THE HIT II

Here she stood, unmoving, while the target turned his weapon on Michael, hidden in the shrubbery across the street.

“Drop your weapons and come out slowly,” the menacing voice spoke. She knew damned well Michael wouldn’t do any such thing, especially since he didn’t know she had also been spotted and somehow immobilized. He would think she would at least cover him, and at best draw and shoot both primary and secondary targets. Michael stood up, (At least he can move, she thought with relief.) aimed, and was about to pull the trigger, when she received the strong “message” that this was all wrong, completely and horribly wrong.

“No, Michael, don’t!” she screamed, agonized. That broke the paralysis. She was about to scream further at their intended victim, when to her horror she saw Michael fire.

Something…….happened. The bullet missed its mark. No that isn’t quite right, she thought confusedly in that curiously elongated split second. Michael didn’t miss. Michael never misses. The projectile stopped in mid-air and disintegrated. The man stopped the bullet, her stunned mind reported. Two more shots coughed out of Kuryakin’s gun. One struck the head, one the kevlar-protected chest. Michael flew backward, landing in the grassy area of the park behind the bushes.

Nikita’s cry died in her throat.

Michael was hurt badly. The rest of her team probably dead. Nikita herself still held motionless, she struggled once again to move as the man she knew as Kuryakin, accompanied by the tall Indian, walked slowly toward her. Kuryakin frowned, as if in concentration, and her brain reeled with an assault upon its neurons, ganglia, hell, it felt as if her brain might explode. “Nnnnoooo” she moaned in agony, her eyes locked onto his. His face softened suddenly.

“Ah, now I understand,” he murmured to himself. The agony disappeared and she slumped to the ground unconscious.

“Keir, call for backup, and cleanup too”, he ordered, and knelt to take her head in his hands. Turning her over gently, he gazed at the lovely face; the volume of ultra-blonde hair streaming to the ground. This is fate, he knew. This young woman came to kill me, and couldn’t do it “She’s bound up in this horror too. I don’t understand yet, but I must have the chance and the time to come to.” And the man, too had some part yet to play, that was fairly clear. The man lying bleeding to death in the grass. She loves him. Right or wrong, I must save both of them, he thought to himself. The other three were dead, and unimportant. “Keir, call also for an ambulance.” He barked. Keir, dialing furiously, and walking over to peer down at the child, still huddled behind the wall, complied without a word. “It’s alright Little One,” he crooned. The girl stood up and started over to Kuryakin. “No, Alexis” Illya said, “stay with Kier.” Belatedly, Kuryakin looked around at the crowd gathered, albeit at a distance.

“Police business” he said calmly, holding up the badge he carried for just such occasions. “Please stay back, people, ambulance is on the way, and the show is over.” No the show is just beginning, really, his mind reported. The outcome would have been different if Alexis hadn’t been there. An internal groan. But then, if she hadn’t, he’d probably be dead. A sad set of circumstances at best, he knew. No time for remorse.

He laid the young woman gently down, and ran over to the man on the grass, quickly inspecting the damage. Ah, a fairly uncomplicated wound to the head, he saw with relief. Bad shooting there, his mind whispered. Lots of blood, but the skull looks unbreached. And, yes, as he suspected, unconsciousness induced by the impact to a kevlar-shielded chest. Excellent. The sound of an ambulance encroached on his musings. “Kier, take Alexis home please, and stand-bye for further word. Oh, and thank-you.” Kier snorted, but still make no comment. Kuryakin stood and motioned the paramedics to the spot where Michael lay.

“Take him to the address on this card,” he said, handing one of the paramedics a standard business card, and I’ll contact the receiving ER personnel.”

Amid much confusion caused by such a request, Kuryakin explained to the Crew Chief briefly, who he was, and why they were to take the injured to the specified location instead of the usual hospital ER. Satisfied that his instructions were understood he returned to the young woman still lying on the sidewalk. Turning to watch Kier usher his daughter into his own vehicle, he sighed and pulled out his communicator to summon further transportation. For the first time in quite a while he uttered those familiar words, “Open channel D.”

THE HIT PART III

Three things happened at once.  Alexander Waverly answered Illya Kuryakin’s communiqué, Nikita regained consciousness, and the rest of Section’s back-up team arrived on the scene.Illya, distracted by the fact the Alexander Waverly himself, now in his eighties, had answered his call, took no notice of either of the two other circumstances.Two things happened. Through her implanted communications device, Nikita heard Birkoff saying something about the mission parameters having changed; the back-up team drew and fired on Kuryakin, hitting the chest high right Before the startled paramedics could react, the back-up team had loaded both Illya and Nikita into the black van parked on the street and sped away. The communicator lay on the ground where Illya had dropped it, with Alexander Waverly’s voice demanding what was going on, coming though softly and insistently.

  Waverly in U.N.C.L.E Headquarters

                       IN THE HANDS OF SECTION

Illya Kuryakin did not want to wake up. His body signaled frantically for his mind to remain unaware of the predicament it was currently in. He felt cold steel against the back of his head, around his wrists and most alarming of all, around his throat. He felt little pain; therefore it had been a dart and not a bullet that had hit him. Recalling his biorhythmic training, he began the mantra to keep all vital signs showing an unconscious man to the sensitive instruments he was sure were monitoring him, while with the rest of his senses, he reached out. By scent, there was a female in the space with him, very still, breathing evenly.

His proximity sense reported no other living beings in the space. He struggled to remember the name mentioned in a report on Section One he’d read. This report was Most Secret, Eyes Only, and briefed by the present head of the North American branch of the Command. If he reached out with his mind to try to read her, the instruments would certainly report it. Madeline, his memory reported. A dark haired beauty, and as cold as she was intelligent. No one to play games with. So be it then, he decided, I will not play.

A rustle of skirt and soft heels hitting the floor signaled her movement. Madeline touched the communications panel on the wall.

“Bring the ephedrine solution.” She said tonelessly.

“Never mind that,” he rasped, “I concede you my full attention.”

“Excellent Mr. Kuryakin.” She said evenly. “And I hope we can spare you any further discomfort. We will if you will completely cooperate and tell us what we wish to know.” Madeline moved into Kuryakin’s line of sight. She stood, tall, regal, dressed in black.
Madeline, Section One’s Master Strategist

Undeniably beautiful, he thought, but her eyes are empty. He tried to read her and met an icy wall. He thought he knew what she wished to know, and how very, very impossible it would be for him to avoid the aforementioned further discomfort.

Characteristically, she got right to the point.

“We know you have made great strides in computer design. This is what we wish you to discuss with us in detail.”

“Why this method of inquiry?” he asked. “It occurs to me that we are basically on the same side. Why the assassination attempt and kidnapping?”

“I will ask the questions Mr. Kuryakin. You will answer; voluntarily, or involuntarily; now or later.”

“No, Miss….?”

“Call me Madeline.”

“No Madeline, I will not. I will die first, and you will have a lot to explain to Oversight.”

He thought he caught an emotion flicker across her face. He hoped it was fear and recognition. It was a long shot, but he was reasonably sure that although Sir John was not a member of Oversight, Alexander Waverly was. The last voice he’d heard over his comms unit was Waverly’s, which meant the Old Man was aware of this situation.

“Goodbye Mr. Kuryakin, I wish this could have gone smoothly for you.”

And she was gone. A man and a woman entered the space. Two people who sent chills down his spine. Two expressionless people with black suitcases.

Operations

Madeline walked into Operation’s spaces. He looked up and motioned her to a seat.

“He mentioned Oversight.” She informed him. “He knows more than we thought.”

“No matter,” the head of Section One replied, “we still go as planned. We need that information. What about tracking modules?”

“He’s clean, as far as we know.” Madeline said. “However, if he is what we think he is, he may be able to notify his organization using means we cannot detect.” She hesitated, then “Do you think the full interrogation is wise?”

“Well, we’ve already tried to assassinate the man. The interrogation will go as planned and give the usual results.”

“I don’t know.”

“Madeline, this is rare. Uncertainty from you?”

“You know I read people quite successfully.”

“Your specialty, yes.” Operations smiled at her.

“This one will die before our specialists are through with him, and we’ll get nothing.”

Silence reigned for a few seconds as Operations sipped his orange juice.

“How many hours did transport take?” he asked her.

“Four hours, 15 minutes.”

“Then we’d better finish the interrogation quickly.” He said flatly and offered her a croissant.

“Michael?” came his next inquiry.

“Badly hurt, but alive. He’s still a hot spot on our bioread equipment. And your debrief with Nikita?”

“Thought provoking, but unsatisfactory. She said the team was immobilized, except for Michael, and he only managed to fire once. It is her opinion that had Michael not shot at the target, Mr. Kuryakin and his bodyguard would have taken the two of them without injury. The abeyance operatives aren’t our problem any more.”

“That’s what she wants to believe.” Madeline said. “She wasn’t convinced by our pre-brief.”

“I thought we’d gotten past that point with her.” Operations grimaced.

An exhausted Nikita sauntered into Walter’s area. Walter, his gray-blonde hair perpetually pulled back in a ponytail, and the familiar bandanna wound around his head, gave her his usual grin, which slowly faded.

“Whoa Sugar, you look all done in. “

“Walter I need to talk.”

“Sure, we have a few minutes. What’s up?”

“Nothing’s up. Everything’s way, way down. Michael’s been hurt and taken somewhere. We didn’t hit our target. Operations is livid and Madeline, as far as I know, is interrogating an innocent man.”

The huge blue eyes got red-rimmed as she struggled with her exhaustion and emotions.

“Come here Sugar.” Walter opened his arms, as he had countless times. They shared a mutually tender embrace. He did not release her as quickly as usual, but whispered in her ear, “We got more than a whiff here of things gone awry. The buzz is that Operations really put his foot in it this time, and maybe his head in the other part. Talk is Oversight is buzzin’ like an angry hornet’s nest. It’s about our prisoner. The one having fun and games with the horrible twosome as we speak.”

“Walter, you know what that may mean. They’ll kill him and cover up. This is all wrong I’ll..”

“You’ll what, Nikita. Waltz in there and save him; whisk him away from Section?”

He held her at arm’s length and looked into her eyes. He saw what he feared.

THE INTERROGATION

Kuryakin watched with some interest as the two opened their case. Not a word was exchanged. Not a flicker of humanity touched either face as they displayed the open attaché containing a small drill with many alarming attachments.

They’ll start with an injection of some kind, he guessed. However, when they approached him they the drill was held casually in the fish-white hand of the female.

The first tendrils of fear began to eat into his nerves. It had been nine years since this kind of thing had happened. The horrors he’d withstood at the hands of THRUSH and then the KGB came rushing into the foreground of his mind. “The hell with pride and exposure,” he thought, “time to yell for help.”

U.N.C.L.E. HEADQUARTERS, TORONTO

The cup of tea April Dancer was lifting to her lips crashed to the floor. Her hands flew to her head as the internal voice blasted her consciousness.

“April, what is it?” her companion and long-time friend Mark Slate asked in alarm.

April stood still, listening. Although, she thought wryly, I couldn’t miss another blast like that. She looked quizzically at her friend, then remembered that he had no idea that she and Illya could establish a bond of heart, mind and soul so complete that they no longer required words at any time (though both had agreed a long time ago, they would usually communicate in the conventional manner).

“Ah, Mark, I have to make a call. Just make me another cuppa please and bring me aspirin, um extra strength, with a tall glass of scotch. No. Hold the scotch.” Aware she was babbling, she closed her mouth with an audible click, and excused herself from the room. ‘He’s close,’ her mind told her. And she dropped her mind’s shield to attempt contact once more.

The mental training had taken many months. Illya had shown her how to use her natural ability, then the more difficult training followed. This second vital part concerned how to construct a shield so her thoughts could remain private. The only one who could penetrate that shield at will was Illya himself. He did it only in emergencies, and it had been a long time since one of those had come up.

April prepared herself and opened up to him. ‘Illya, I heard you loud and clear. Please tell me where you are and what you need.’ Nothing. An echo of pain, quickly surpressed. Then nothing at all.

She reached for her comms unit and contacted Command Headquarters North America using the highest priority coding. The voice answering her was a surprise.

“Yes, Miss Dancer.” Waverly answered.

“Ah, Sir, what an honor and a lovely surprise. So much like old times.” Babbling again, her shocked mind said. Stop it woman. “It’s Illya Sir, I’ve had a message from..”

“Where is he?” Waverly barked.

“Close, Sir, in Toronto, if I’m not mistaken. It was much too strong to be far away.”

“Excellent! Order a team for penetration of the location coming across on your screen.”

She activated the sleeping console and waited a few seconds for the visuals to come up.

“But Sir, isn’t that…”

“That’s correct, Miss Dancer.” A pause ensued. “Is Mr. Slate there with you?”

“Yes Sir, on vacation.”

“Have Mr. Slate accompany the team. And Miss Dancer, need I tell you what your objective is?"

“Of course not Sir. This will be a difficult penetration, but, ah, excuse me while I give my full attention to the directives. Dancer out.”

He didn’t even have to ask how we communicated, she mused. The old fox knows. He probably knew from the beginning. How much is there that I don’t know?

And, oh by the way, why is our Illya in danger in the stronghold of Section One?

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