Decoy - 'Short Affair' Challenge - Feb 23rd

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Prompts – Decoy/Olive Green
Word Count (approx.) – 459


Illya had evaded capture for about two hours, which he figured would probably be enough. As much as he wished to avoid the next part of the plan, there was no avoiding it. It was time for him to be seen. Stripping off his olive green camouflage jacket, to reveal a bright white t-shirt, Illya set off walking through the jungle again. Unlike before, he made as much noise as possible, in order to attract his pursuers. He couldn’t deny Napoleon’s plan was a good one; he just wished it didn’t involve his possible death. There was every possibility that the people chasing him would shoot first and ask questions later.

Sure enough, less than fifteen minutes later, Illya cried out in pain as a bullet lodged itself in the back of his left thigh. As he fell, he twisted himself so he could aim his special in the direction the shot came from; it was a futile move. Three Thrushies emerged from the cover of the jungle, each one holding a rifle. Illya knew he could probably take one of them, possibly two, but not the third. He dropped his weapon and raised his hands.

“Where is it, Kuryakin?”

“Where is what?”

One of the men stepped forward, and swung the butt of his rifle against the side of the Russian’s head.

Illya woke to pain in his head and in his leg. Opening his eyes, he found himself tried to a wooden chair, with his hands behind him. Someone had tied a crude bandage around his thigh, but he could tell the bullet was still in place.

“Back with us, Russian?”

Kuryakin instantly recognised, Jimmy Walden, head of the satrapy from which Napoleon had stolen the latest THRUSH formula. It was apparently another drug which would render a person docile and obedient.

“We’ve searched you, but you don’t appear to have the formula,” Walden continued. “Where have you hidden it?”

“I never had it,” Illya told him, with bright smile. “I’m just a decoy.”

Walden backhanded his captive, against his already sore head.

“I don’t believe you.”

“I would, if I were you,” came a familiar voice from the doorway.

Walden went for his weapon, but was taken down by one of Napoleon’s sleep darts.

“You okay, Tovarisch?” Solo asked as he freed his partner.

“Apart from a minor gunshot wound, I’m fine,” Illya told him. “The formula?”

“Well on its way to New York.”

Napoleon helped Illya to his feet and guided him out of the satrapy. They passed several Section 3 agents, who had all been on standby to storm the satrapy.

“Do me a favour?” The Russian asked, as he limped along.

“Anything, partner mine.”

Next time you need a decoy, do it yourself.”

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That's why he keeps getting the job.