Finally, the last chapter. I really didn't know what I wanted to do with this one, but I think it turned out well. Hope you like it! Review to tell me what you think!

It was dark. Not just the darkness of night, but the absolute blackness of the underground. Illya couldn't see his hand when he held it in front of his face, so he had given up trying. It hurt too much to move anyway. It was also cold, but that didn't bother him as much. He was used to the cold, after all. What his teammates considered winter was practically balmy to him.

Sometimes there would be a little light, coming in from the crack at the bottom of the door to the room, but that usually meant that they were coming to try to beat information out of him. Again. He gave an amused huff. He wasn't going to give them anything. They should have realized that by now. Maybe they had-he hadn't seen anyone in awhile.

He blinked. The light was coming from under the door; maybe he'd spoken too soon.

Muffled bangs. Gunshots?

Faint shouting. Two more shots (it had to be gunfire).

Silence. The light still shone steadily from under the door. Illya sat very still, tension tightening his muscles, making his bruises ache. A key scraped in the lock of the door and the tumblers clicked into place. The heavy metal rectangle swung inward, the harsh light silhouetting a man in the door.

Illya felt a little giddy. He would recognize that silhouette anywhere.

"Illya?" Napoleon ventured. The cell was dark and he wouldn't have had time to adjust.

"Took you long enough," Illya rasped. It had been days since he'd uttered any words. His statement seemed to be all Napoleon needed. The American moved forward, moving fluidly like a snow leopard. He knelt beside Illya.

"Do you think you can walk out of here?" Napoleon asked, assessing Illya. His face was a hard mask-none of the usual levity. He reloaded his gun at the same time, barely even looking at it. All of his attention was on the Russian.

"I can manage," Illya told him. It was probably the truth. "How are we getting out?"

"Through the front door."

Illya raised an eyebrow. "Easy as that?"

Napoleon grinned, but it reminded Illya of a snarling predator more than a friendly expression. "There's no one to object. But we shouldn't linger."

He helped Illya stand up-a painful process. He had a few cracked ribs, and a multitude of bruises and abrasions, but no major damage. Illya swayed a little once he got upright, little black dots dancing in front of his vision, and mentally amended that list to include a concussion. Napoleon ducked under his arm so that he could help support his weight.

The bright light of the corridor hurt Illya's eyes, making them water. The bulbs were left bare and hanging from the ceiling by wires. Napoleon tugged him left, and Illya followed without protest. He'd had a hood over his head when they brought him down here, but the American seemed to be confident of their direction. Illya just wanted to get out of the featureless grey concrete tunnel and sleep for a week. He suddenly realized that Napoleon was speaking.

"-where Gaby will be with our boat. I don't know who thought that an island was a good idea for a hideout. It only makes it easier to get in."

"Gaby is with a boat?" Illya managed, half-comprehending.

"Yes," Napoleon confirmed. "This is a quick extraction, so we agreed that she be ready when you and I returned." It didn't pass Illya's notice that it was when and not if.

They passed the first body after several hundred feet. The guard had a bullet hole in the middle of his forehead. Napoleon ignored it other than to pull Illya around. After that they increased in frequency, sometimes three or four at a time, all killed with a head or center mass shot. Illya hadn't known that Napoleon was that good of a marksman, and suddenly realized that there was a lot that he didn't know about his partner.

But he had known he would come. And that was enough.

The door to the bunker was a huge metal thing. It had been blown apart. Shrapnel littered the ground in the hangar that it opened into, sometimes embedded in more bodies. Illya had lost count. Napoleon seemed not notice them, intent on scanning for living targets.

"You blew the door?" Illya asked. Explosions weren't usually his partner's thing.

"No lock to pick," Napoleon replied, "and it was faster."

They picked their way across the blast field and out into the open air. The sky was just beginning to lighten to grey, and a sea breeze was blowing across the island. Illya took as deep a breath as he could manage with three broken ribs and who knew how many cracked, savoring the clean air.

"Only a little farther," Napoleon told him. He must have noticed that he was flagging. They started off again, down to the beach.

Napoleon had been telling the truth-it really wasn't long before the boat-a small motorboat, painted black-came into view.

"Gaby," Napoleon called. "It's us."

Her head appeared over the side of the boat. Then she stood up. There was a gun in her hand.

"Illya?" She called.

"Good morning," he replied. The whole situation was becoming surreal to him, although that could have been due to the concussion.

Napoleon piled him into the back of the boat and Gaby started fussing over him while the American guided them out into open ocean and away from the island.

"Waverly will arrange clean up," he called back to them from the front of the boat.

"We were worried," Gaby said, so softly that her words were almost lost in the wind.

"Nothing to worry about now," he said, brushing a stray strand of hair out of her face.

"No," she said, glancing between Napoleon and him and smiling, "not now."