First Steps - Chapter Five

Napoleon Solo sprawled out on the ground, propped up on his elbows, the entirety of his attention focused through the binoculars and upon the sprawling farmhouse in front of him. Every ten minutes, a figure would stroll casually along the front porch, light a cigarette and, for exactly nine minutes, stand there puffing away. Then he would leave and a minute late another figure or perhaps the same one appeared and repeated the process. Napoleon's lungs ached at the thought of all that smoke and nicotine. He hoped, if it was indeed one man, he didn't have a gun or his trigger finger would be itchy.

He dropped the binoculars and gradually became aware of the crickets, the smell of the forest, and the cool breeze against his cheek. He could feel his heart pounding and almost hear the blood flowing in his veins. Even though they stood to lose men tonight, including himself, he was excited, exhilarated.

A soft whisper of sound and Sutherland dropped quietly at his side, stirring up a rich bouquet of earth and pine needles. Napoleon smiled, the man had done a complete one eighty after his adventure in the field with Illya. He'd even requested more training. He seemed more determined, focused and hungry, three things Napoleon hadn't seen in him previously. Sutherland hadn't needed more training, he'd needed more field time. Zuccicello had been right about that.

"How are you holding up?" he asked the man, his voice barely audible over the night noises.

"I won't lie and say great, but I'm okay."

"You didn't have to come. You certainly had ever right to bow out of this mission."

"I've been playing it safe for too long and I want to get the bastards in there... Do you think Illya's okay?"

Napoleon smiled, even though a nerve twitched in his neck. He'd felt a little… off for the last few hours. It could be adrenalin or it could be a dozen different things. Napoleon just hoped it wasn't what he'd feared the most – that Illya was down or even dead, his cover blown this close to the completion of the affair.

"He knew the risks going in, but we can hope for the best." Napoleon rolled to his side and pulled out his communicator and twisted it on, even as Sutherland lifted his binoculars. "Open Channel J - is everyone in position?" He listened as his five leads reported in. "Remember that this is merely a takedown operation. Use sleeper bullets only, our objective is to bring these men to trial, not dispense field justice."

"What about Illya?"

"We'll have to hope he'll keep his head down through all of this. That front room is our main objective. Randy, are you ready?"

"We are charged up and in position."

Napoleon couldn't help but smile tightly. The man sounded so young, so eager. Please, God, look after us tonight and keep us safe… well, you could wing Zuccicello if you really want. "Okay, wait for my signal."

Napoleon stood and brushed his clothes clean. Resettling his jacket on his shoulders, he patted his hair and sighed.

"Scared? I… " Sutherland asked and then paused, as if afraid he'd just asked the worst question at the worst possible moment.

"More than you could know. I'd be a fool if I wasn't," Napoleon admitted. "Wish me luck."

Sutherland's hand snatched at his forearm. "Be careful."

"Always am." And Napoleon walked calmly into the lion's den.

As he neared, the figure stooped over the railing, straightened and the moonlight glinted off his rifle barrel.

"Who is it?" The wind carried a familiar stench towards him.

"Fluke, is that you?"

"Who? Thinker?" Fluke came down off the porch, his rifle lowered. "What the hell, we thought you was dead. "

"So did that UNCLE agent." Napoleon patted his hair again, his signal. "You should never take things on face value." With one smooth move, he pulled his weapon and fired into the man's stomach. The silencer muffled the sound and Fluke sagged before he could even gasp out a warning.

He didn't wait for his men, they knew their jobs. Instead he caught the man, grimacing at the stench that rolled off him as hehefted him up in an improvised fireman's carry. "I need some help out here!" he shouted and the front door opened after a moment.

"What happened?" There was an instant crowd around him as Napoleon carried the man into the house and on to the living room, settling him on the plastic-covered couch.

"We were talking and he just collapsed." Napoleon lifted up Fluke's shirt. "What the hell? It looks like he's been shot."

Suddenly the door was kicked in and Napoleon dove for cover. He took down two of the closest men before they could even react to the door flying inward.

Napoleon had come with agents to spare, intending to outnumber their opponents. There were shouts from the back of the house and more of the bad guys raced in. Napoleon realized he'd sadly underestimated the will and sheer stupidity of this group of malcontents.

He rolled behind a chair and began to fire. He took down one of his own men, mentally apologizing to him.

"Where's Blower when we need him?" he shouted to the closest man, a long haired raggedy man called, appropriately enough, Rags.

"He got into it with Dog. We got us a new leader now…"

Shit, Napoleon swore to himself and shot Rags. He dove for a wooden storage case, feeling the burn of a bullet as it sliced through his calf. A shot gun blast just above his head indicated that someone else had taken exception to his last action and he was no longer safe from them.

Drywall splattered down on him and he spit out a mouthful of dust. He aimed in the direction of the shooter and fired. He missed, but managed to take out a grandfather clock instead. It sent a shower of wood fragments out and one apparently struck the man. He reacted in pain and Napoleon planted a sleeper into his stomach. The man fell forward and another took his place.

Napoleon reached for his communicator. "Open Channel J – anyone?"

"Zuccicello."

Of all the luck. Napoleon frowned. "I'm pinned down in the living room. You?"

"Came through the kitchen and are fighting our way to you. Have you seen Kuryakin?"

"He's… gone." Napoleon fired two more shots and told himself the wetness he felt in his eyes was from stucco dust.

"I'm sorry." Zuccicello almost sounded sincere. The wall behind Napoleon suddenly appeared to flex and Napoleon threw himself to the right. His foot skidded on a pool of his own blood and he went belly down. Above his head the world exploded into a fireball of yellow and orange.

His back grew hot and he swore he could feel his hair burning. He rolled and somehow got to his feet as the outer living room wall fell to the short range missile.

"Napoleon!"

He couldn't tell who was shouting, but he headed in that direction, stumbling over bodies and debris as he went. Rapid gunfire told him someone had found a machine gun. More good news.

He came to rest beside Glendon and Willitis, two senior agents. Like him, they were battle marked. "Napoleon, we need to get out of here. These guys are too dangerous even for us."

"Not until I find Illya."

"Napoleon, we've already lost a dozen agents; he's not worth it," Glendon shouted and Napoleon turned to glare at him.

"Then you sound the retreat. I'm not leaving without my partner." Napoleon pushed past them and headed down into the bowels of the house and that last place he'd seen Illya alive.

The basement door stood open and Napoleon groped his way down the stairs, trying not to slip on his own blood again. Halfway down, he paused to knot his handkerchief around his calf and then continued.

Down here, the battle sounded muffled and almost surreal. He didn't know why he'd taken this path. Something had whispered in his ear and he responded. He'd learned to listen to that voice a long time ago.

In the near dark, he paused and looked around to get his bearings. That's when he heard the noise, soft and mewing, like a lost kitten…

God, please don't let that be Illya. Please let him be dead. Napoleon dropped down and waited. He heard it again, pleading, like that of an injured animal and Napoleon remembered a similar noise, in Marion's apartment, when he'd found Illya cowering in a corner, frightened out of his mind.

The battle above was growing louder and he knew his window was closing, eventually either his men would reach that second story room or the others would and it would be too late then.

He edged forward slowly, limping slightly, heading for that small room where Sutherland had been held. It was just as possible that Dog would have left Illya there as anywhere else. If he wasn't there, then Napoleon have to leave.

He'd taken just another step when an arm curled around his throat, strangling the words out of him.

"One move, one noise, and I shall kill you."

"Illya," Napoleon managed and instantly the grip loosened.

"Napoleon?"

Illya was bruised and bloodied, but Napoleon couldn't have imagined a better sight. Decorum aside, he embraced his partner enthusiastically and heard the half groan. "You okay?"

"No, but I'm functioning. What's going on?"

"We are retreating."

"Sound the recall and then let me have your communicator."

"Open Channel J. Pull out, I repeat, everyone pull out. Take anyone down with you if you can, but get the hell out of Dodge."

He didn't wait for responses, but rather handed the communicator over to Illya. He tried not to notice how Illya's hand shook as he took it.

After a few moments, Illya passed it back. "We have ten minutes."

"Before?"

"Before this place resembles Moscow after your namesake's invasion."

"Illya, where's Dog?"

Illya waved a blood-streaked hand back towards that small dismal room. "Like so many before him, he underestimated me."

"Let's go home."

"Napoleon, I can't… I've got nothing left. I'm sorry." Illya slumped to the ground, spent.

Napoleon looked around frantically. There was a storm door leading from the cellar, but he was just barely able to move himself. Please, God, let me do this, he thought, trying to summon the strength.

"Napoleon, let me help you." Sutherland was there and hefting the now unconscious Illya up and held out a free hand to him.

"What are you doing down here?" Napoleon didn't mind the arm that was offered him.

"Learning what it takes to be a good field agent."

Carrying Illya, they half ran, half tumbled their way up the hill, Napoleon's breath coming in short painful gulps. Behind them, UNCLE agents were spilling out of the house, some in tandem with a downed person, others in small groups.

It wasn't until the woods surrounded them that Sutherland stopped and sank to the ground, taking both Napoleon and Illya down with him. Illya's head bobbed up, as he toyed with the idea of consciousness, then passed on it.

A moment later, the night lit up with an explosion and then bits of the house started raining down around them. Sutherland managed to get Napoleon back to his feet to drag Illya closer to a tree for some scant protection from the falling debris. Then, holding his partner close and knowing Sutherland was keeping watch, Napoleon permitted himself the luxury of passing out.

First Steps – Epilogue…

Napoleon handed the nurse back the small paper cup and smiled. "So tell me, lovely lady, do you have plans for Saturday night?"

"I do – big plans. I am going to wash my hair, paint my nails and then cuddle up with my cat and a book."

"Sounds dull."

"Almost as dull as yours is going to be, I suspect." She fluffed his pillow and adjusted his blanket. "Especially after those painkillers kick in." She smiled and leaned close enough to him that he caught the delicate scent of Chanel No. 5. "And I'm not leaving until you've swallowed them or they've dissolved in your mouth. I know all your tricks, Napoleon Solo. They tell me you are nearly as bad as that rapscallion of a partner of yours."

Begrudgingly, Napoleon swallowed the pills and made a face at the bitter aftertaste. "How is he doing?"

"I'm alive, or so they tell me, but it might just be a rumor to incite the masses." Illya's voice came from the doorway and Napoleon looked over, his eyes widening when he saw that it was Waverly pushing the wheelchair that held his partner.

Illya looked pale and gaunt, but a hundred times better than when Napoleon had found him in that cellar- or rather when Illya had found him. Napoleon had come to briefly in the helicopter as they were being flown to the nearest medical facility and he had vainly tried to make heads or tails of the medical jargon the paramedics bandied about. All he learned was Illya was stable but dehydrated. That's when they realized Napoleon was awake and took steps to correct that. Since then, he'd fought to get the slightest amount of info about his partner other than he was alive.

"You look like you've been dragged behind a bus, partner."

"While you, on the other hand, look the picture of health. I know why I'm being sequestered, but you?"

"Strained my back carrying Fluke into the house. He didn't look like he weighed that much."

"It was the darkness of his soul weighing him down. In the souls of the people the grapes of wrath are filling and growing heavy, growing head for the vintage. Your John Steinbeck said that. Have you ever read that book? I liked George, he watched out for Lenny. " He smiled and sighed. "Like I watch out for you, Napoleon. Do you like bunnies? I like bunnies."

Napoleon made a face and flicked a quick look at the nurse. She held up the little paper cup and smiled. He grinned back. "Wrong book, Illya. George and Lenny were from Of Mice and Men…. You, my friend, appear to be traveling upon the Train of Loopiness."

"And your car is about to leave the station," the nurse muttered and took over from Mr. Waverly. She wheeled Illya to the other bed in the room. "I hope you don't mind a roommate, Mr. Solo."

"Illya?" Napoleon smiled. "Never… as long as he doesn't snore."

"He doesn't stay conscious long enough for that." She pulled the curtain between them as an orderly entered the room and joined her on the other side of the curtain.

"How are you feeling, Mr. Solo?"

All fuzzy and cozy, he thought, but said, "I'm well, sir, when can I return to duty?"

"The doctors say in about a week, depending upon how quickly your back heals."

"And Illya?" He'd been desperately trying to get info on his partner since he'd regained enough of his faculties to remember his own name.

"He'll be a bit behind you. He has some additional healing to do first."

"How many men did we lose?"

"A small amount when compared to how many the other side lost. Had that cell been allowed to continue, the damage they could have done would have been grievous. You did an excellent job, Mr. Solo."

"It wasn't me, sir. It was Illya and Sutherland. They made a good team once they stopped trying to beat each other into a pulp."

The curtain was pulled back and both men glanced over at the blond. Illya was asleep, looking all of about twelve, helplessly adrift amid an ocean of white. It was hard for Napoleon to remember the man was just a few months younger than he and there was nothing helpless about him.

"Perhaps a promotion is in order then."

"Realistically, sir, I think some more field work is in order. Sutherland is starting to show promise and I think he's finally figured it out, but I'm not sure he's ready for promotion quite yet."

"I was speaking about your partner, Mr. Solo."

"Sir?"

"One of the men lost was your Number Two, Mr. Zuccicello."

"Oh." Napoleon tried to think of some platitude that didn't sound phony. "His death will be a loss to UNCLE."

"But not to you, I believe. Do you think your partner can handle the position?"

"I think you would need to ask him, sir. He's fairly critical of his abilities and if the job is more than he can handle, he'll be the first one to speak up, but you might want to give him a bit of time to come down."

"Well, as I suspect Mr. Kuryakin will be incapable of any rational decision for the next few days, perhaps we shall proceed as we see fit and assume he'll accept the responsibility. If you are agreeable?"

"Of course, sir, whatever you think is right."

"Then it's settled." Waverly settled his hat upon his head and started for the door. "Good night, Mr. Solo. Nurse Thompson, perhaps you will permit me to show you out and we shall let these two young men rest?"

"Sir." Napoleon watched the older gentleman leave and sighed happily. He wasn't exactly devastated that Zuccicello was gone, but he had been a fellow agent and that had to mean something, didn't it?

"Not everyone deserves to be mourned, my friend," Illya said and Napoleon turned to face him.

"You faker! How long have you been awake?"

"Rather the question that bears asking is was I ever asleep." Illya dropped the white pills into his bed pan and smiled at the clatter they made. "I think not."

"So what do you think, partner? You up to the job?"

"As your second? It would mean again doing your reports and filing your paperwork?"

"Something like that."

"Is it only deskwork and menial assignments?"

"Not if we decide otherwise."

"All right." There was a noise at the door and immediately Illya closed his eyes as Nurse Thompson reappeared.

She smiled at Napoleon and walked around Illya's bed, then held up a hypo, checked its contents, and, in one fell swoop, plunged it into Illya's hip and depressed the plunger. Illya made a squeak and started to move, but never had a chance against the quick-acting sedative.

"There, now he's asleep." She readjusted his sheets, brushed the hair off his forehead, and looked over at Napoleon. "And that goes double for you. Rest."

"Yes, Ma'am." Napoleon gave her a playful salute, but he sort of missed his head and laughed.

"That makes me sound like my mother." She drew up the sheets around him and patted his hand. "You can call me Nellie."

He chuckled, even as the darkness was creeping in around him. He was okay, Illya was okay and they were more than just partners now; they were the guys calling the shots. Life was going to be very interesting from here on out.