Final chapter! Thank you so much to everyone who took the time to read my stuff! :)

(First chapter of the sequel "Dans la gueule du loup (into the lion's den)" is out :) )

Torture room, Solo's p.o.v.

"Aaaaaaaah! STOP!"

Napoleon blew out a small sigh of relief as the crushing pressure on his palm disappeared. Then relief gave way to anger.

"What is wrong with you, Peril!"

"Sorry…", he heard the Russian mumble somberly. "I'll try to do it faster…"

"No no no no no, Illya wait…please… let's just take moment to think here."

He could feel the Russian's hand inside his, still holding his thumb awkwardly. Thankfully nothing happened, he had his partner's attention.

Phew…

"Look at my feet…"

Silence. Then Illya let go of his hand and he heard him laboriously climb off the table. Then more silence. Napoleon knew that his partner was looking down at the shackles around his ankles.

"Yeah…unless you're planning on sawing off my feet too, dislocating my thumbs is not going to do much good."

Silence again.

"You're not considering it…are you?"

Illya finally stepped back into his field of vision and Napoleon chose that moment to wince exaggeratedly and flex his painful hand.

"Sorry.", the Russian repeated.

"Hmm, I'm sure a small part of you enjoyed it. You do realize that you almost ruined my hands? My most precious tools…"

The second Napoleon uttered these words, realization hit him. He would have hit himself, too, had he not been shackled to the ceiling.

The lock-picking tool…

Illya had stopped listening to him and was scanning the room, still looking for something that could help him free his partner.

"Peril, there's a lock-picking tool inside my belt…"

The Russian nodded and grabbed Napoleon's belt buckle a little too vigorously.

"Wow, I'm warning you, Peril, I'm not an easy man…"

Despite the urgency of the situation, he couldn't help but smile as his partner rolled his eyes and huffed out an exasperated sigh. Illya rapidly retrieved the lock pick and crouched down to work on the shackles around Napoleon's ankles.

"Wait, my hands first. No offense but I'll work much quicker than you once they're free."

Again, the Russian nodded and climbed onto the table. Napoleon suddenly noticed that his friend's breathing had gotten worse. After a couple of minutes of cursing in Russian, a sudden, sharp, metallic click made Napoleon wince. Then he heard his partner grumble.

"Typical American tool…"

"Actually, it was made in Germany…and please tell me you didn't break it."

He received no answer but after a few more seconds, the manacles finally clicked open, freeing his hands. And at that moment, as his arms dropped back down, Napoleon suddenly became aware of how much everything hurt, the lacerations and burns on his back and chest, his sore muscles. Everything. But he couldn't afford to worry about that yet, not if he wanted Illya and him to make it out alive.

Illya's p.o.v.

He watched as his partner crouched down, groaning with pain, and used the tool to pick the locks on the shackles. And, unsurprisingly, he was much faster than Illya.

"Once again, my superior ski…"

"Let's go!", he growled, shutting the American up.

He grabbed Davies's gun and rushed to the door. Panting, he turned to check that his partner was following. Too slow. His gaze rapidly shifted from the American's face to a thin, bleeding cut across his chest and he felt his jaw clench. Of course, he had seen the lacerations and burns on Cowboy's body. And he had just experienced the pain of being tortured with electric shocks himself. He knew that moving was probably very painful for his partner. But they needed to hurry. He grabbed the American by the forearm, pulled him close and slipped one arm around his back. That way Cowboy would have no choice but to match his pace. Trying his best to ignore his partner's gasps of pain, he started running. He didn't know how many explosive charges Davies had planted, or how big the explosion would be, but he wanted to use the precious time they had left to get as far away from the building as possible. He wasn't exactly feeling peachy himself. His breathing sounded like an angry rattlesnake was stuck in his lungs, the burning sensation in his chest was getting more and more intense as he ran and he felt drained. He hadn't even been able to dislocate Cowboy's thumb in one clean move. Which had turned out to be a good thing. How had he not noticed the shackles around his friend's ankles? He clearly hadn't been thinking straight. He sighed and tried to pick up the pace but running while supporting his partner was proving harder than he had thought. Cowboy had noticed too.

"It's okay, Peril, I can manage alone."

"No…"

"I insist. Your arm keeps rubbing against my back and it's extremely unpleasant."

Reluctant but also grateful, Illya let go of his partner and they hurried up the flight of stairs that would take them to the ground floor level. Cowboy was right, he seemed to have regained some energy and was doing fine without support. He, on the other hand, could feel himself getting weaker and weaker. To make things worse, a particularly violent coughing fit forced him to stop and sink to his knees.

"Are you okay, Peril?"

Is this a real question?...

Illya could feel a mixture of spit and mucus inside his cupped hands and for a second he was tempted to wipe it off on the American's leg. Then he realized that what he had thought was spit and mucus was actually blood. Thick, frank, bright red blood. That definitely wasn't pneumonia. For the first time he wondered if the poison Blake had given him had caused some irreparable damage to his body.

"Wow…Illya, you're dying…"

Thank you, Cowboy, I hadn't noticed…

"We need to hurry…"

Without bothering to wipe the blood off his hands, he pushed himself to his feet and they started running again. Thankfully, getting from the torture room to the exit didn't take them too long and the only guards they encountered were the dead bodies left behind by Davies. They were almost out when Solo abruptly stopped. Illya glanced at his partner and something about his expression told him that he was not going to like what the American was about to say.

"I'll be right back, I've forgotten something. Just go, I'll catch up with you."

Nice try but you're not going anywhere, stupid American…

He grabbed his partner by the wrist and roughly pulled him toward the exit, well at least he made a valiant attempt at it. Solo easily escaped his grip and immediately started sprinting in the opposite direction.

"Cowboy! Wait!"

Illya felt his hands ball into fists and had to make an effort not to yell. The man he had just risked his life to rescue was running back into a building that was about to blow up. A string of Russian expletives escaped his lips. He had no way of knowing exactly how much time they had left before the place blew up. He knew he should really be getting out of there. It wasn't his fault if Cowboy had a death wish. Again, he cursed under his breath. Of course he wasn't leaving without Solo, not yet. He would wait a few more minutes. After a few more minutes, and then a few more, his partner finally reappeared.

"What are you still doing here, Peril?! I told you to get out!"

He could have punched the American in the face. He wanted to punch the American in the face. But there was no time. He would save the punch for later. Boosted by a sudden rush of adrenaline, they ran out of the building full speed and only stopped once they had put what seemed like a reasonable distance between them and the future site of the explosion. For a couple of minutes nothing happened, then they heard a series of deafening booms and felt the ground shake under their feet.

"Phew…," Solo said, grimacing as he carefully sat down on the wet grass. "Good thing we made it out in time, right, Peril?"

Illya, who had just recovered from another formidable coughing fit, hesitated between destroying his partner and simply nodding. He finally chose the option that required less effort on his part. Then he noticed that Cowboy was holding something in his hand. Some sort of notebook.

So this is what we almost died for?...

It was probably something important. He should probably have been asking about it. He would do it later, right after the punch in the face. He looked down at the smeared blood on his hands. If he lived to see "later". Pushing the thought aside, he took a moment to study his partner. Shirtless, sweating, covered in bleeding cuts, bruises and burns, and obviously in pain. The American looked almost as bad as Illya felt. But at least he was alive. His friend was alive. They were all alive.

For now…

Two days later, Unknown location,

"Your idea was suprisingly good. Using the agents to shut down the Devon branch. An excellent way to keep both the MI6 and the CIA busy. Really, I salute your creativity. Very entertaining. Of course they made it out alive but that's only a minor inconvenience."

"You're not worried, Sir?"

"Why should I be? All the information contained in Cleary's safe was destroyed, the building itself was destroyed. The potentially problematic members of the Devon branch are being dealt with as we speak. The MI6 and the CIA are basically back to square one. There is nothing to be worried about. The agents are insignificant, harmless. But they are entertaining. Now, as soon as they stop being entertaining, they'll die. It's as simple as that."

"I see."

"I suppose you're still bitter about losing your man. I'm truly sorry he didn't make it. Replacing him won't be easy."

"Blake? Oh I'm not too worried about Blake, Sir."

"But he died."

"He'll bounce back."

"Will he, now? Interesting."

"Sorry about your man, though."

"Yes, poor Davies, such a pity. At least he served his purpose. Was there anything else you wanted to discuss?"

"No, Sir."

"So, did I manage to assuage your concerns?"

"Yes, Sir."

"Good. Like I once told our dearly departed friend Cleary, worrying too much is not healthy."

"…"

Hospital room, Gaby's p.o.v.

Gaby slipped into the room as quietly as possible and closed the door behind her. She was late to the meeting because she had stopped en route to buy a box of chocolates for her partners. Waverly greeted her warmly, Sanders greeted her less warmly, his incriminating gaze immediately settling on the poor box of chocolates. She set it down on a table and took a few steps to position herself next to Illya. She was glad to see that the Russian was out of bed and had traded his hospital gown for normal clothes. Illya had been in pretty bad shape when Napoleon, Asher and him had been taken to the hospital, two days earlier. Fortunately, after analyzing the "medicine" Blake had given to Illya, the doctors had been able to give him something to counteract the effects of the poison. They wanted to keep him in a little longer for observation but he already looked like he was feeling much better and his breathing no longer sounded like a sheet of paper being ripped. Napoleon and Asher had been put in the same room, they were both still confined to their hospital beds but they wouldn't stay in the hospital too long either. Their wounds had been treated and bandaged and they were well on the way to complete recovery. The doctors just wanted to make sure that neither the prolonged electric torture they had both been submitted to, nor the toxin Asher had been injected with would have any long lasting negative effects.

"So, as I was saying…", Sanders said, making Gaby's late entrance seem even more disrupting. "Our experts have already started working on decoding the contents of the notebook Solo stole. We're hoping that it will yield some information that might get us closer to discovering who is pulling the strings."

"You're welcome, Sir."

"I'll admit, Solo, that stealing is probably the only thing you're good at."

"That hurts, Sir."

Sanders ignored that last comment and went on.

"By the way, there is one question I've been meaning to ask you since you gave us your account, Solo…why didn't you stab Marshall?"

Gaby shot Asher a sideways glance. The agent's mouth was slightly open, his lips rounded, as if he was about to say "what?" but couldn't quite get the word out.

"I beg your pardon, Sir?.."

"When you were trying to infiltrate the organization and the only way to get in was to sacrifice Marshall, why didn't you just stab him? It would have saved you a lot of time and trouble."

"I…it wouldn't have made any difference, they knew who I was from the start…"

"Yes, but you didn't know it yet at that point, did you."

"We were trying to rescue Marshall, stabbing him in the chest seemed counterproductive at the time."

"Your primary objective was to gather information about the organization. Sometimes one needs to grow a spine, Solo, that includes knowing when to take the initiative and accept to make some necessary sacrifices."

"No offense, Sir, but it sounds like you wanted me to stab him…"

"Don't let him fool you, Marshall.", Waverly cut in, winking at Asher. "I could swear I heard some emotion in his voice when Blake confirmed that you were dead."

"Consider yourself lucky. He certainly wouldn't shed a tear over my death."

"On the contrary, Solo. Tears of joy."

"What about Owen Blake?", Waverly suddenly asked.

His question had the desired effect, the bickering ceased instantly.

"An investigation is being conducted.", Sanders answered evasively.

"And?"

"And nothing, Solo. As of yet, we have found absolutely nothing about Blake that could have led us to suspect him."

A moment passed in silence. Gaby exchanged a glance with Illya, then with Napoleon, then with Asher. She saw a shadow pass over the CIA agent's hazel eyes. She could tell that the question she was asking herself was on everybody else's mind too.

How do we know there aren't others like Owen Blake?...

Waverly was no longer smiling and looked pensive. Sanders had apparently said everything he wanted to say and it was clear from his body language that he was impatient to leave the room. And sure enough, a few minutes later, he got up to leave, soon followed by Waverly who had put his trademark smile back on to bid them goodbye. Gaby finally sat down on Napoleon's bed. The heavy atmosphere had followed Waverly and Sanders out of the room and she could tell that everyone felt a little more relaxed.

"Well…sorry Marshall but you heard Sanders, next time I'm forced to perform a human sacrifice and you're the victim, I will stab you."

She saw Asher grimace comically and place a protective hand over the bandage below his sternum.

"Hopefully there won't be a next time…"

"Ah don't worry, Peril will always be there to save you with mouth-to-mouth, won't he, Gaby?"

Gaby shot Illya a sheepish glance. Her partner looked part embarrassed part furious.

"He couldn't breathe… I did what I had to do."

"Of course you did, Peril, but did you try dislocating his thumbs first?"

Illya's face took on an angry red hue and he opened his mouth as if to say something then closed it and simply glared at the entire universe, just like he did every time he wanted to kill with words but was lacking a cutting retort. Gaby placed a gentle hand on his arm to appease him then shot Napoleon a scolding glare.

"I think Illya deserves a "thank you", none of us would be here if it wasn't for him."

"Of course, thank you, Peril.", Napoleon quipped, looking smug as ever.

Gaby studied Illya's face as he joined in the banter again. He looked tired, which wasn't surprising after what he had been through…but there was something else, too. She suspected he was still blaming himself for failing to kill Blake. She shivered as she involuntarily pictured the assassin's face in her mind. At least, even if the man hadn't died from his injury, after what Illya had done to him, he certainly wasn't going to hurt anyone anytime soon.

About two months later, Asher's p.o.v.

Asher closed the door behind him, put on his jacket and hurried – almost jogged – along the corridor. Running was a pleasure for him. He had missed it when he had been forced to lie in a hospital bed while he was recovering from his leg injury. His leg was almost back to normal now, the pain from his gunshot wound was barely noticeable at all. His most recent stay in the hospital had been much shorter, thankfully. His various cuts and bruises had healed nicely and he was in excellent shape. He felt ready to take on the new mission he had just been assigned to. He had just come out of a meeting with his handler and had been thrilled to learn that he would be working with Alexander Waverly's team again. Well, actually it was the first time he would officially be working with them. Working with a team would be very different from what he was used to but he didn't mind, he already knew he could trust all three of them. Solo, Gaby, and Kuryakin, who had already saved his life a few times. He waved at a few colleagues as he passed them. Most of them would be leaving soon too, it was getting late. Asher knew he needed to hurry. He wouldn't have much time to pack before leaving for the airport. He passed the last security check and walked through the exit gate. It was already dark out. The CIA building was located in the middle of a deserted area with only a few other disaffected buildings around and it was a long walk – or run – to where he usually parked his car. He loosened his tie, slipped it off and put it in his pocket. Then he started running, faster this time. It felt good. He felt alive. As he got closer to where he had parked his car, he stopped for a minute to catch his breath. He ran his hand through his sweaty light brown hair and undid the first two buttons of his shirt as he waited for his breathing and heart rate to settle. He was about to resume his jogging when something caught his eye. A tiny, glowing, red dot had just appeared on the ground in front of him. It looked like a gun laser sight. Weird. He frowned, took a step forward…and heard a sharp crack. Dust and bits of stone flew up as the bullet hit the ground close to his feet.

What the hell?!…

Completely frozen in place, Asher waited for his heart to start beating again.

Sniper?...

The shot had been loud, but far from deafening. The weapon was definitely fitted with a sound suppressor. He looked up at a disaffected building in the distance. It was too dark, too far away. He would never be able to spot the shooter. But the shooter had definitely spotted him. And he wanted to make sure Asher knew. The dot moved up, slowly. Up his leg. Up his stomach. Asher's gaze followed the dot and a quiet "shit!" escaped his lips as it stopped right over his heart. His first, instinctive – stupid – reaction was to flinch and cover his chest with both hands in a protective gesture. Then he quickly scanned his surroundings.

No cover…

He could see his car in the distance. He wished he hadn't parked so far from the high security area. He wished he hadn't parked so far from where he was standing right now. He knew there was no way he would be able to reach the car without taking a bullet. He knew he was going to try anyway. His eyes fixed on the red dot, he took a small, tentative step to the right. Another sharp crack, another heart attack. A second projectile had come close to hitting his foot. Debris had flown up again, hitting him in the leg this time. It hurt a little. Almost immediately, the dot was back on his chest. Of course he knew that the laser sight was not really used for aiming. Laser sights were mostly used in close quarter combat. At that distance, the shooter was probably using a scope for greater accuracy and comfort. The glowing dot on his chest was just part of a sick game, it was the shooter's way of telling him "I have you pinned down, the next bullet is going to rip through your heart and I want you to see it coming." The very fact that he was aiming for Asher's heart also suggested that the shooter was playing with his target. A headshot would be just as efficient, if not more, than a shot to the chest but, whoever the shooter was, he clearly wanted Asher to see exactly where the bullet was going to hit him. He wanted him to be able to visualize his death.

Shit…I can't die here…not now, not like this…

Asher had been desperately clinging to the hope that someone would hear the shots and come to his rescue, but the sound suppressor was doing its job. The gun had already been fired twice and he knew no one was coming. He realized that he still had his hands pressed over his heart like a pathetic, useless shield. He glanced at the impact site in the ground next to his foot and the pounding under his hands grew in intensity. In addition to boring a nice hole into his chest, the bullet would probably rip off a finger or two. He let out a long, shaky breath. If he was going to die, at least he wanted to keep his fingers intact. Asher Marshall addressed a silent goodbye to the people he cared about and let his hands drop back down to his sides...

End of chapter 12, end of the story. I hope you enjoyed reading this one as much as I enjoyed writing it :)