He checked his watch and looked up and down the quiet, deserted street which was slick from the previous hour’s rain. The street reflected the bright sidewalk streetlamps and cast eerie shadows on the closed storefronts up and down the street.

Solo grunted. Thompson had said he’d meet him at two a.m., and his watch now read a quarter after three.

Solo was the chief enforcement agent for the United Network Command for Law and Enforcement, and his meeting with UNCLE boss Alexander Waverly the previous day had taken quite awhile because --

"I don’t totally understand your request, Mr. Solo."

"Let me make it as clear as I can, sir." Solo had to grit his teeth to keep the edge out of his voice. "I need 24 hours to go to California and see a friend who’s in trouble."

"That’s all?"

"Yes."

"You could have said it that simply to begin with! What kind of trouble, Mr. Solo?" Waverly leaned back in his chair, facing Solo across his mahogany desk. Solo had asked to meet his boss in his private office; the busier UNCLE control center, where meetings were usually held, didn’t offer the privacy Solo needed.

"I’d like to keep that private, sir. But I need to go. Just 24 hours, sir. That’s all."

"An old girlfriend, perhaps?"

"Sort of. And her brother."

Waverly momentarily studied Solo’s face. "You’ve got a very urgent look about you, Mr. Solo."

"This is very personal."

"Alright, fine. You can have your 24 hours but no more. I need you and Illya ready to go at a moment’s notice."

"I’ve talked it over with Illya, sir. He’s staying behind."

Waverly nodded. "Make whatever arrangements you need. I’ll sign off on them."

Solo rose from his chair, bowing slightly. "Thank you, sir." He turned and headed for the door.

"Mr. Solo?"

The agent turned around. "Yes, sir?"

"If you need back-up, don’t hesitate to call. I don’t like the look on your face."

"Understood." Solo opened the door and went out, frowning angrily.

* * *

Solo checked his watch again. Three-thirty-five a.m. A light wind swept the street but Solo’s heavy topcoat blocked out the chill.

Headlights down the street.

Solo’s right hand instinctively reached under his coat for the sawed-off Walther P-38 under his arm. The bulky gun reassured him. He watched the car slowly approach. It weaved left and right, the driver not fully controlling the vehicle, and Solo saw the driver hunched over the wheel.

The agent stayed in the doorway because he couldn’t see the driver’s face. The car finally veered off and crashed into a lamp post. It stopped cold and the driver’s door flung open, the driver rising from the front seat. "Solo!" he shouted. He took two steps and fell headlong onto the street.

Solo took out the Walther and left the doorway, trotting to the fallen man. The man struggled to get up, raising his head. The pulpy bruises and bloody cuts Solo saw quickened his pace and he kneeled beside the man.

"Johnny!"

"Solo," the man hissed, John Thompson his name, the man Solo had been waiting for. "Roll me over." Solo gently turned Thompson over onto his back. Thompson winced, crying out. Cold wind blew up the street, drying the sweat on Solo’s face.

Thompson wheezed, clouds of breath streaming out his mouth. "Solo, you gotta ... gotta get to her, Solo."

"Where, Johnny?"

Thompson moved a bloody, mangled hand to his jacket pocket. His chopped fingers couldn’t open the flap. Solo reached into the pocket and pulled out a piece of paper from a small spiral notebook.

"Keep her safe, Solo."

"Who did this?"

"Hasbro -- " Thompson’s body convulsed and he screamed, and then suddenly stopped, his body going slack, and Solo watched Thompson’s last breath pass through his lips.

A chill went up Solo’s back that had nothing to do with the wind.

He thumbed Thompson’s eyes closed and stared at the man. No time to mourn. Solo looked at the notebook paper. Lisa’s name jotted in the middle, plus an address. He gave Thompson a last look, got up and started walking away, slipping the P-38 back into its holster.

He listened to his footsteps on the pavement as he walked the two blocks back to his car. He got in and fired up the engine, shifted into gear and pulled away from the curb. Making a quick left, Solo drove down the wet street, quiet rage rushing through his veins.

* * *

Solo didn’t know the streets of the quiet town he was in, but the rented Chrysler he drove had a map in the glove compartment.

In the parking lot of a 24-hour Seven-Eleven, a steaming cup of coffee in the Chrysler’s center-console cup holder, he held the map against the steering wheel and tried to figure out the fastest route to Lisa’s place.

He couldn’t shake the fear that every minute he took kept Lisa in danger.

The previous day, a few hours before his meeting with Waverly, Solo had been enjoying his first day off in months, with a relaxing workout in his home gym.

He had two bedrooms in the apartment, one containing his weights and training mat. Wiping off the sweat from his face and tossing the damp towel over his shoulder, Solo paced around the room, catching his breath after the thirty-minute workout, looking forward to a shower. His stomach grumbled hungrily.

The bare white walls of his workout room seemed bland and unexciting, but Solo hesitated to decorate. A workout room should be bland and unexciting, used only for hard, efficient exercise and nothing else. A beach painting would be nice, or some movie posters. Solo knew a shop at the local mall that exclusively sold movies and movie posters; he could find whatever he wanted there.

Solo tossed the idea aside. The room didn’t need decorating. He shook his head side-to-side to get the kinks out of his neck; left the room.

Solo turned left down the hallway to the master bedroom. The bedroom wasn’t as bland as the workout room. There were pictures hung on the wall, a large king-sized bed, a dresser made from oak. The pictures were various beach scenes. Solo couldn’t get enough of sandy shores and swaying trees, but unfortunately didn’t get to see the real thing often enough. The pictures filled the void, but couldn’t substitute for the real thing.

He twisted the water spigot and water rushed out of the showerhead. He ran his fingers under the water to test the temperature. Just as it got warm enough, the phone rang.

"Hello?"

A voice from the past said, "Napoleon?"

"Yes."

"It’s Lisa Thompson, do you remember me?"

"How could I forget? You used to beat me up every day in junior high."

"And you finally asked me for a date in high school."

"I was a little slow." Solo’s gut told him this wasn’t a social call. The tone in Lisa’s voice was guarded, nervous. "What’s wrong, Lisa?"

"I need your help, Napoleon." She choked back a sob. "My brother and I ... we’re in serious trouble. I know I haven’t kept in touch with you in the last few years and I’m sorry ... "

"That’s okay, Lisa. What do you need?"

"Can you come see me? I can’t tell you over the phone."

Solo grabbed the pad and pen beside the phone and asked where she lived, promising he’d be there by the next afternoon.

After getting permission from Waverly, Solo went to his office and sat down heavily. Not as fancy as Waverly’s, the office’s stainless steel walks actually served a classified purpose. A window looked out over New York City, the sky blue today, the sun high, the towering skyscrapers in the distance always breathtaking.

Illya Kuryakin stood by the window, as he often did after completing a batch of paperwork or taking a coffee break. He watched a bird fly past the window.

"Don’t you ever wish you were a bird, Napoleon?" Despite his Russian accent, Illya spoke English almost better than Solo.

"What? Do I detect a touch of philosophy in that question, Illya?"

"It must be nice to just spread your wings and fly away anytime you want. Don’t have to worry about food because there’s always worms around, never have to put up with New York winters." Illya sighed.

"Something wrong, my friend?"

"Just thinking out loud, Napoleon."

Napoleon Solo waited but Illya didn’t continue. He and Illya had worked together for what seemed like forever, but Illya never fully shared his thoughts or feelings. Once, when they’d first begun working together, Solo had pulled his friend’s file, but even that official material didn’t answer any questions about his friend’s background.

Kuryakin turned to Solo. "What did Waverly say?"

"Yes."

"Sure you don’t want me along?"

"This is personal."

"You said these were friends of yours?"

"I few up with Lisa and John. We used to do everything together. Lisa was my first girlfriend." Solo smiled fondly. "My first everything if you know what I mean."

Illya nodded.

"So I need to go out there alone; see what’s going on," Solo said.

"I understand."

Solo snatched up the phone, ignoring the paperwork spread out on his desk. Reports, forms needing his signature, memos. All junk, as far as he was concerned, but work that needed finishing. Just not now.

"Travel Control? This is Solo."

Illya listened while his partner made his travel arrangements to California. He looked at the rooftop across the street, watching a squad of birds touch down and perch on the edge, observing the city same as him. One flew away.

Solo thanked the secretary at UNCLE’s Travel Control section and hung up. He stood and pushed his chair in. "Hold the fort for me, Illya?"

"Of course. Take care." Illya watched Solo take his topcoat from the rack beside the door and put it on. He wasn’t himself, totally consumed by the situation with his friends. They must have been close indeed, Illya thought. Solo turned to him; they looked at each other silently for a moment before Solo said good-bye and went out.

Illya Kuryakin watched the office door click shut. Twisted around to look at the phone on his desk. Both his desk and Solo’s were pushed together at the front end, making what looked like one big table.

"That phone will ring before I count to ten," he said to himself. "One, two, three ... "

The phone rang.

Illya left the window and sat down, picked up the phone. "Kuryakin speaking," he said sharply.

"Mr. Kuryakin," Waverly said, "Mr. Solo just left to catch his flight. I’ve booked you on the next available flight, which leaves in two hours. Mr. Solo has booked a hotel, and I’ve put you there, too."

"Don’t tell me, sir, let me guess. You want me to follow Napoleon?"

"With your proficiency in disguise, Mr. Kuryakin, I’m sure you’ll do fine."

"Yes, sir."

"Go to Travel Control to get your plane ticket and other items."

"Yes, sir."

"And report back if it looks like Mr. Solo gets in over his head."

"It doesn’t sound that bad, sir."

"Don’t be so sure, Mr. Kuryakin. Don’t be so sure."

* * *

Back in the rented Chrysler, Napoleon Solo finalized the route he needed to take to Lisa’s, folded the map and put it on the passenger seat.

He picked up the coffee and took a sip. The clerk inside swept the floor, glancing at Solo. Solo put the cup back in the holder and started the car. The clerk went back to sweeping. Solo pulled out of the parking space and turned left onto the road.

He went straight for several miles and made a right onto an expressway. A few other cars on the road cruised along with his so Solo didn’t feel so alone. Being the only person out this late (or early, depending on your point of view) left an odd feeling inside him.

A green sign on the median island announced the next street coming up, and Solo moved into the far right lane and turned right at the next intersection, slowing before he made the turn, pressing on the gas as he steered out of it and enjoying the throaty rumble of the Chrysler’s engine.

Solo looked out the windows at the suburban neighborhood he found himself in. Following the home addresses painted on the curbs in front of each house, Solo found Lisa’s place and gave the house a quick once-over as he rolled past.

A two-story deal, wide porch, nice yard. The porch light burned brightly. No sign of trouble.

Solo turned into a cul-de-sac and flipped around, going back to the house and parking along the front curb.

He shut the car off and got out, his ears tuned to the quiet night, an otherwise peaceful night except for the violence the previous hour. Solo knew the discovery of Johnny’s mangled body would shock the town.

Solo took out his gun and held it by his hip as he walked to the front door.

He pressed the doorbell.

He waited.

Looked around, scanning the shadows, his finger light against the P-38’s trigger. Didn’t like the porch light: it made him too good a target.

He pressed the doorbell again. The lock finally clicked and the door eased open. A wary face peeked out and Lisa Thompson smiled for the first time in several days.

"Hello, Lisa."

"Napoleon!"

She pushed the door open and flung her arms around him. She hugged him tight and he squeezed back, feeling her soft flesh underneath the white T-shirt she wore, along with loose blue jeans. Her body suddenly stiffened in fear and Solo heard her gasp. She hurriedly pulled him inside. Slammed the door. Bolted the lock, applied the chain. She turned to face Solo, her face pasty white.

"Lisa, what’s going on?"

"Where’s John?"

Solo’s face softened. He opened his mouth to speak but nothing came out.

Lisa said, "He’s dead, isn’t he?"

"I’m sorry, Lisa."

Tears filled her eyes. "I knew it." She sobbed. "They’ve been following us. What happened, Napoleon?"

Solo told her everything.

"They must have grabbed him, tried to make him talk."

"Who’s ‘they’, Lisa?"

"He got away to meet you."

"Lisa?"

She didn’t seem to hear him. "How did you find me?"

Solo explained, showing her the notebook paper. She took it, put the notepaper in her hip pocket. "Come on." Solo followed her into the kitchen. No lights on in the house except for small wall lights plugged into the outlets.

"I’ve been keeping the place dark," she said before he could ask, "just in case."

She pulled open the refrigerator and took out a bottle of beer. "Okay?"

He nodded, took the bottle and twisted off the cap. They sat down at the kitchen table. The table was placed next to a large window and Solo noted approvingly that the shades were down.

Solo needed to get her talking. As she sipped her beer he said, "Are you still teaching eighth grade history?"

"I was, until this mess started," she said, calmer now. "I’d just transferred over to one of the new year-round schools, too, and was finally making enough to live on. John and I had been sharing this house."

She tipped the bottle back again for a long gulp.

"Don’t drink so fast, Lisa."

She shook her head, setting the half-empty bottle down. "I don’t care. Nothing matters except surviving this."

"Start from the beginning." Solo took a drink and watched her.

"John is -- well, was -- working for the Acton/Leone law firm, as a legal analyst. He came home one day all upset because of a client the company just took on named Vincent Rapisso."

The name triggered a memory in the back of Solo’s mind but he couldn’t place it

"Apparently Rapisso is some sort of gangster," Lisa continued, "and John refused to work there anymore, even threatened to tip the police the next time Rapisso was in the building."

"Was he under arrest for anything?"

"No, but gangsters always need big time lawyers, and Acton and Leone have gotten pretty big since the Global Chemical trial, where they managed to get the heads of that company convicted for dumping chemicals in a river, causing ten children to die. After that we started getting threatening phone calls, bricks thrown through the window. It was awful. I came home one afternoon after work and found all the furniture rearranged, but nothing stolen." She shuddered. "They were in my house, Napoleon. Those animals were in my house."

Solo sipped his beer.

"John quit going to work, but the threats continued. They even tried to run us down when we were out shopping for our mother’s birthday one afternoon. After that, I finally had to call you. I remembered you were in law enforcement and I figured you could help."

"Why haven’t you tried the city police?"

"We did, Napoleon, but they refused to help. Said if we knew what was good for us, we’d leave town."

Solo nodded, looked down at the beer bottle and twisted it with his fingers. "Why have you stayed here?"

"Stubborn, I guess. Plus we don’t want our parents involved. I have a shotgun; I figured if they tried anything I’d hold them off."

Solo kept his face straight, but something bothered him about the story. He couldn’t articulate the reason, but his sixth sense sounded the alarm that had saved his life too many times to be ignored.

"I may be able to take care of it," he said, looking back up at her, "but you need a place to hide for now."

"Where?"

"My hotel. Pack some stuff and let’s get going. Where’s your phone?"

"Over by the couch." She got up and headed upstairs while Solo sat down on the couch. Picking up the phone, he dialed a memorized number and waited. Instead of a ring on the other end, a series of clicks sounded, following by modem static as the call was scrambled and rerouted three different ways. UNCLE’s new phone system hadn’t entirely replaced the reliable pen communicators, but Solo preferred to reserve his pen only for field emergencies.

"You have reached 345-5250," a monotonous male voice said.

"This is Solo, number one of section one."

"One moment."

The line went dead except for a fait beep Solo knew meant the call was continuously being scrambled several different ways lest an enemy decipher any part of the call.

"Yes, Mr. Solo?"

The man from UNCLE smiled. "To whom am I speaking?"

"You should know, Mr. Solo."

"Why, that’s Ginger. Hello, Ginger. Working late?"

"You know me, Napoleon, always waiting for your call. Literally and figuratively. Are we still on for the Bahamas this summer?"

"Of course, my dear. Would I lead you on?"

"Napoleon, you’ve promised for the past three years to take me to the Bahamas, and every year something comes up. How do I know you’re not paying off Waverly to send you on assignment whenever our vacation comes around?"

"Ginger, if that happens again this year, you can spank my like the bad boy I am."

"I may just do that anyway, Napoleon," she said demurely. "Now, what do you need?" The sharp, business-like tone made Solo sit up straighter. Ginger could be a real whip-cracker when she wanted to be.

"I have a name. Several names, actually," he said. "First, Hasbro. I don’t know if it’s a partial or a full name but see what you can find. Focus on known Mafia members or associates."

"Next?"

"Acton and Leone. Don’t know first names but they run a law firm in this town." Solo gave the name. "See what they’re up to. Also, Vincent Rapisso. He’s a mobster talking to Acton and Leone for some reason."

"Gotcha. Anything else?"

"That’s all. I’ll check in later this morning."

"I won’t be here," Ginger said, "but Walsh will have the information."

"Great," Solo said.

"Good night, Napoleon." The sexy, flirtatious tone was back in her voice. "Behave yourself."

"I’ll certainly try. Good-bye, Ginger."

"Bye-bye."

Solo hung up and chuckled to himself. He went back to the table and drank some more of his beer. The creaking ceiling above him told him Lisa was hurriedly packing.

He went to the window and moved the shade aside, peeking out.

Footsteps behind him. "I’m ready, Napoleon."

Solo turned. Lisa had put on a leather jacket, tied her long black hair back in a ponytail, and carried a medium-sized tote bag.

Solo drank the rest of his beer and put the bottle down and grabbed the Chrysler’s keys from his pocket. "Come on."

* * *

Solo circled around the neighborhood twice, trying to see if he had a tail. Absolutely nothing. His backside was clear.

"Something wrong?" Lisa asked.

"Just checking."

Solo drove across down toward his hotel, all the while checking the rearview mirror. As dawn broke over the horizon, more cars joined him on the road, early morning commuters jumping into the rat race once more. But nobody followed him and his sixth sense sounded its alarm again. Solo couldn’t figure out why, but put himself on high alert, knowing his Walther automatic was only inches away.

* * *

Illya Kuryakin tossed and turned in his hotel room bed, unable to sleep. He kept thinking about Napoleon. So far he’d managed to avoid Napoleon’s sharp eye, noting he was somewhat lax when he’d left the hotel, not taking the usual precautions. Obviously the idea that he was only doing a friend a favor contributed to that, but it still troubled Illya, and he couldn’t put it out of his mind.

He’d followed Solo all the way downtown, using other cars in traffic for cover, but when traffic thinned and Solo took up his perch in the flower shop doorway, Illya had no choice but to turn around. By each elevator in the hotel hallway was a small sitting area, and Illya had sat for hours reading, his disguise carefully hiding his Slavic features, contacts altering his eye color, but Solo hadn’t returned. A check at the desk, where Solo had left his key, confirmed Solo hadn’t returned. By four a.m. Illya climbed into bed, but couldn’t doze off.

He flung the covers aside and got up. A small refrigerator sat next to the wooden dresser ahead of the bed, and Illya opened it, taking out a small bottle of vodka. A note on the door advised him that each time a bottle of booze or soda was removed, a charge was electronically recorded on his bill. "Terrific," Illya remarked dryly, shutting the door and opening the bottle. He didn’t concern himself with expenses when UNCLE was picking up the tab, one of the perks of working for the secret organization.

He sat at the writing table by the window but didn’t look out, instead stared blankly at the bed and drank. He didn’t now what Solo was up to, but hoped he wasn’t in any danger.

* * *

Solo and Lisa Thompson entered his hotel room and Solo kicked the door shut. She took a deep breath, raising her arms above her head to stretch, and said, "I feel safer already."

Solo locked the door and set the key, his wallet and pocket change on the dresser. He took off his jacket and tossed it on the bed nearest him, slipped the shoulder holster containing his P-38 off, went over to the writing table and draped the holster and gun over a chair.

Lisa tossed herself onto the second bed without taking off her jacket. Rolled over on her side, relishing the soft mattress and fluffy pillow. "I’m awfully tired, Napoleon."

Solo sat down and took off his shoes. He opened his mouth to answer, but when he looked up, Lisa was out like a light, sleeping softly. He smiled, slid his shoes under the table and went over to her, bending down to kiss her cheek.

Memories of the past flooded his mind. Their first kiss, first lovemaking after the senior prom. But those days were gone, she wasn’t a girl anymore and he wasn’t just another jock, but maybe....

He stretched out on the other bed and fell immediately asleep.

* * *

By the time his alarm went off at eight o’clock the next morning, Illya grumbled and hit the snooze button. The vodka had helped lull him to sleep, but his body still felt tired, and another ten minutes would do him good.

* * *

The sun streaming through the hotel room window touched Solo’s face and his eyes fluttered open. He frowned at the fact he’d slept in his clothes, now rumpled and wrinkled, out of place on his lanky frame. Lisa still slept soundly, actually snoring a bit, and Solo got up. His suitcase sat in front of the dresser; he picked it up and took it into the bathroom.

Lisa woke up and heard the shower running, thought she heard Napoleon singing. She laughed as he began the second course to "My Way" and got up. She took off her jacket, pulled off her shirt and took off her pants. She reached behind her back, unhooking her bra, and slid her panties off, letting the underwear fall to the floor with the rest of her clothes. Goose bumps covering her body and she realized how cold the room was. She rummaged through her tote bag and found her pink silk robe, throwing it on.

She stuffed her old clothes back in the tote bag and heard the shower stop. Napoleon came out five minutes later, dressed casually, his wet hair combed back.

"Good morning," she said.

"Good morning yourself. Sleep okay?"

"For the first time in weeks." She brushed past him on her way to the shower and Solo said he’d order breakfast.

"Get me a big omelet!" she called out, kicking the bathroom door shut.

* * *

Illya whistled softly as he pulled his door shut and headed down the hall to the elevator. He went by Solo’s room at a brisk pace, hearing nothing behind the door, and wondered if he’d made it back.

He’d applied a new disguise. A light beard to match his hair, altered eyes, puffier cheeks. He wished he could have changed his body type with some foam padding, but on such short notice he hadn’t thought to bring any.

He took the elevator down to the busy lobby. People hustled to and fro, bellboys carrying luggage as they led guests to the elevators, others checking in. Illya went to the desk. One of the clerks, a college boy with a light smile, turned from the cubbyholes on the wall and said to Illya, "Yes, sir?"

"I’m checking on a friend of mine who’s also a guest here. Napoleon Solo? Room 241? Did he check in last night?"

The clerk asked Illya to wait a moment, scanned the cubbyholes along the wall, came back and nodded. "He did, sir."

"Excellent. Are there any messages for me?" The question was purely a cover; Illya knew there’d be nothing.

"Your room?"

"252."

The clerk checked, turned back and shook his head. "Sorry, sir."

"Thank you very much."

Illya left the desk and headed for the hotel restaurant across the lobby, the heels of his shoes brushing against the light carpet. He eyed the sitting area with its plush leather chairs and twin sofas, the gift shop with its stack of fresh newspapers out front. Illya changed course and headed over there. He grabbed a newspaper, tossed a dollar on the counter and told the girl manning the register to keep the change. She thanked him with a smile, and the UNCLE agent scanned the headlines as he reached the restaurant.

Nothing significant happening, he noticed, seating himself at the restaurant counter. A major software company caught up in an anti-trust lawsuit with the government, a scandal with the local elected officials, nothing that caught Illya’s attention.

A waitress came over. "Good morning."

Illya asked for a menu, gave it a quick scan and ordered bacon, hashbrowns and eggs with apple juice. The waitress jotted it down and went away, returning with the juice as Illya sorted through the newspaper, taking out and comics section.

He glanced back to the lobby, hoping to see Napoleon. No sign.

So Illya Kuryakin read the funny pages and chuckled. Other customers filtered into the restaurant and he eyed them out the corner of his eye. Always alert, totally aware that a seemingly innocent customer could be a THRUSH agent with orders to kill UNCLE agents on site.

The thought of THRUSH, the criminal organization that was the proverbial thorn in UNCLE’s flesh, having any of their deadly agents in town left a sour taste in his mouth.

The waitress brought his breakfast, and the crisp bacon quickly replaced the sour taste, and Illya dug in hungrily.

He finished in about fifteen minutes, ordered some more juice, drank it down and went back across the lobby to the elevators.

He got in with an older couple that talked about their sick dog Zorro and how bad they felt leaving him with their daughter.

"He’ll be fine, Mildred."

"What if he gets worse, Herman?"

"Then we’ll stick him in that mausoleum you built. With the puffy carpet or whatever. Or maybe we’ll stuff him and mount him over the fireplace."

"Don’t talk like that, Herman!"

"Aw, Mildred, you spend more time on the damn dog than anything else!"

Illya couldn’t hide his grin as the couple got out at the first floor, still arguing.

The UNCLE agent watched the floor numbers above the elevator light up. When his floor lit, he cleared his throat, the doors sliding open.

His heart skipped in surprise and he almost went for his gun, but his brain kicked in and told him to be cool, never mind the fact that Napoleon Solo stood in front of him, a girl behind him and another, taller man on one side, and Napoleon didn’t look happy, but a flicker of hope registered in Solo’s eyes. He looked hard at Illya, an urgent plea in his expression, and Illya cleared his throat twice in rapid succession as he brushed past the trio and went toward his room.

The tall man had a gun in Solo’s back, Illya knew. He looked over his shoulder and watched them get into the elevator, then turned around and sprinted as fast as he could to the stairwell door beside the elevator. He crashed through the door, racing down the steps two at a time and wondering what the heck Napoleon had gotten himself in to.

* * *

A half hour before, just as Illya was sitting down at the restaurant counter, Solo waited for Lisa to get her shower going before sitting down on the edge of the bed. He picked up the phone, dialed the direct line to UNCLE headquarters and listened to the scrambling noises. A man answered and Solo identified himself, and Walsh came on the line just as Ginger had said.

"Got your information, Mr. Solo."

"Let’s have it." Solo had a pen poised over a pad of hotel stationary.

"Acton and Leone are definitely associated with the Mafia, but that’s not the big deal."

"Okay."

"Vincent Rapisso is a Mafia hitman, but that’s not the big deal."

"Okay."

"The big deal is that Vincent Rapisso was once partners with Garrett Salifano, another hitman, who wandered over to THRUSH and became one of their top killers. Responsible for the deaths of several of our people, along with CIA and FBI agents, a few MI6 guys in England, the whole bit. Mark Slate and April Dancer were the ones who finally knocked him off, and we watched Rapisso for awhile to see if he’d lead us to any more THRUSH agents, but he didn’t."

"Gotcha." Solo jotted notes.

"Rapisso works now for the Gambolini syndicate in New Jersey," Walsh said. "FBI’s hot on his trail, but he’s been in hiding for awhile. This is the first time he’s gone public in quite awhile."

"Orders from Waverly?"

"Find out what’s going on. If Rapisso has any links at all to THRUSH, find his contacts and do as much damage as you can. If not, see what he’s up to anyway, because nobody knows why Rapisso’s bothering with these lawyer guys, except for the fact that they’re mobbed up. Waverly doubts he’s just securing a good defense team for whenever the FBI nabs him."

"Understood."

"One other thing about Garrett Salifano. He had a wife named Lisa, which came up in our cross-reference check because she grew up in the same town as you."

Solo’s blood ran cold.

"You there, Mr. Solo?"

"I’m here."

"For awhile it looked like she was taking his place, but she dropped out of sight along with Rapisso."

Solo put his pen down. Noticed that the shower had stopped running.

"Thank you, Walsh. This information proves most helpful."

"Let’s not forget Mr. Hasbro," Walsh said. "He’s a roving THRUSH controller. We’ve been after him for years. If we see him, Waverly says terminate with extreme prejudice."

"Shouldn’t be a problem."

"Good luck, Mr. Solo." The line clicked dead.

Solo put the phone back on the cradle and noticed his hand was shaking. He willed it to stop, but his then his whole body started shaking and he said forget about it. Moving slowly, he got up and went over to his gun, still hung on the back of his chair. He pulled it from the holster, flicked off the safety, and sat down, keeping the gun in his lap.

It took five minutes for Lisa to emerge from the bathroom, wearing a white blouse and black slacks, her hair teased and flowing down to her shoulders.

"You look great, Lisa."

"Thank you. Shall we go down for breakfast or get room service? Napoleon, why are you holding your gun like that?"

He pointed the sawn barrel straight at her belly. "Time for some answers, Lisa. Stay right where you are."

"Napoleon?"

"Shut up."

"What’s going on?"

"You tell me. Should I call you Miss Thompson or Mrs. Salifano?"

Her face flushed white, but her color quickly returned. Her eyes narrowed at Solo.

"I did some checking on a name your brother gave me before he died. Hasbro. Does the name THRUSH mean anything to you?"

"I don’t know what you’re talking about!"

"I think you do. What’s going on, Lisa? Trying to lure me into a trap, kill me in retaliation for your husband’s assassination?"

"You’re crazy!"

"I think you’d better put your hands up against the wall."

"Getting kinky, are we? Come on, Napoleon. I saw that look in your eye the minute you saw me." She moved closer, very slowly. "You’ve wanted to get me out of my pretty panties and into bed since the moment I called you."

"Don’t move."

Lisa tugged at the top of her slacks with one hand, using her other to slowly move the zipper down. "You know this is what you want." She let the slacks fall open, let them down enough to reveal the lacy underwear she wore. She smiled, reaching down the front of the panties and cooing as her hand moved between her legs, to the inside of her thigh.

Solo’s eyes dropped curiously and she pulled her hand out quickly, a small, black object clutched in her fist. Solo’s face twisted in a pained expressed as his finger tightened on the Walther’s trigger, but she moved faster, tossing the object. It struck the wall behind Solo and exploded, a blinding light filling the room. The UNCLE agent screamed, felt a sharp, stabbing pain in his hand as the P-38 was kicked away.

He covered his eyes with his arm, and the light finally faded, but Solo sat there nearly blind, blinking his eyes rapidly to clear them.

When his vision cleared enough so he could see, but with spots still making it difficult, he saw Lisa standing in front of him. She’d zipped her pants back up and held his gun steady in her slender hand.

"Sorry, Napoleon, you weren’t supposed to hear that name."

"You killed your brother."

"I had to."

"He found out about your scheme, didn’t he?"

"UNCLE killed my husband. Rapisso and I will kill as many UNCLE agents as possible. I’m sure you found that he’s been in hiding for a long time. My husband’s contacts found both of us after he was murdered, and asked if we wanted a little payback. How could we refuse? So they trained us, Acton and Leone act as our support team, and now it’s time for revenge. Starting with you."

"You’ll never get away with it."

"How many other lines can you remember form cheap spy movies?" She went to the phone, picked it up and pressed three buttons, dialing another room in the hotel. She spoke quickly, hung up, and looked smugly at Napoleon Solo. "It’ll be time to leave soon, Mr. Solo."

"And then you’ll kill me?"

"Of course not! You’re a great hostage. UNCLE will do whatever it can to get you back."

"Don’t be so sure. We’re all expendable."

"But you have friends who will try a rescue. Illya Kuryakin. April Dancer and Mark Slate. Especially Dancer and Slate. Losing the four of you will knock such a hole in UNCLE’s armor it’ll never recover."

"You’ve got it all planned out, don’t you?"

"If you weren’t such a sucker for a girl in distress," Lisa said, "you wouldn’t be here. It’s a perfect plan so far, wouldn’t you agree?"

A knock at the door. Lisa walked backwards to it, slipped the latch off and stepped forward. The door opened and a tall man stepped inside, dressed in a dark suit, white shirt and black tie. He smiled at the sight of Solo. "Greetings, Mr. Solo. Your reputation precedes you."

"Vincent Rapisso, I presume."

"Correct."

"Glad you could make it. Have a seat. Can I get you a drink?"

"Your wit won’t save you, Mr. Solo." Rapisso reached under his jacket and took out a small .357 revolver. "Get up. Don’t try anything."

"Can I put my shoes on?"

Rapisso said to Lisa, "Check the shoes."

She handed Rapisso the P-38 and went to get Solo’s shoes. She quickly backed away, pulling at the heel, tapping the pads inside. "Nothing," she said. "No hidden compartments or weapons." She tossed the shoes back at Solo. They thumped on the floor at his feet.

"Put them on. You’ve got a car waiting downstairs."

Solo quietly slipped his feet into the shoes and stood up. "Shall we go? I’m so looking forward to our trip."

The THRUSH killers stepped apart as Solo walked to the door. Opened it, stepping out into the hall, the killers right behind him. Lisa opened a button on her blouse and slipped the P-38 inside, tucking it into her belt. The swell of her breasts pressing out against the blouse helped cover the gun. Rapisso stuck close to Solo, jabbing the barrel of the .357 into his ribs.

They stopped at the elevator and Solo pressed the call button.

The elevator opened and Solo’s eyes widened at the sight of Illya Kuryakin before him. The disguise was good but Illya couldn’t fool Solo, and he looked at the Russian intently, knowing Illya would get the message. You don’t work with someone for several years, through one dangerous assignment after another, without developing a sort of telepathy, and Solo counted on that now.

His friend walked by, clearing his throat, seemingly ignorant of the whole situation and Solo found it very calming.

The man from UNCLE stepped into the elevator with the THRUSH killers and the doors slid shut. The elevator started down.

"I’m real disappointed, Lisa."

"Shut up."

"You used to be such a nice girl."

"She said shut up," Rapisso said.

"Why did you marry a gangster, Lisa?"

"I was in love with him."

"You said you were in love with me."

"Come on, Napoleon, we were teenagers."

"Didn’t I ever mean anything to you?"

Rapisso roughly jabbed the .357 into Solo’s ribs and he double over, grunting. "Shut up," Rapisso said. "I won’t ask you again."

Solo straightened and caught his breath. He looked at Lisa. She turned away from him.

* * *

Solo sat between the two THRUSH killers in the back seat of an Infinity Q45, the big luxury car eating up the road as it sped through afternoon traffic. Solo watched the building fronts flash by, quite a few pedestrians on the sidewalk going about their day, oblivious to the life-and-death drama being played out in their fair town.

The driver pulled into an underground garage. The large building above wasn’t a skyscraper by any means, but large enough to accommodate several offices on its floors. The Infinity slid into a parking space marked RESERVED and the driver got out.

Rapisso, on Solo’s left, got out next, and gestured for Solo to follow, keeping the .357 in his jacket pocket. Lisa prodded him as well with the P-38 she held, and Solo slid across the seat and got out. The driver and Rapisso, Lisa covering Solo from behind, walked through a pair of open double doors and up a set of metal stairs.

Their shoes tapped heavily on the steps as they went up three floors, the driver opening a heavy door leading into a wide hallway with wood paneled walls and red carpet, the hum of an air conditioner the only sound, the carpet thick enough to make their footsteps silent.

Solo noticed they went passed the door with Acton and Leone’s name on it, and instead stopped at another door a bit further down. This door was blank and the driver took a key from his pocket and unlocked it. They went inside and the door clicked shut.

The room’s walled duplicated those out in the hallway, the walls also lined with books on one end, leather seats and a sofa on the other.

"I’m afraid we’ll have to tie you up, Mr. Solo," Rapisso said as the driver produced some wire from his jacket pocket.

Solo put his arms behind his back and winced as the driver wrapped the wire tight around his wrists. The driver shoved him forward and he staggered, letting himself fall onto the couch. He rolled onto his side, getting as comfortable as he could. The driver came over and wrapped more wire around his ankles.

"Thank you, sir," Solo quipped. The driver paid no attention. The agent looked at the THRUSH killers. "Now what?"

"Now you meet the top dogs, Acton and Leone and Hasbro," Rapisso said. Lisa wouldn’t look at him. Rapisso told the Infinity driver to go get them, and the man promptly left.

Rapisso and Lisa sat down. "Feels good to take a load off," Rapisso said. "Don’t you agree, Lisa?"

She smiled weakly. "Of course."

"You feeling alright, Mr. Solo?"

"Couldn’t be better."

"I’m glad. It’s good to be a comfortable hostage. Makes the captivity much more pleasant."

"You’re very articulate for a gangster. Where’s the Brooklyn accent?"

"I have a college degree in English and Mathematics, Mr. Solo," Rapisso said. "I had plans of being a university professor, but when my family fell on hard times, I was forced into the rackets to make ends meet, and found it too good a deal to leave behind. So here I am."

"There you are. What a waste."

"I’m sorry?"

"It’ll be a shame to kill you when the time comes."

"I’ve got quite a few years ahead of me, Mr. Solo."

"You’re very sure of yourself."

"What can you do, Mr. Solo?" Rapisso held up his revolver. "I’m the one with the gun. You’re the one tied up on the sofa. Who do you think will win?"

"I’m an eternal optimist."

"Shut up!"

The door opened and the driver came back, holding an Uzi submachine gun now, followed by two older gentlemen.

Rapisso and Lisa rose obediently. Rapisso introduced the men, Acton and Leone, to Solo.

Acton approached the couch cautiously, acting as if Solo were a caged animal in a zoo. "So this is the infamous Mr. Napoleon Solo."

"Howdy. Is that an Armani you’re wearing?"

"The files weren’t lying about his sense of humor, were they?"

"I say we kill him now and forget this hostage plan," Leone said. "Just take his picture and send that to UNCLE."

"No, no, no," Acton said, turning to his partner. "That’s no fun at all. After all the trouble Mr. Solo has caused for THRUSH, he needs to suffer. This calls for a celebration. Parker, go get some drinks."

The Infinity driver nodded, slung the Uzi over his shoulder and left the room.

The THRUSH agents sat down, Solo eyeing them carefully.

"Are we waiting for somebody else," Solo asked, "or are we just going to sit here and stare at each other?"

"We’re waiting for Hasbro," Leone said. "Then you’ll take another ride." He laughed. Nobody else did.

Ten minutes went by.

"Where’s Parker?" Acton asked irritably. "He should have been back by now."

The door swung open slowly.

A man stepped through, an Uzi slung over his shoulder, a tray of drinks in his hands.

Solo recognized him first, but as Acton stood up to help with the tray he stopped cold and shouted an alarm.

* * *

Illya knew he didn’t have much time if he was going to rescue Napoleon. As he raced down the stairway, he visualized in his head Napoleon and the others riding down to the lobby in the elevator. He bypassed the lobby altogether and headed for the hotel’s garage.

He raced across the concrete floor and found his car, frantically fishing the keys out of his pocket, getting in. He fired up the engine and sped out, his tires screeching, nearly smashing into a minivan as it packed out a slot but the other driver stopped with a jerk.

Illya pulled out into the street but didn’t see any sign of Napoleon or the others.

Pulling his pen communicator from his shirt pocket, Illya used his teeth to pull the cap up. "Open Channel D!" he shouted into it, driving aimlessly.

"Channel D is open," a voice came back.

Illya explained the situation and was transferred to Waverly, who gave Illya the same information Walsh had given Solo. When he finished Illya said, "They’ll go to the lawyers. Where are they?"

"One moment."

Illya stopped for a light. He glanced to his left. The teenagers in the car next to him looked at him oddly and he realized he had the pen in front of his mouth. Illya just smiled. Waverly’s voice came back over the small speaker and gave Illya the address. Illya acknowledge and deactivated the communicator.

The teenagers lowered their windows, trying to get Illya’s attention. He lowered his and grinned at them.

"Hey, dude, what’s with the pen?"

The light turned green.

"Latest thing. Haven’t you heard?"

Illya stepped on the gas and sped away.

* * *

Illya pulled into the underground garage of the building Acton and Leone had their offices in, found and empty slot and pulled into it. He walked around searching for an elevator or stairwell, finding the steps and going up three flights. He entered the same hallway Solo had gone through just moments before, and muttered the suite number under his breath as he went down the hall.

He found the suite with Acton and Leon’s names printed in gold lettering on the door. He twisted the knob but it wouldn’t move. He took off his left shoe, pulled off the heel, and extracted two lock picks. Putting the shoe back on, Illya bent down and worked the picks into the lock, moving them up and down until the lock clicked.

Taking out with own sawed-off Walther, Illya Kuryakin stepped into the quiet office.

Nothing but cubicles separated by partitions greeted him. A receptionists desk directly ahead and to the left, a doorway on the right. Illya shut the door quietly. Didn’t hear a sound. Nobody talking, no ringing phones, no whirring copy machines.

He peeked around the doorway to the right. A small kitchen/break area. Continued moving forward. Some offices along the wall, empty desks in the cubicles, but certainly signs of use judging from the papers, photographs, notes, other items strewn on desktops.

He came to a short hallway on the right and went down. More offices. The hallway led to a conference room. Empty.

Just as he was beginning to think Solo was nowhere in the suite, he heard a door open in the hallway and dashed to the wall of the conference room. The footsteps went down the hall away from him. Illya peeked around the doorway, watching as a man with an Uzi rounded the corner.

Illya Kuryakin moved quickly on the balls of his feet, holding the P-38 above shoulder level. He didn’t have a silencer so shooting the man was out of the question, but smashing him over the head would certainly suffice.

Just as he rounded the corner, his shoes brushed loudly against the carpet, and the man with the Uzi turned in surprise. He opened his mouth to scream but Illya brought the P-38 down across his forehead. The man grunted and crumpled to the floor. Illya put the Walther back in his shoulder holster and picked up the Uzi. "Sleep tight," he told the unconscious man.

He went back down the hall, finding the door the man had come through. It led into what looked like a broom closet, with another door directly in front of him. Voices from the other side. Illya heard Solo’s name mentioned.

He nodded to himself, stepping back and shutting the first door. He leaned back against the wall and tried to think of a plan. How many men inside? Armed with what? Was Solo in the open, tied up, what?

An idea occurred to him. He slung the Uzi around his shoulder, went to the kitchen and started searching through cupboards. He found a silver tray. Bottles of booze in a cupboard under the sink. He grabbed some glasses and began filling them with Scotch.

He balanced the tray and had to shift his body to keep the Uzi from slipping off shoulder, went back to the other door and carefully balanced the tray on one hand while he opened it. Went to the second door and pushed that open, entering the room with his back first.

As he turned, he saw the man rising to help him, saw the shocked expression on his face when he realized Illya wasn’t the guy he’d sent out, and the Russian agent went into action. He shoved the tray at the man in front of him, shouting, "Down, Napoleon!" as he let the Uzi fall from his shoulder and caught it in both hands.

Solo rolled and fell onto the floor painfully, grunting as he rolled back under the couch as submachine gun fire filled the small room.

Flame spit from the Uzi. The man in front of Illya fell back first, Illya shifting his aim to the next man who was drawing a revolver, stitching him with a burst of rounds that pinned him to his chair. Illya pivoted to the next man who stood frozen in fright. A quick trigger pull sent a stream of slugs into his chest and he slammed back against the wall.

The woman had knocked her chair over backward when Illya opened fire, and swung up Solo’s P-38. The Uzi clicked dry and Illya hit the floor rolling, bumping into one of the dead men’s bodies as she fired. The shots slammed into the wall behind Illya, and he rolled left, drawing his pistol and firing once, then again and again, his slugs punching through the chair and into the woman’s chest. She screamed and fell back.

Illya rose steadily to his feet. The sharp smell of cordite filled the room and tickled his nose, his eardrums ringing from the loud gunfire.

"You certainly took your sweet time," Solo said.

"You’re very welcome, Napoleon."

"Kinda disappointing, you know," Solo said, rolling out from under the couch. "I was hoping for a commando assault, grenades, lots of explosions, the whole shebang."

"I’ll make note of your preferences for our next adventure."

Illya knelt down beside Solo and used a pocketknife to cut the wire.

"We’re not done yet," Solo said seriously. "The big man in town is on his way."

"Hasbro?"

"Yeah."

"Forget him, Napoleon. With all this shooting the cops will be here before we know it."

"You’re right. Let’s get out of here. We’ll get him another day. How did you get here anyway?"

"It’s a long story, Napoleon."

The men from UNCLE hustled out of the room.

* * *

Alexander Waverly smiled proudly at his two star agents, who stood across the circular table in UNCLE’s control center. Other agents sat in front of consoles along the walls, monitoring agents in the field, keeping track of current operations.

Waverly said, "I’m sorry we missed Hasbro, but he’ll turn up again. Our California branch is combing the state. He’ll turn up."

"If I may, sir," Solo said, "just say thank you for sending Illya to follow me. I’d hate to think what would have happened had you not."

"I was following a hunch, Mr. Solo. I’m glad it worked out. And you’re very welcome. To think I almost lost not one, but four of my top agents, is too much to deal with."

Illya said, "Anything else, sir?"

"That’s all. You’re excused."

Solo and Illya nodded good-bye and left the control room.

As they walked down the stainless-steel corridor back to their office, Solo said, "Ever have a friend betray you, Illya? Someone who was close to you once?"

"I learned a long time ago, Napoleon," Illya said, "not to trust any more people than I could count on one hand. So far, it’s a full-proof system."

"That doesn’t answer my question."

"We all have things in our past we’d like to forget, Napoleon. Let’s just leave it at that."

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