ACT V: “He Tends To Get A Little Out Of Control.”

Solo woke up on a small plane. He was lured into consciousness by a deft, feminine hand gently stroking his cheek.

“Come on, Napoleon, I know you’re awake, darling.”

The perfume that he connected with Angelique tickled his nose and he wrinkled it for relief. His hands were bound behind him, and he was unable to relieve the itch. He opened his eyes and found her smiling face looking down on him. “Could you be so kind and scratch my nose for me? I seem to be tied up at the moment.”

She laughed lightly and complied, then bent over and kissed the tip of his nose. “Well, I thought the saying went ‘You scratch my back, I’ll scratch yours’, but I’m flexible.”

“Somehow, I knew back scratching would come into this.” He looked around as he tried his ropes and saw that he was lying down and secured to a couch with his female nemesis sitting next to him.

“Oh, you’re trussed up quite nicely, my dear. Your friend knows what he’s doing. But I’m sure you realize that.” She cocked her head and began to straighten his hair with her fingers. She noticed his searching eyes. “He’s over there.” A nod of her head told him which way to look.

Illya was sound asleep on a small couch across the aisle. The plane was dark and the only thing he could really see was his partner’s white blond hair sticking out from under a blanket.

Angelique sighed. “He’s like that a lot, you know. We have to dart him constantly.” She wrinkled her nose in disgust. “He tends to get a little out of control.” Satisfied with her ministrations to Solo’s hair, she settled back in the couch next to his head.

“‘We’ ?” Solo noted.

“I did say that, didn’t I? Nothing gets by you, Napoleon. That’s why you’re the best.”

Solo smiled warily, a common expression when he was with this particular woman. “Softening me up with flattery, I see. What is it you want, Angelique?”

Her eyes went wide. “Me? Why would you think that?” After a moment, her innocent look faded to amusement. “You know me well, don’t you?”

“Better than is good for me, or so I’m told. What’s the deal?”

“Before I continue, let me make you aware of where you stand, my love.” She held up a small canister. “I have the film our little tow-headed friend was sent to obtain. I’m willing give it back to you and release you before we get to La Prima’s.”

“La Prima? From Greece ?”

“You know her? My, it’s amazing how our circles cross sometimes, isn’t it?” She rolled the film canister in her fingers.

“It’s my job to know the up and coming Thrushes. I do my homework.” He smiled again as he thought. “What’s my part of this proposition?”

Angelique slipped to the floor so she could look at his eyes on the same level. “Your part is simple. All I want is the formula UNCLE uses to precondition their agents for deep cover work. The same formula they gave your friend there.” She indicated Illya with a sideways nod. “I’ll give you the film as a show of good faith. You get me the formula.”

Solo held her eyes for several long moments. “What makes you think I’ll come back with what you want?”

She traced his cheekbone with her fingertip. “Two things, actually. First, I know you’re a gentleman and will keep your word.”

He knew she didn’t mean that. “And the second?”

“I’ll get your partner back to you.”

“Alive?”

“I can’t promise that.”

“Then no deal.”

“Oh, Napoleon, don’t be so disagreeable. It’s a good offer, and you know it.”

“Let’s just say I prefer to keep my options open a bit longer. I’d like to know what was done to him, however.” He indicated Illya with a nod.

Angelique laugh grated like fingernails on a black board. “Doesn’t UNCLE keep you up to date on those things?”

“That’s not UNCLE conditioning. There’s something else going on.”

She continued to smile and studied the roll of film as she thought. “You are quite right, my dear. Trust me when I say that we didn’t expect UNCLE to fiddle with their agents in such a Thrush-like way! It seems that what we injected tangled with what was there. It’s sort of like we came up with a wild new martini recipe without knowing the ingredients!”

Solo watched her closely and finally realized what she wanted. “And you’d like that recipe all for yourself, wouldn’t you?”

She ignored the question. “I can’t promise the offer will stay on the table, love. La Prima has her own plans, I have mine.” She held up the film canister again. “This completes her plans, you know. It will make Thrush a super power.”

“We’ll just have to see how it plays out, then.”

Angelique’s face turned sour. “You can be so difficult.”

“I know. I can be a real burden sometimes.”

Angelique stood with a huff. “Well, darling, we’ll see if you change your mind after you meet Miss Fan.” She wrinkled her nose in distaste again. “She’s so crude, but I have to admit, she gets the job done.”

“Miss Fan?”

Her face brightened in a smile, and she winked at him as she slipped the film into her impressive cleavage. “Ask your partner about her. They have quite a relationship!” She laughed shortly and patted his cheek. “Hang tight, my love. We’re almost home.”

Solo watched her disappear into the cockpit and wondered what he’d gotten himself into.

********

When the small plane touched down, it took awhile for Solo to figure out where they were. Even though the darkness concealed most of the landmarks of the rolling hills, he recognized the flora typical of California . The faint saltiness on the wind told him he was near the coast. His knowledge of La Prima and Angelique narrowed the choice down to either San Francisco or Los Angeles . It was the windy drive up a dark road in order to get to La Prima’s estate that clinched it in his mind: Los Angeles, and, most likely, Malibu.

They traveled in a dark limo with smoked glass, Solo trussed up like a spider treat and Illya sleeping the entire way. Angelique reported in to La Prima on a small silver box, and snapped it off when she was finished.

She patted the box. “This is how I found you, you know. Illya’s got a transmitter in his tooth. I also monitored your call to bring in the helicopter.”

“Why are you telling me this?”

“Because I want to prove to you that I want to help you.”

"Ah. We’ve returned to back scratching.”

“Napoleon,” she pouted. “Don’t be so negative. I’m just giving you a last chance to accept my offer.”

“Pass.”

“Fine,” Angelique snapped. She pulled out a cigarette and gazed out the window for the rest of the ride.

When they finally pulled into a stark garage, the back doors were opened and Solo was unceremoniously hauled out of the car like luggage.

“I think the chamber is the best spot for now, boys. Strap him to the table and stay with him. He can be a slippery one.” Angelique bent down and whispered in his ear as two sizeable goons hitched him up for relocation. “Time’s running out!” Then she kissed him on the temple as he was dragged away.

Just before Napoleon was removed from the garage, he heard Angelique chastise two more goons. “Oh, for God’s sake he can’t hurt you. He’s unconscious! Take him to his room. I’ll be with La Prima.”

************

The world came back in the same manner as it always did after being darted with a nauseating swirl that seemed to be getting worse with each wakening. Kuryakin felt the pounding of a splitting headache, too - a new complication. The throbbing in his temples was somewhat soothing, though, and he took a moment to savor it as he tried to catch the expected familiar scent with his nose.

She was here.

It was now part of the game for him to find her before opening his eyes. He zeroed in on her location and turned his face to her. Just before opening his eyes, the shadowy doppelganger that had been haunting him in his mind made his appearance sharp and clear.

Kuryakin sat bolt upright and his eyes flew open in anger. The other was still there, trying to push to the forefront. In an instant, he felt a body straddle him and he threw it to the floor. It took him a moment to realize it wasn’t the mind-man, but Miss Fan, sprawled on the floor at his feet. She looked up at him through her long, dark lashes in expectation, her red leather-strapped bosom twitching with the beat of her heart.

The past bruises on her neck had faded to a sickening yellow and the gash on her lip a crusty apostrophe on the corner of her mouth. The stump of her wrist was still heavily bandaged, the cast on her arm spotted with blood.

Kuryakin felt a sensual stirring in his groin, but then the headache swelled and his mind clouded. Infuriated, he grabbed woman’s hair and dragged her to her feet. “You’re doing this!” he yelled in her face. “Stop it!” He slapped her hard and she dangled in his grip, grinning in erotic pleasure, which infuriated him more. He threw her onto the red settee.

He took a step back and left her draped on there, suddenly exhausted. The mirror image figure in his mind was gone and left behind a brief sense of confusion at the emptiness. Angry at the strange feeling, he reached over and grabbed the woman by the hair and half dragged her to the door.

He didn’t like the feeling of loss at the disappearance of the man in his mind and he surely didn’t want this woman to see him confused. He threw her in the hall, her red leather outfit still askew, and slammed the door.

Kuryakin stood in the middle of his small room, panting, as he clenched his hands with rising panic and frustration.

Who am I? He thought fearfully.

************

The variety of torture tables Solo had come across in his career were too many in number. This one served its purpose well, as did the others, and after a thorough examination of the room and its contents other than the table, he grimly concluded that the next hours probably wouldn’t be pleasant. This room was designed for torture from the steel cabinets and tile walls, all the way to the concrete floor. A single drain was visible in the middle of the floor, and the room was cool. He was bound with the rope and strapped to the table. His hands were numb from being under his back, and he couldn’t move them enough to get to any of his devices.

Solo was surprised Angelique didn’t take any of the destructive toys. Was that another show of good faith?

He didn’t have a lot going for him right now with Illya being a variable either way. When Solo had uttered the UNCLE trigger phrase to his partner, he knew he’d bollixed up the works in his partner’s head somehow. Solo only hoped that he could swing his friend back to his side.

The two goons watching him didn’t utter a word or change their expression even when the agent attempted to engage or enrage them. With a sigh, he finally gave up and began to imagine what was in each of the two shiny metallic cabinets at the side of his table when the door cracked open and he heard the staccato tacka-tacka-tacka of a woman’s heels on the bare floor. He turned his head and saw the stunning figure of a redheaded woman in a snug forest green dress sashay to his side.

He smiled dashingly. She tilted her head and studied him with a critical eye.

“He’s smaller than I thought he’d be,” she said to her companion.

“Well, you know the saying. Good things come in small packages.” Angelique lit a cigarette. She stood to the side and slightly behind the redhead.

“La Prima, I presume?” Solo inquired.

The redhead nodded slightly. “Napoleon Solo, Number One, Section Two, UNCLE New York . Quite an unexpected bonus, I’d say.”

“Thank you. I think.”

A tight smile pulled on La Prima’s full mouth. “Save the suaveness for some other weakling,” she replied sharply. Angelique raised an eyebrow at that comment, and quietly puffed her ciggy. “So where’s the film, Mr. Solo?”

Napoleon’s face kept the same pleasant expression as his eyes darted to Angelique. She stayed quiet and casually raised her wrist to look at her diamond encrusted watch. Solo realized she was playing a dangerous game. Have to give her points for audacity, he thought. He had a way to buy time now.

“Film?” He replied innocently.

La Prima’s face turned stormy. “You are a fool, Mr. Solo. Can’t you see that the tide has turned against UNCLE? Thrush is one step away from ruling the world because of me. You won’t stand in my way. Search him.” She motioned for the goons to get to work, and called for more.

Four musclemen managed to remove Solo’s clothing down to his boxers and search him thoroughly without removing his bonds. It was rough and very unpleasant and the sour expression on La Prima’s face evolved to one of barely repressed fury. She puffed, agitated, on a thin cigarette holder. Angelique, looking bored, quietly smoked in one corner and kept her eyes downcast.

Finally, the head man shook his head mutely and the four waited for further instructions. La Prima plucked the cigarette stub from the holder and threw it on the ground in disgust, and ground it out angrily with her toe. “You will regret this, Mr. Solo. Gentlemen, free his hands and strap them to the table. Miss Fan likes to play with fingers. Make sure the table straps are tight. You,” she jabbed the empty cigarette holder at the lead goon. “Get Miss Fan. Two of you stay here. You,” she indicated the final man. “Come with me.”

She spun on her heel and marched out, the men following her like ducklings.

Angelique lingered behind. When the door closed she put out the remains of her cigarette and came to Solo’s side and dragged her manicured nails up his bare chest. One glare at the guards sent them to the far side of the room and out of earshot. She leaned down and spoke lowly in his ear.

“There’s still time, darling. Tell you what - I’ll up the stakes. All the components for the bomb are here, in this house. The scientist, the trigger and even the plutonium! La Prima is not a trusting sort and wants to keep them close. I’ll still free you if you hold up your end of the deal.”

He had to admit it was tempting, but he wasn’t about to enter a pact with this one. “Why don’t you want this bomb built? It would put Thrush on top.”

“But not me. I know Nicole, oops, I mean La Prima.” She smiled at her intentional slip. “There’s no place for me anywhere near her in her plans. She’s rather . . . self-centered.”

“I’m sure you know what that’s like.”

She stood up again with pursed lips. “Oh, Napoleon. You do disappoint me sometimes.” She stepped back at the sound of the doorknob turning. “Well, let’s play it your way and see what happens, then.”

They both looked to the sound of the opening door as a darkly dressed Asian woman entered the room. Her face was set and bland. One cheek looked red under a fresh black eye and there were signs of faded bruises on her neck that peeked out from a sleeveless black turtleneck sweater. Fingertip sized bruises tattooed her upper arms. Long, finely muscled legs, clad in snug black Capri pants, were capped with silver and black stiletto heels.

But the most striking detail was the bandaged stump of a finger at the end of a scruffy looking cast.

Angelique demurely cleared her throat. “If you’ll excuse me, darling.” She slipped out of the door as Miss Fan studied her specimen from the middle of the room.

Solo noticed the thugs shift uncomfortably against the wall and knew that an unpleasant party was about to begin.

ACT VI: “I Think They’re Afraid Of Me.”

Kuryakin paced his room until he thought he would go mad.

There was two of him in his mind. One had the wide black eyes of inky night and the other had cool grey orbs that calmly held their own against the dark vacuum.

At first, they simply stared at each other and Kuryakin felt like an impotent onlooker. Now there were whispers - constant whispers that were low and edgy and felt like a breeze on his cheek demanding attention, but not there when you looked for the source. The actual words were unclear, but the buzzing put him on edge.

He’d had enough.

Setting his jaw, he slammed from his room and headed determinedly to the only place he knew where he could force the whispers to stop and he would have control again. Her door stood splintered around the doorknob, the adjacent frame cracked. It opened without resistance at his touch and his heart began to race in anticipation.

Miss Fan’s apartment was empty. The surge of anger washed out the whispers, but not for long. They were in full force again and growing louder when he spun on his heel and stalked from the room to hunt her down.

Instinct drove him to the utility rooms where he found a pair of guards outside one door. The guards gave him a classic double take and they parted instantly for the slight figure. Kuryakin didn’t notice that the pair paled slightly on his approach, and kept just out of his reach as he forcefully opened the metal door.

As soon as the door shut behind him, unwanted visions began an assault that overrode the whispers; it was a cacophony that sent him reeling, and it originated after one glance of the room’s contents. He steadied his feet and tried to sort the visions.

Napoleon Solo was strapped to a table and web of electrodes and wires trailed to a bank of gages inside a metal cabinet. Scene after scene played in his head of the cool-eyed doppelganger wearing a military uniform with the letter ‘N’ on the cap, standing at the head of another electrode entangled Solo.

Scream! He heard himself say in his vision. Scream!

Kuryakin’s head began to throb.

Miss Fan straightened from her ministrations to the captured agent to see who had interrupted her session. Her eyes burned brightly, but Kuryakin had the passing thought that she didn’t immediately recognize him being so involved with her ‘subject’. A twist of her wrist applied more current as her eyes registered recognition along with a spark of interest.

Scream!

Solo twitched and gurgled. The smell of burnt flesh permeated the air.

Scream! Scream louder!

The uniformed man in his mind turned to the black-eyed clone and the whispers grew to a deafening pitch. Illya sagged against the wall, holding his head so keep it from exploding.

Scream!

The twins began to merge; first their eyes ran together, inky black and cool blue, and then their outstretched arms blended in a queasy embrace. The colors swirled together and the uniform disappeared in a puddle of grey as their bodies became a nauseating swirl in his mind. The whispers grew to a banshee shriek. The smell of burning flesh made him gag. He felt the wall support him.

Then Napoleon screamed.

There’s a long way to go before you sleep!

Illya awoke with a violet start. His eyes snapped open, and his mind was instantly clear. The first thing he saw was the Asian woman bent over his partner. Napoleon spasmed and Miss Fan gasped in joy. Illya could see her eyes glazed in ecstasy.

Instantly, Illya felt for his Special and was momentarily disoriented when it wasn’t at his side. He looked down at his hands and saw Napoleon’s clothes on the floor beyond. He instantly dropped and pawed through them with shaky hands. The smell of Napoleon’s burning skin and his moans of pain focused his thoughts into a plan. He found and plucked a pair of buttons from the discarded shirt.

He straightened and centered his sights on the nervous looking pair of goons against the wall at the foot of Solo’s torture table. He flicked one button in their direction and ducked down, covering his ears. It hit the floor between them with a satisfying explosion and they went down instantly.

In the seconds it took for Illya to straighten up and the smoke to clear Miss Fan had managed to regain her balance. As Illya moved to the table, he saw her flick her intact hand in his direction. His instinctive dodge saved a scalpel from piercing his throat, but it did graze his cheek as it burned past him.

She quickly rearmed herself with an ugly serrated knife from her tray as he leaped over the table. She managed a swipe at him that tore his shirt and left a stinging red line across his chest before he barreled into her. They both fell hard to the concrete floor along with the clanging metal tray.

Chinese curses peppered the air as Miss Fan struggled against him. He tried to subdue her by her wrists, which seemed to infuriate her more. He was surprised at her strength and by the look in her eyes, which was one of unfocused rapture. She fixed her bright eyes on his and he involuntarily jerked back at the intensity.

Furious at his lack of response, Miss Fan bucked beneath him, the curses replaced with a guttural growl. She swung her cast at him and he blocked it. She raked at his face with the claw-like red nails of her other hand and he barely dodged them. She twisted sideways and grabbed a nasty looking sharpened hook, one the tools from the tray, and slashed at his throat. Illya felt the icy cool of the metal as it skimmed his neck; he automatically responded with a right cross that probably shattered her cheekbone. The hook clattered to the floor. She finally lay still with a final jerk.

Completely unnerved Illya rose to his wobbly feet and mechanically began the motions to release his partner. Even in his groggy state, Solo noticed the ashen complexion of his friend. He glanced at the body, blood oozing from her nostril.

“Looks like she could dish it out but not take it,” Solo mumbled.

“Oh, she could take it, all right.” Illya’s voice was low. He didn’t elaborate.

“It’s good to see you, partner,” Solo replied. “Are you all right?”

Illya nodded shakily and glanced at his Napoleon’s face. “I think you have that reversed. You were the one being tortured.”

Solo’s chuckle turned into a groan as he sat up. “I think we both have had our turn at the screws, so to speak.” Illya stood back while Solo steadied himself on his feet. Napoleon read the tenseness in his partner as well as the questions in his eyes. “What do your remember?” The older agent asked lowly.

Two blond eyebrows knitted together for a moment. “Not much. I think I blew something up. And I tried to shoot you?”

“Sounds like a typically normal day.” Solo got to his feet and gently patted his friend’s cheek. “Just as long as you remember enough to write the report. Let’s get going. We have a treasure hunt to complete.” He grimaced with the pain of his burns and tenderly touched the raw spots on his temples.

A wry smile replaced the nervous tenseness in the younger agent’s face. “Do you plan on doing this hunt half naked, or would you like to get dressed first?”

Solo looked indignant. “There are some here that would appreciate my technique, but I’ll humor you.” Illya noted he moved stiffly to his clothes. Before dressing, Solo curiously investigated the burn marks on his chest.

“We need to take care of the guards outside,” Illya stated.

Solo looked surprised. “There are guards outside? Why haven’t they come in yet?”

A slightly sheepish look crossed the Slavic features. “I think they’re afraid of me.”

The American snorted as he slipped on his shoes. “Honestly. Thrush’s hiring standards have really dropped.”

A tight smile crossed Illya’s face as he waited for his partner to finish dressing. He couldn’t help but note the American’s slow and obviously painful movements. Blue eyes drifted to the body of the woman on the floor. A shiver ran through his body; it could have been worse - a lot worse.

As Solo shakily tied his shoes, Illya motioned Solo to one side of the door. “I’ll get them in here. You ready?”

Solo wrapped the ends of his belt around his knuckles. “Anytime, partner.” He placed himself on the opposite side of the doorway and gave a terse nod of readiness. The shaking was gone and he appeared to be under control and ready for action.

Illya briefly wondered if he appeared so confidant. He swallowed hard and with a violent pull, jerked the door open and glared at the two men outside. “Get in here,” he snapped. “Now!”

The men sidled in like a pair of crabs, careful to keep a healthy distance and not to turn their backs to the smaller man. This was fortunate for Solo, who jumped the first one from behind and wrapped his belt around his thick neck in a smooth, quick motion. Illya took care of the second one with a chop to the Adam’s apple. They both went down with gagged grunts and rendered unconscious almost immediately. The agents relieved them of their handguns, exchanged relieved grins, and stepped from the room in pursuit of Thrush’s bomb making elements.

***************

The hallway outside was empty. Shattered memories peppered with vivid scenes flashed their way into Illya’s mind as he lead the way down the hall. He could recall how to get to his room, and the small apartment belonging to Miss Fan, but the rest of the layout was vague.

He knew they were currently in a block walled basement of sorts, built back into the side of a Malibu mountain. The front opened into the garages and the outside, whereas the back rooms, wedged into the mountain itself, held the torture area the just escaped and a pair of other rooms. Across the hall from the torture room was a large door with a small window in the center. Solo peeked through it to the garage and saw a lone sentry posted on the down sloping driveway outside the open garage door. Darkness concealed what was beyond the sentry.

He moved to the end of the hall and carefully peered out a small window. He saw lighted windows in a bunkhouse style, guest house and an impressive wall, illuminated by generously spaced floodlights, that probably surrounded the property

“Looks like the hired help lives next door,” he commented.

Illya nodded stiffly. “I couldn’t imagine La Prima mingling with the staff.”

“Where do you suppose Angelique’s quarters are?” Illya shot him a glance. “Well, she does have something we want.” Solo explained. When he saw the suspicious look cross his partner’s face he added, “The film. You remember the film, don’t you?”

A puzzled expression crossed Illya’s face before it lit up with recall. “Oh. Yes. The film. At least we know where one component of the list is. Now we just have to find her.”

“I think we need to find the trigger and the plutonium first. It’s possible they’re in the same place.”

Illya stopped suddenly, Solo nearly running into him. “There’s a safe,” he thought out loud. “It’s somewhere on the top level.”

“How do you know that? Are you remembering things?”

The thoughtful frown deepened on Illya’s face. “I received instructions about the nuclear scientist, Dr. Zandberg up there. La Prima had a file on him. After I read it and she gave me the photo, she told the guard to stay with us while she put it back in the safe.”

“Us?” Solo’s voice didn’t hide the fact that he wondered what his partner meant by the term.

“Angelique was with me.” He saw the relief plainly on Solo’s face. Illya frowned. “I still don’t understand your relationship with that . . .  woman.”

A cocky smile made Solo’s eyes sparkle. “Neither do I. That’s why it’s so interesting. And you aren’t in the position to throw stones.” He nodded mutely at the closed door of the torture room. Illya blushed immediately, a rare sight for Solo. “I don’t suppose you’ll tell me . . .”

“Never,” Illya interrupted. His tone said the subject was closed. “There will be a sentry in the hall of the next level, and another at the elevator and stairway doors on the top floor.”

“Who else will be up there with our hostess?”

“Since it’s the middle of the night, no one. The servant resides one floor below,” he pointed to the ceiling above them, “along with the guests and other higher level employees. That’s where I stayed. La Prima prefers to be alone on the top floor.”

“Not very trusting, I’d say.”

Illya continued to tell what he remembered. “The elevator only goes from the garage to the top floor. The stairs go to all levels. I think Dr. Zandberg will be in the apartments above us, guarded, and the plutonium and the trigger are probably in the safe on the top floor.”

“And the film with Angelique just above us makes the party complete. Shall we split up? You go for the safe and I’ll get the rest?”

“We’ll have to take out the two hallway sentries simultaneously. They are in radio contact with each other between floors.” The agents sketched out their plan. They divided the various devices still in Solo’s clothing. Illya got a pair of explosive collar stays and a sleep dart. Solo got a knockout gas capsule and a length of cord.

The agents quietly made their way up the stairs. Solo stopped at the middle level door and counted down the time for Illya to get to the top level. When he reached zero, he stood up straight, straightened his jacket and hair, and stepped confidently through the door.

There was one guard in the hallway as expected, and who spun around immediately, his hand darting for his waistband. He hesitated when Solo smiled and spoke in a stage whisper.

“Sorry to startle you! I’m just looking for Angelique. She called me.” The bluff gave the agent time to get closer. He also noted the glance the guard gave one room, which gave away the Thrush woman’s location. Well, I now know where the film is, he noted. By the time Solo was close enough for the guard to see his burns and disheveled state, it was too late.

A snap of the capsule delivered the tranquilizer gas right under the guard’s nose, but not before the beefy man was able to knock the agent down with a single sweep of his meaty hand. The gun he pointed at Solo looked like a toy in the ape’s grip; then the ape blinked, swayed, and dropped.

“Sleeping Beauty you aren’t,” Solo whispered in his ear. Convinced the massive bundle of muscles under him was in a drugged sleep, Solo stood stiffly, feeling every ache in his body as he examined the hallway. Six doors lined the hall, dormitory style. Which one held Dr. Zandberg? He fished a ring of keys from the guards pocket and sighed. I sure hope everyone’s a sound sleeper, he thought.

He started at the end of the hall. The first door appeared to be broken, the lock useless in a splintered door frame. A peek inside revealed a room that looked like it had been ransacked. The whips and knives hanging on the wall and the feminine feel to the room defined Miss Fan. “Lively woman,” Solo mused to himself as he moved down the hall to the next room. It was unlocked, dark and empty. The next room was locked, but opened with the second key he tried. The familiar perfume told him immediately who occupied this suite - Angelique. He made sure the door was unlocked when he backed out.

The door furthest away from the elevator opened to a dimly lit room that smelled sour. A nervous voice squeaked from the dark bedroom.

“Who’s there? What do you want now?”

Solo took a guess. “Dr. Zandberg?”

A thin, disheveled man with wild eyebrows and a frightened expression peered around the corner into the living area. He clutched a bedspread to his chest with quivering hands. “What do you want? What are you going to do to me?” He squinted nearsightedly. “Oh. I thought you were that crazy blond man. Who are you? His owner?” Relief relaxed his shoulders but didn’t stop the shaking.

“Um, no. I’m here to get you out. I’m from UNCLE. You need to get dressed, quickly.”

“UNCLE? That crazy guy was UNCLE, too!” Dr. Zandberg tightened in fear once again and looked around frantically.

“Well, yes, but he wasn’t working for UNCLE then. He was . . . well, it’s complicated, but I assure you that you are safe with me. We need to leave.” When Solo moved to him, the scientist warily backed away.

Dr. Zandberg’s eyes narrowed suspiciously and he pulled the spread closer to his chin. “How do I know you won’t try to kill me like that other guy?”

“Dr. Zandberg, please. You have to trust me.” Solo made a note to get the details on the man’s abduction; his curiosity was definitely piqued. “I’m not like, ah, the other guy. Get dressed.”

The man studied Solo with a critical eye then began to feel for his clothes. “Well, you certainly are more polite than he was. Can I see your identification?”

Solo showed him his gold card and the man sighed. “Who am I kidding? I can’t trust anyone here. But since you have the keys to the door, I may as well get out of the horrible room while I can.”

“Solid reasoning, Doc. Now hurry. We have to make one more stop on our way out.”

Dr. Zandberg bounced on one leg as he pulled on his pants. “One stop?” he whined. “Are we shopping? I just want out of here!”

“So do I, trust me, but we can’t leave the bomb components here or this will happen all over again.”

 “The components are here?” Zandberg hurriedly put on his glasses. One lens was cracked. The scientist’s eyes doubled in size between the magnifying effect of the lenses and his fear.

“I’m afraid so. We’re getting them now.”

“We?”

Solo hesitated at the door. “Um, yes. My partner is currently upstairs and will join us eventually. In the mean time, we have to visit a lady.”

ACT VII : “Tag!”

Meanwhile, Illya had no problem with the guard in the upper level. He stepped into the room as if he belonged there and his reputation did the rest. The guard nervously stood his ground while the much smaller man walked right up to him and jabbed him with the sleep dart. Illya took his gun easily and pointed it between his eyes until he fell, in wide-eyed surprise, with a muffled thud. Illya was surprised by the sudden feeling of pleasure he felt when the man dropped. He swallowed hard and pushed it aside.

The penthouse floor was open and lavishly furnished with a sweeping view of the California coast. Glittering lights outlined the curved coastline like a diamond necklace on black velvet. The living area had only one small night light that shed yellow shadows on and empty room. What Illya wanted was at the other end of the floor plan. He turned his back on the peaceful scene and moved quietly down a hall. A thin line of golden light edged the bottom of the door that indicated La Prima’s room and the fact that she was awake. Not knowing if the safe he sought was in La Prima’s boudoir or another room in the same area, Illya decided to check the two other doors first.

Holding his breath, he took a chance and opened the farthest door in the hall, directly across from the lighted bedroom. It appeared to be a private parlor, complete with wet bar, baby grand piano and collectable art. A large glass door leading to a small balcony let in enough moonlight for him to search efficiently. He found that going through La Prima’s things gave him an unfamiliar thrill; the pleasure of violating someone else’s private space was hard to ignore and a mental battle for control only ended when he finished the search. Shaken but satisfied, he stepped out and moved to the next door.

A smaller window meant less moonlight, but Illya read the room instantly as an office. He quickly closed the door and turned on the desk lamp. To his relief, the previous thrill of violation did not come. After a quick sweep with his eyes, he got down to the business at hand and began a methodical search of the room.

The safe was tucked behind a gilded mirror, a location that seemed somewhat apropos for the narcissistic woman. Illya’s fingers tingled with excitement when he touched the large dial and he mentally cursed the unfamiliar emotion - it was a distraction. It took a lot of effort, but he managed to push them all aside before he carefully tucked the magnesium collar stays in the correct spots to burn through the inner throw bolts. A small flame would get the process going and he could leave this place.

He pulled a scratched Zippo from his pocket and flipped the lid open with a flick of his thumb. The movement drew his attention to the etching on the side of the device - the initials ‘SJC’. He hesitated, staring.

Where did this lighter come from? He didn’t smoke. The initials were age-worn. And then it came to him in the flash of a grisly scene: Simon, burning alive in an alley somewhere in Hong Kong, his mouth open in silent scream as he collapsed to the dirty litter strewn pavement. His immolation caused quite a fire and the Russian ashamedly recalled the thrill he got watching the ill-prepared locals battle the flames.

Suddenly back in the here and now, Illya dropped the lighter as if it were a snake. His hands were instantly sweaty as he recalled some of the details of the plutonium venture. His heart raced and he felt sick; he - his altered ego, actually - had started the fire.

It took several moments of forced focus to get back in control. The anger he felt toward La Prima for doing this to him was swept aside like the rest of it; he had a job to do. In measured movement, he retrieved the lighter, struck a flame, and touched it to the magnesium. It flared brightly with a whispered hiss. The smoke of the burning metal stung his nostrils and he was glad for the physical discomfort; it gave him something to think about while he waited for the metal to melt.

It didn’t take long for the bolts to surrender to the heat. Illya plucked a metal letter opener from the desk and pried the still hot door open. The safe was very large, but it didn’t take long to find the box containing the trigger. No sign of the plutonium, or where it was stored, was found.

A gentle swoosh was the only warning Illya got when the room door was opened. He wheeled around to find the stormy looking redhead clad in a flower strewn lounging dress scowling at him. A formidable gun pointed at him from her determined fist. The desk lamp light drew unflattering shadows on her face.

“I’m not going to ask what you’re doing. That’s obvious,” she growled, tightening her grip on the gun. “You are talented, aren’t you?  Angelique will be pleased.”

Illya kept still and let the darker side of his mind take lead. La Prima had no idea that things were happening one floor below; if she thought he was still the perverted Keyes persona, he might buy some time. The amused grin that curled his lips felt inappropriate. “Ah, the fair Angelique. She would be quite a treat, but other opportunities have risen.”

La Prima blinked. “What do you mean?” She raised the gun a little higher. “She’s the one that sent you up here. I knew you two collaborating was possible when I sent her with you to Albuquerque . She’s as opportunistic as I am.” Her green eyes glimmered in the dark.

“I’ve had another offer.” Illya stated lightly, tossing the switch between his hands. The lie left his mouth easily as he slipped into the persona without a second thought

“Stop that,” the woman growled.

“What?” Illya asked innocently. “This?” He arched the trigger higher and La Prima’s lips tightened into a tense line. Her eyes nervously shot between her antagonizer’s blue eyes and the trigger at its highest arc. “Precision devices like this one are delicate, don’t you agree? A miss,” he feigned a missed grab at the device and the woman gasped and took a step forward. Illya caught the device deftly with the other hand and let out a low laugh when he continued, “would knock it out of alignment and then it’s just a paperweight.”

He continued to juggle the box; La Prima’s eyes flared in anger, brilliant emeralds set in her dark expression. Illya waited a few seconds longer. When he saw her eyes harden, he knew she’d made a decision; he launched the box at her before she could act on it.

The woman growled audibly and lunged for the box. Illya lunged for the gun. They both ended up in a tangle on the floor with the agent on top and the box sandwiched between them. He pressed her gun under her chin and grinned menacingly.

“Tag!” he murmured cheerily, inches from her glowering face.

*************

Solo and Dr. Zandberg entered Angelique’s room quiet as a whisper. The agent motioned for the scientist to sit in the living area.

Solo carefully crept into the bedroom. The familiar perfume, stronger in here, marked her location in the darkness and he moved like a shadow to her side. Gently, he placed his hand over her mouth and the gun at her temple simultaneously, and then kissed her forehead. She awoke with a start.

“Now, now, Angelique. It’s just the tooth fairy!”

Her struggling ceased and eyes cleared, but then they were instantly stormy with anger.

“Are you going to behave yourself?” Solo whispered. She nodded. He released her mouth.

“What the hell are you doing?”

“Getting the film. Pardon me.” He unceremoniously stuck his hand down the front of her lacy panties and pulled out the roll of file. “I knew it would be on you somewhere. You’re just like La Prima; you like to keep your things close.”

Angelique’s expression was sour. “You are supposed to be dead, or at least gloriously maimed. Miss Fan is slipping.”

“She simply couldn’t keep up with me, I guess. Get up.” Solo tucked the film away in his pocket and stood back, the gun still aimed at her head.

Angelique rose slowly and slipped her feathery robe on. “How do you plan on getting out of here, love? I assume that’s the next step.”

Solo grinned. “Maybe. Come on, I need to tie you up.”

She smiled coyly. “Oh, Napoleon. We haven’t explored that realm yet!”

Angelique walked into the living room and didn’t give Zandberg a second glance. She settled down on a comfortable chair.

Zandberg, however, couldn’t take his eyes off the scantily dressed woman. She crossed her legs and bounced the top leg in annoyance as she inspected her nails. Napoleon had grabbed her nylon stockings to bind her hands. She tisked in disapproval.

“What a poor use of French silk,” she pouted as Solo tied her hands behind the chair. Then he sat next to Zandberg. “What are we waiting for?” She asked disgustedly. “The caterer for this party?”

Zandberg fiddled nervously. “Where’s this partner of yours?” He asked.

Angelique brightened. “Partner?” She laughed. “Napoleon, dear, he doesn’t mean that mentally unbalanced Russian of yours, does he?”

Zandberg leaped to his feet. “What? We’re waiting for the same crazy guy that brought me here? Are you out of your mind?” He wrung his hands and shifted his weight as he spoke, wanting to run but having no idea where.

Angelique chuckled. Solo stood and tried to calm his charge. “It’s all right, doc, really. He’s better now.”

“Better?” He said incredulously. “At what? Arson or torture?!”

“Um,” Solo stuttered. Angelique giggled softly, enjoying his predicament.

Zandberg was on a roll. “You expect me to leave with that . . . that . . . lunatic? He burned down my house!”

“Ah, that was unfortunate, yes.” The agent laid his hand on Zandberg’s shoulder as he tried to placate him. “But he wasn’t himself at the time. He’s fine now.”

Dr. Zandberg was in serious danger of hyperventilating. Solo spoke soothingly, explaining what he knew about collision of processes that had affected his partner. Angelique stopped laughing when she learned that Kuryakin was back to himself.

“I thought you’d struck a bargain with the little psychopath! You mean the process can be reversed?” Angelique sounded disappointed. “That’s useless to me!” She sank back into the chair with a huff, which seemed to reassure Zandberg enough to calm him down.

Solo moved to the door and pressed his ear against the cool wood, listening for his partner. It wasn’t long before he heard the faint pad of footsteps in the hallway. He cracked the door and waved the blond man inside.

Illya gave Angelique a double take. Zandberg squelched a squeak of fear. Solo checked the hall and closed the door.

“Your fan club is all here,” Solo mumbled to his partner.

Illya frowned, and then turned back to his friend. “I have the trigger.”

“I have the film and the scientist,” Solo summed up. “Now we just need the plutonium.”

He turned to Angelique. “You wouldn’t happen to know where it is, would you?”

She smiled cagily. “If I did, why would I tell you?”

Illya answered immediately. “Because we can get you out of here. La Prima thinks you and I double crossed her.”

Surprise was quickly squelched in Angelique’s eyes. Her lips compressed into an angry line as her mind worked.

It was Solo’s turn to smile at Angelique’s predicament. “Time to pick the lesser of two evils, my dear.”

She glared at him. “Fine,” she spat. “Let me get dressed and I’ll show you where it is.”

Solo moved to untie her hands but was unable to undo the knot. “Illya? Do you have a knife?”

“As a matter of fact,” he pulled a slim stiletto from his sleeve. Zandberg yipped and scurried behind the sofa. Illya regarded him apologetically for a moment. “I obviously didn’t leave a favorable impression at our first meeting, Dr. Zandberg.” The scientist nodded a nervous acknowledgement and kept his distance as Illya walked to Solo and handed over the dagger. “Courtesy of La Prima’s, um, private collection.”

The silk split cleanly at the touch of the knife. “Have a little run in?” Solo inquired.

“Yes." Illya kept his voice low to keep from alarming Zandberg even more. "It’s only a matter of time until things fall apart here. It’s time to go.”

 “I agree.” Solo helped Angelique to her feet. She rubbed her wrists and walked to the bedroom, closely escorted by Solo. She looked at him with a frown. He smiled back and wiggled the gun in her face. “Don't worry, love, I have protection.”

Dr. Zandberg kept the sofa between him and the blond agent while the woman and Solo were in the bedroom. He shifted from foot to foot. Illya stood patiently by the door, his ear pressed to the wood for signs of pursuit. Finally, they were ready to go and assembled by the door.

“Where are we going?” Solo asked the Thrush woman.

“The garage. I’ll show you when we get there.”

“Glad to know we trust each other so much,” he mused. “Let’s go.”

ACT VIII: “We are going to play Russian roulette.”

Creeping stealthily down to the lowest level, the foursome huddled together in the hall near the garage. Solo peeked through the small window in the door.

“There are two cars and one visible sentry. The garage door is open, so we have to be very quiet.”

“And darling, don’t forget the two at the gate and the two roving teams outside. You probably didn’t notice them on our arrival.” Angelique whispered. “What about the tracking device in blondie’s tooth? We won’t get far with that in working order.”

Illya’s eyes widened and he put his hand on his cheek. Solo turned to him apologetically. “I meant to tell you about that . . .”

“What ever happened to trust?” The stoic Russian mumbled as he worked his tongue around his teeth. Using La Prima’s slim stiletto he carefully pried the offending cap from his tooth.

Solo gave him a quick glance. “Well, now we know you can be a dentist when you retire.”

Illya rolled the device around in his palm for a second, and then pocketed it. “When I retire, I’m not giving anyone the opportunity to bite me.”

“What a shame,” Angelique growled.

“Can we go now?” Dr. Zandberg was growing more fidgety with each passing second.

“Come, come children. Time to leave. Plan, anyone?”  When no one responded, Solo smiled smoothly. “OK, then, it’s mine by default.” He handed Angelique a gun, and she brightened. “Sorry, hon, it’s not loaded. The Doctor and I will be your prisoners. Which car?”

Angelique visibly deflated with a disappointed pout. “I don’t know. The plutonium is in the trunk of one of them.”

Illya rolled his eyes. “And here I forgot my X-ray glasses.”

“Look here, Mr. Smarty Pants . . .” Angelique raised the gun to smack the Russian, but Solo quickly intervened and stepped between them, gently lowering the angry woman’s arm. Illya’s cool blues never flickered as he regarded her.

“Illya, pick the trunks and peek inside. We’ll wait here.”

The cars were backed into the garage, both trunks next to the door. When the outside sentry’s back was turned, Illya slipped out and worked on the first trunk. He had the lock picked in a matter of seconds. Solo saw him glance inside, then reach into the trunk. What the hell is he doing? Solo thought. Illya then quietly closed the trunk and slunk back through the door.

“Lucky pick. It’s there. Shall we?”

Solo dragged Zandberg next to him and raised his hands. The scientist blinked at him then nervously copied the motion. Solo then nodded to Illya, then said to Angelique, “Take us to your leader.”

Illya paused with his hand on the doorknob. Solo could see his friend’s body language subtly change as Illya let the alternate personality come out; his eyes became icy orbs with pinpoint pupils and a crazy, frightening smile formed on his lips.

Zandberg noticed, too, as his respiration increased geometrically with the size of his eyes. “How does he do that?” The man whispered, his voice jittery. Sweat beaded above the scratched and cracked glasses.

Solo raised his brows in interest. “I don’t know, but I hope it goes away just as quickly.”

Illya pulled the door open with gusto and Angelique poked the gun in Solo’s back. “Showtime, gentlemen.”

Solo put on a tortured face. Zandberg’s terror wasn’t an act.

The pair followed Kuryakin into the garage with Angelique bringing up the rear, the empty gun trained on her ‘prisoners’.

Illya flung open the back door of the car.

“Hey!” The sentry spun around so quickly his tie flipped back over his shoulder. He wasn’t so quick with the gun, but he still got it trained on the bantam blond in a respectable time. “Hold it!”

Illya paused at the open car door, and then slowly drew himself to his full height. His eyes sought out the interfering voice and locked onto him with razor sharpness. Solo could see the flicker of uncertainty in the sentry’s expression. The other three escapees stopped in the frame of the open car door. Illya stepped away from the car, his motions fluid but tight, like a leopard getting ready to pounce. The Russian’s hands hung loosely at his sides. His voice was as icy as his stare. “Are you addressing me?” Four steps nearly closed the gap between them.

The sentry was a full foot taller than Kuryakin but body language told everything; the man was scared. He nervously squared his shoulders. “Yes. Sir. Yes, sir. Are you, um, leaving?”

Illya moved like a shadow on silk, and in another two steps his chest was pressed against the muzzle of the sentry’s gun. The sentry stood fast, but the nervous blink of his eyes was unmistakable.  After a moment, Illya leaned slightly forward. The sentry automatically responded by leaning forward, too. Solo saw his partner’s lips move as he spoke quietly. The sentry jerked straight, and backed up two steps. The gun disappeared in his jacket, and he moved aside. Illya’s feral grin was a chilling when he turned back to the group under the sentry’s watchful, but very respectful, gaze.

Zandberg yelped and jumped into the back seat. Without a word, Illya grabbed a surprised Solo by the collar, dragged him around to the front door, opened it, and flung him inside. “You get to drive,” Illya growled as he followed. Solo scooted quickly behind the steering wheel. The sentry almost looked sympathetic.

Angelique got in beside Zandberg. Illya had taken a gun from his waistband and pressed it against Solo’s temple.

“Hey!” Angelique purred in glee. “Your gun is loaded!”

Illya’s predator grin never faltered. “I know.”

Zandberg moaned softly and cowered lower in the back seat.

The keys were in the ignition. Solo fumbled and started the car. Illya’s act was so convincing he felt his own heart race. “Um, did I mention that dinner’s on me when this is all over? The catch is that I have to be alive.”

“Is that before or after you write the report?” Illya suggested with a twinkle in his frightening eyes.

“Don’t push it,” Solo replied, dropping the heavy sedan into drive.

The driveway was a long, gentle curve slightly downhill to an impressive wrought iron gate. Small lights lined the cement, illuminating the path clearly. They also illuminated the pair of well-armed guards that flanked the gate.

“Is there a secret password or something?” Solo asked quietly. “Why aren’t they opening the gate?”

Angelique spoke through her fake smile. “They will, darling. They just have to flaunt their testosterone a bit. You know how it is.”

Solo stopped the car. Obviously pre-warned as to who was in charge, the one on Illya’s side approached the window whereas Solo’s sentry stayed put.  Solo rolled down the electric passenger window, the gun still pressed to his temple. The crazy grin still played on Illya’s lips, and he kept his eyes on Solo. The guard leaned down and looked inside.

“Going somewhere, sir?”

“Yes.” Illya replied immediately. “We’re off to play a game.”

The guard blinked in surprise. He didn’t expect that answer. “A game?”

“We are going to play Russian roulette. You’ve heard of that game, haven’t you?”

Zandberg hiccupped in fear in the back seat.

There was a slight hesitation before the guard replied. “Yes. I know the . . . aren’t you suppose to play that game with a revolver? You have an automatic, there.” He sounded generally confused as he waved a finger at the weapon.

The motion was so smooth and so fast, no one in the car was sure they even saw it, but in the next second, the muzzle was pressed against the guard’s forehead. Solo had to give the Thrush man credit for not dropping dead of a heart attack on the spot.

“That must be the Americanized version.” Illya said menacingly. “This way, I always win. Want to play?” The eerie smile returned. The guard took a slow and cautious step back and straightened up, careful not to make any threatening gestures.

"N. . . no, sir. I . . I don’t think so. Open the gate!” He quickly signaled the other man, and the gate began to swing open.

Illya trained the gun back on Solo. “So you finally admit that you cheat at games,” the dark haired agent said lowly. “I’ll remember that next time we play canasta.”

When the phone rang at the guard post, the gate wasn’t quite open enough for the car to fit. The sentry answered it, then dropped the receiver as he spun around and brought up the Thrush rifle.

“Get down!” Solo barked. The engine roared as he punched the accelerator, and Illya twisted and fired out his window.

Amazingly, the heavy sedan did not budge the gates on contact. The tattoo of bullets on metal accented the smell of burning rubber as Solo applied more power. The boxy car surged again, and the iron gates squealed in protest. Windows on the left side shattered, and the guard on Illya’s side dropped without firing a shot. Icy cool, the Russian turned and looked behind.

“Incoming at six o’clock , Napoleon.” His voice was loud but completely in control. He then twisted to the left and took out the second guard with two tight shots right under Solo’s nose.

“I hear you!” The older agent waggled the steering wheel, applied more gas, and the car pushed through the gates with a spine tingling shriek of metal on metal. They lurched down onto the narrow, winding road that lead out of the Malibu hills to the sea. One headlight was all they had left to show the way.

“The second car was pulling from the garage. We should have company soon.” Illya checked the rounds in his gun and held up one extra clip. “This is all I have.”

“I only have what’s in the weapon,” Solo added, keeping his eyes on the twisting road. “And I think the engine’s been hit. I have red lights all over the place, here.”

Illya turned to find their pursuers out the back window. He ignored Zandberg cowering on the floor and glanced briefly at Angelique, who was patting her hair in place as she braced her feet to keep from lurching sideways in the turns.

She glared at Illya, gripping the back of the front seat in an effort to keep from being thrown to the side. “Give me a gun. I’m in this up to my earrings, too, you know.”

His eyes flicked to hers for a fraction of a second, then back to the pursuing headlights. “I am going to pretend you never said that.”

ACT  IX: The End Approaches

The headlights behind them flailed about in the darkness and caught up to them quickly. Illya emptied his gun out the back window in an effort to break the lights; driving on this winding road at that speed without them would take care of the problems.

“Either that driver is very good or very lucky,” Solo grumbled as he manhandled the steering wheel. The smell of hot engine coolant and oil permeated the air.

After looking out the back for a few seconds, Illya calmly said, “I’d go with aggressive.” He then reached over and pulled Solo’s gun from his jacket and braced himself for a rough ride.

Angelique frowned at the comment, and turned to look at their pursuers. They were coming to a short straightaway, and the roar of the engine behind them grew louder as it leaped closer.

“Oh my God, that crazy Chinese woman is driving!” Angelique turned on Illya immediately. “Do something! She’ll kill us all!”

The sentence had barely passed her lips when they were rammed from behind. Solo swore and wrestled the wheel; Miss Fan nosed her vehicle between the rear fender and the guardrail. Her profile was even with Angelique’s window and she was grinning like a kid on a roller coaster. Next to her, the glaring eyes of La Prima were barely visible as glowing cat eyes in the dark.

“Can’t you go any faster?” Angelique snapped.

Miss Fan turned into them and Solo swerved across both lanes and bounced off the guard rail - sparks flew.

Illya leaned out his window and fired. The pursuing car dropped back slightly and shimmied, giving Solo time enough to straighten out. They plunged into the turn at the end of the straightaway, tires squealing. Miss Fan rammed them again from behind, but Solo’s grip was fast and he held steady. Illya leaned across the back of the seat and held the his gun in a two handed grip. Angelique and Zandberg covered their ears and ducked. Illya snapped off several rounds, and the windshield in front of La Prima broke into a spider web pattern. Miss Fan backed off to a respectful distance.

Illya twisted forward and ejected the clip. “I’m empty,” he said. Smoke was coming in through the vents now. They all coughed and tried to ignore it.

“That’s it for bullets,” Solo said grimly. “We have to outdistance them.”

The road leveled out quickly and merged with the main highway. Solo tromped on the gas and the car leaped ahead. The smoke became thicker, and the engine stuttered. The wounded sedan gamely took each curve of the highway with dogged spirit. Each of them knew their getaway car was mortally wounded.

The headlights behind them blinked back into existence as tiny pinpoints of light, and grew bigger by the second.

“We have to make a stand. What about a diversion so we can get set up?” Solo said from gritted teeth; the steering wheel was getting tougher to manage.

“How about throwing her out?” Illya offered helpfully, pointing to Angelique in the back.

“I knew there was a reason I disliked you,” she growled back, holding on the seatback tightly.

“They’re catching up,” Zandberg said in a small voice after a quick glance backward.

The coast highway was a two-lane affair, winding up the western edge of California like a black ribbon. Coastal mountains pushed the eastern edge of the pavement, and where the road was not edged on the west side by the Pacific or a cliff, it was open, sandy areas. The occasional house with stilted balcony over the beach popped up in the darkness of the night.

“Let them,” Illya said after a moment, his eyes brightening.

“You have a plan?” Solo asked.

“I guess you could call it that.” Illya turned to Angelique. “Give me your gun.” 

She handed it over disgustedly. “You do remember I have no ammo.”

“Are you going to lob it at them?” Solo asked lightly.

A smile flashed in the dark. “The question is, what will they lob at me? Slow down, and pull off in the next open area. Make some dust.”

Solo’s forehead furrowed as he tried to see where his partner was going. “I just hope I don’t pull off over a cliff. Have you noticed how dark it is out there?”

Illya was busy stuffing the guns securely in his waistband. “As a matter of fact, I have. Here, pull over.”

When they bumped off the roadway, the headlights of their pursuers were uncomfortably close. Illya jumped out of the car, caught Solo’s eye, and made a circling motion with his hand in the air. Solo nodded, acknowledging the direction to circle around his partner. The black night swallowed the tense form when Illya took a few steps backward.

By the time Solo had circled his partner three times, it was dangerously dusty. Solo doused the headlight, and the pursuing cruiser’s headlights sped past. He positioned the car as far from the road as he dared. With the moonless night, the blackness of the sea blended with the blackness of the land. He knew they must be on a cliff as he couldn’t see the phosphorescent foam of the waves but could smell the saltiness of the beach.

“Where’s Kuryakin?” Zandberg whispered, squinting into the dusty blackness. “All I can see are the taillights of that crazy woman’s car! She’s stopped just past where we pulled off! Are we just going to sit here?”

“Like ducks,” Solo said lowly, letting the engine idle as he tried to part the black with his scrutiny.

“I say it’s time to switch partners and hit the road,” Angelique purred. She leaned forward and traced her finger along his neck just above the collar. “We could do well together, Napoleon, if you’d only drop the goody-goody conscious.”

Solo laughed lowly. “Always the opportunist, Angelique. That’s one thing that makes you so interesting.” He flicked his eyes in her direction for a second. They sparkled like dark stars. “That, and your amazing . . . assets.”

“Oh, Napoleon.” She sighed. “Such a waste.” Turning to follow his gaze out the window, she found the red taillights of their pursuers with ease. “I hope this isn’t goodbye forever.”

Solo also found the red dots through the dust. They flared white as the car began to race backward. “Me too,” he mumbled.

**********

“There they are!” La Prima growled. The powerful sedan lurched to a stop just beyond a cloud of dust where their quarry had left the road. The headlights winked out and there was nothing but darkness and swirling dust. “Quick, before they escape! There’s no where to go!”

The cool Asian threw the car in reverse. The only thing that gave away her fury was the brightness of her ebony eyes.

Miss Fan didn’t like being deceived, and that’s exactly what Kuryakin had done. She did not like to look like a fool. As she began to imagine what she would do to the slight blond in revenge, she felt the familiar thrill deep in the pit of her belly that was the precursor to a rush of ecstasy. To reach the peak of the thrill would require killing Kuryakin - preferably with her hands, but the bloody image of a car mangled blond body caused a small gasp of pleasure.

“Down there! That turn off! They’re trapped!” La Prima’s voice was that of a lioness going in for the kill.

Miss Fan’s heart raced and she threw the car into drive and urged the powerful machine down the narrow path illuminated in the reach of headlights. The more tightly she gripped the wheel, the hotter she felt between her legs. They plunged into the dust, which scattered the white headlights of their speeding car.

“Where are they? Where are they?” La Prima snarled, gripping the dashboard with both hands. “Do you see them?”

The goon in the back poked his rifle out the window and squinted. “No, ma’m! Not yet!”

Then suddenly there was a blur of inky movement in the thick dust. The blond hair was a flash in the brilliant headlights before disappearing in the swirling storm. Miss Fan cranked the wheel automatically in hot pursuit.

“No, wait!” The redhead suddenly realized the possible danger in the dark. “Slow down!”

Miss Fan had found her prey in the headlights again; her eyes glazed and her mouth pulled back into a rictus smile. Illya ran ahead, keeping just to the edge of the lights in a zig-zag course. More dust cut the line of sight.

La Prima could peg a cat-and-mouse ploy in an instant; she’d played that game enough times herself. “Stop the car, you crazy bitch! Can’t you see he’s . . .” The sedan hit a clump of something and the car bounced crazily. “Stop!”

Miss Fan screeched a curse when she spotted Kuryakin just outside the dust cloud. He was breathing heavily and reaching for his waistband. Miss Fan’s curses drowned out any other orders. When La Prima tried to take the steering wheel, red nails clawed her face and she pulled back with a hysterical scream.

Illya pulled out the guns and raised them defiantly to egg her on; it looked like the last act of a desperate man, and the rocket ride of the ultimate thrill began in Miss Fan’s crotch as she floored the accelerator.

La Prima screamed and scrambled for her door, as did the goon in the back.

Illya leaped, nearly too late. The thud of his body against the car was merely glancing, not loud enough to fulfill the gory hopes of Miss Fan; she shrieked with the realization, and the exclamation was deafening in the quietness of the car, now airborne as it sailed off the cliff toward the dark and thundering ocean below.

A shrill trailed from the vehicle as it plunged into the night. The fireball of impact on the seaside rocks clearly outlined the edge of the cliff in the settling dust as Solo, Angelique and Zandberg ran to the scene.

“Where’s Illya?” Solo puffed, scanning darkness that flickered with orange fire. He cupped his hands on either side of his mouth and shouted toward the ocean. “Illya!”

“Here!” Zandberg dropped to his knees and extended his arm over the crumbling edge. His profile was orange and black in the night when his body jerked with extra weight. A blond mop appeared. Solo ran over and helped pull the grimacing Russian to their level. They lay in a panting heap for several moments, the source of the smoky light out of sight below them.

“Are you all right?” Solo panted.

“The car clipped my leg. And I’m very grateful for the native shrubbery on the slope.” Illya sat up painfully and held his left thigh with both hands. A hiss was followed by quiet litany of Russian curses. The shadow man in his mind that would thoroughly enjoy the pain was nowhere to be found; a small satisfaction, but noted none the less.

Then they heard another car start up. Their battle wounded sedan slewed crazily on the dirt, a silvery plume of dust marking its progress. When tires hit asphalt the headlights flicked on and the engine roared. Two red taillights compressed quickly into one and faded away along with the sound of the engine as the car disappeared into the night.

The three men simply stared, panting.

“I don’t suppose she went to get help.” Dr. Zandberg adjusted his cracked, dirty glasses as he watched Angelique vanish on the horizon.

Solo turned back to his partner. “No, I don’t suppose she did.”

Illya grit his teeth as he gripped his leg. “I’m surprised she didn’t finish the job and flatten us all.”

“Now, now.” Solo chided. “You can thank her for leaving us as loose ends when next we meet.”

 “Which will be much too soon,” Illya grumbled.

The trio was quite relieved when the sound of sirens caught their ears and grew louder as they approached. Solo moved around to sit back-to-back with his partner; he gazed tiredly at the inferno below. Dr. Zandberg flopped down and lay on the dirt, exhausted. Illya tried to collect himself and not to pass out from the pain.

 EPILOGUE

As Solo and Kuryakin made their way down the hallway of UNCLE Los Angeles , Illya tightly gripping a walking cane and limping while Solo tried not to scratch the healing burns on his temples, passers by parted respectfully. They had been here less than a day and the recent exploits of the pair had already reached legendary proportions.

The conference room door swooshed open. Dr. Zandberg, now cleaned up and rested, waved weakly from a seat at the opposite side of the large table. The tentative look he gave Illya was not lost on either agent.

“Don’t worry, Doc, he’s hobbled.” Solo indicated the cane with a nod. Illya gave his partner a surly glare. They settled into the seats closest to the door. Mr. Waverly was on a video screen at the front of the room and the Chief Enforcement Agent of the Los Angeles office, Darren Savage, sat at the head of the table.

“We found the receiver you described, Mr. Solo.” Savage tapped a silver box on the table.  “It was at the La Prima estate. Quite a spread, there. I can’t believe she was under our radar for so long. It’s kind of embarrassing, really.”

“Did you find the plutonium?” Illya asked.

“Yes. The tooth transmitter was jammed in the canister’s locking mechanism, as you described Mr. Kuryakin, and this receiver zeroed in on it immediately. It was still in the trunk of the car.” He paused to grin. “I don’t see how you escaped anyone in that thing.”

“Where was the car?” Solo inquired curiously.

“The airport. We’re assuming the Thrush woman,” he glanced at a paper. “Uh, Angelique, figured it was too hot to handle and she hopped the first flight out before being caught with it.”

“Graceful retreat,” Solo mused.

“Self preservation,” Illya corrected.

Solo opened his mouth for a riposte but Waverly’s voice cut him off. “Dr. Zandberg has gracefully offered to accompany the plutonium to a proper storage facility. Thank you, sir.”

Dr. Zandberg nodded tightly. “I’ll be very happy to get back to my work. I’m not cut out for this spy business.” He nervously glanced at the two agents.

Waverly agreed. “We’ll arrange for an escort . . .” The instant look of fear on the scientist’s face was not lost on the old man. “. . . from the Los Angeles office. Mr. Savage?”

“Yes, sir. I’ve already put a team together and they can leave anytime.”

Zandberg visibly relaxed with an apologetic glance at the pair across the table. Solo smiled back. Illya ignored him.

“Mr. Kuryakin? We would like you to return as soon as possible so we can begin the process of debriefing.” Solo thought he heard a touch of regret in Mr. Waverly’s tone.

“Yes, sir,” Illya replied sourly.

“Mr. Solo? You will accompany Mr. Kuryakin and keep an eye out for any further symptoms.”

Solo wasn’t sure if he should enjoy that assignment or not. Illya’s disgusted expression definitely raised the bar a bit. “Um, yes sir. Permission to shoot at will?”

Illya threw him a dirty look.

“Definitely not, Mr. Solo. Mr. Kuryakin is a valuable asset. Try to make sure he gets here unscathed so we can set things right.”

Illya perked up at that comment and his sour face turned smug. Solo rolled his eyes.

“Gentlemen.” All eyes were on the video screen again. “Try to remember that this connection is two way,” Waverly chided, but his tone was light. The agents looked properly chastised. “Yes, well, and let me congratulate you on the successful closure of this case. I believe that all the loose ends are taken care of?”

“Yes, sir.” Solo answered.

“Then good day. I will see you tomorrow, Mr. Solo, Mr. Kuryakin. Mr. Savage, please inform me when the plutonium is properly stored.”

“Yes, sir.” Savage closed his file and rose to go. “Good bye, sir.”

The screen went blank. Zandberg leaped to his feet when Savage moved to the door. The L.A. CEO gave the scientist a funny look and then said his goodbyes to the New York agents. Once they left, Solo stood and stretched.

“Ready to leave this coast, partner?” he asked.

Illya followed suite, a bit more slowly and painfully. They made their way down the hall to the travel office to get their tickets. “I wonder if there’s a special section on the plane for ‘valuable assets’,” Solo wondered out loud in a teasing tone.

“Hopefully, it’s far enough from you as to not hear your latest stewardess pick up lines,” Illya replied lightly.

“The luggage level far enough for you?”

Unaware of the respectful and admiring looks cast their direction as UNCLE’s finest, the pair traded barbs all the way to the travel office.

FINIS