without whatever was in those crates and totes.

One last punishing blow to the head put all thoughts of the THRUSH supply chain out of his head; Illya was out cold.

The conversation at the front door ended finally, and as the two accountants walked to their car Napoleon observed Pringle open the door and head into his store.  No one was close by and that allowed the American agent to slip in unnoticed and duck behind a display before the owner could spot him.

Peering out from behind an oversized basketball, Napoleon watched as Pringle headed straight back to the double doors in the rear of the sales floor.  When the doors swung open it was just enough to see a figure hanging listlessly from what looked like metal piping.

“Illya... Sorry about that.”  If he could have gotten in soon he would have.

The doors closed behind Pringle as he looked at the bludgeoned young man hanging from his stockroom ceiling.

“Hey, you were supposed to get answers from this guy, not knock him out.  What kind of instruction did you get at Camp anyway?  Bozos...” He muttered under his breath until he ran out of insults, all the while the two muscle bound youths felt a surge of shame at their unsatisfactory performance.

“Sorry Mr. Pringle, but he wouldn’t say nothin’ to us about his uncle.”  Now Pringle just sighed and shook his head.

“No his uncle, you numbskull... UNCLE!  The other team, you know?  UNCLE!”

No one saw Napoleon slip through the stockroom doors.  By the time they heard his voice he was aiming his Special at Pringle’s head.

“Gee, I always wanted to hear a little birdie cry UNCLE.’ Now he pointed at Illya and motioned for the fellow nearest him to let down the lifeless looking blond.  One of the guards held onto him while the other untied the ropes that held him up on the conduit.  Shaking his head to try and clear it, Illya was tempted to knee one of them in the groin, then thought better of it; at least until he was on his feet again.

On second thought, he had something to say to Napoleon.

“You’re late. Am I to expect this type of tardiness on a regular basis?”  Napoleon grinned, waving his gun in order to direct traffic among the THRUSH.  Illya was tying  their wrists together with the rope that had held him, each man with hands behind his back.

“My apologies, but there was a reunion going on out front.  I had no other way to get in and when it ended ... well, here I am.  You okay?”  Illya nodded, making his head hurt worse and reminding him that his abdomen would probably be black and blue by morning.

“I am fine, but it was a little closer than I like.  Please try to be more prompt in the future, will you.’  He finished tying up the miscreants and indicated the boxes and crates marked with the bird logo.

“Up there, I think that is what they are protecting.  Not only does this location run the so-called Camp, but they also are a repository for THRUSH supplies.  Taking this out of the chain will definitely put a crimp in their operation.

Napoleon called in the results and asked for back-up; there were still several of the recruits outside involved in the store’s skateboard promotion.  They would need to be taken in and questioned, possibly deprogrammed.  Mr. Waverly set things in motion and requested his two agents return to headquarters.

Illya headed for Medical first, no point fighting it.  He knew that if he were to show up in Mr. Waverly’s office looking as he did, it would a matter of mere minutes before he was ordered to get checked out.  This way he was at least anticipating his superior’s instructions, hopefully correctly.

Napoleon left his partner in the hands of a very pretty young nurse named Stacy, the effect of which he noted with interest since it seemed to bring out a slightly pouty expression, as though something hurt.

‘There’s hope for that boy yet.’ Napoleon knew he was the man to beat in the romance department, but it was possible that the Russian was not far behind.

Napoleon began the debrief with Mr. Waverly without Illya; it seemed the Old Man was in a hurry and didn’t want to wait.  When the blond finally arrived he was bandaged and beginning to bruise where the blows had struck him on his face.

“Sir, I apologize ...”

“You’re late, Mr. Kuryakin.”

“Yes sir, I was in Medical.  I did not wish to come in here in the condition in which Mr. Solo found me.”  Ah, an appreciative albeit slow nod of approval from Waverly.

“And just how long was it before Mr. Solo did find you?”  Now it was Napoleon who looked wounded.

“Sir, I uh... I was unable to get inside due to some THRUSH accountants present, I thought they might recognize me.”

“I see.  Yes, I see, that would have been most unfortunately.  Well then, Mr. Kuryakin, it seems being late is just an unfortunate characteristic of this entire affair.  Please have your reports on my desk tomorrow morning, and gentlemen...’ Waverly looked up from the file in front of him, his eyebrows rising in relation to the importance of what he was about to say.

“Don’t be late.”

The two agents nodded and rose to leave, each of them calculating the time it would take to get home and dress for their respective dates that evening.

They didn’t want to be late.

Comments

Re: IK and his board

[avery11.livejournal.com]

I've never seen those last two photos before--wow, that man is gorgeous!

Re: IK and his board

[glennagirl.livejournal.com]

You know, he is. The face that launched a thousand sighs...