Collection 5 - My Brother's Keeper Page 10

  "Scotty, stay back for now. He won't hurt him. I'm positive." Robinson pulled his partner to one side of the bedroom.

  Solo checked the tender stomach, his face hardening at the quick intakes of air as he pressed down lightly on the bruises. "They broke his ribs down on one side."

  Robinson met Scott's stare and swore as the other man shook his head, denying the statement. "Lee? Take it easy, man. Illya's ribs aren't broken."

  "They burned his back, almost flayed the skin. How is his back?" Solo eased the injured man onto his side and Kuryakin gasped, then moaned, at the slight jarring of his head and the vertigo that followed.

  "Hey, slow down," Scott growled dangerously as Kuryakin groaned again. "Go easy, man. Be cool. I didn't rescue him just for you to hurt him," he said. He saw Solo blink at his voice, the scowl fading as recognition came. And went. Kuryakin was gently laid back on the bed. "That's it, Lee. Leave him alone–– Hey!" Scotty raised his hands in defense as Solo unexpectedly spun on him, fists clenched. "Kell?"

  "Come on, Lee. Let's go in the other room." Kelly stepped back in time to avoid the fist that now aimed at his face. "You are really pissing me off now! Okay, man, so you're angry––" He knocked the hand away, shoving Napoleon back and falling sideways himself, cursing again at his intoxication and his body's inability to stay upright.

  "You're damned right, I'm angry," Solo said, his voice low and threatening. "Yeah, Tomahawk McGuire's little experiment and his tape recording unearthed a lot of rather vivid memories. YES, I REMEMBER TOMMY!" he shouted, at the ceiling. "I REMEMBER HIM. YOU DIDN'T HAVE TO DO THIS!" His voice dropped again as he gestured at Robinson. "You saw what happened to him! You remember––" Jaw tightly clenched, Solo turned back to the injured man and maneuvered the blond head carefully from side to side as he continued to assess the damage. "Illya? Talk to me. Who did this to you? Illya! Come on, concentrate. Wake up," he ordered, his hand lightly slapping his partner's face. "Come on. Wake up."

  It rang too many danger bells with Scott. Napoleon Solo was drunk and angry, not a good combination, and the Russian was in no position to protect himself. Scott growled again, the sound low in his throat. "If he hurts him, man..." he whispered to his own partner. "I'm not going to stand still and watch this shit."

  Rubbing his forehead in frustration, Robinson turned away slightly, his voice geared down for Scott's ears only. "He won't hurt him. It's just been a long night and we need some answers."

  "Well, I don't care for his way of getting answers. His partner isn't going to be coherent tonight; Lee should recognize that and just deal with the injuries. What's going on here, man? You're stinking drunk and so is he."

  Kelly dropped into a chair by the door, unable to stay upright on his own much longer. "Tonight was strange. I, uh, got into a fight myself That's not like me––Okay, okay, maybe it is like me, but it was suddenly as though we were back there in that damned war, living it, breathing it, listening to that damned tape playing, hearing our own voices talking, saying all that stuff" Robinson waved away any more questions. "Later, man. When my head isn't spinning."

  "Were you slipped anything?"

  "I don't think so. No." The tall agent, brushed his fingers through his hair. "No, we weren't drugged. We did this to ourselves."

  Scott took a deep breath and approached the bed as Solo pulled the covers back over his partner's sweat-stained body. "Lee, let me take care of him. Go in the other room with Kelly and calm down."

  "Stay away from him. Don't touch him. He's my responsibility. I'll handle this." Solo smoothly pulled his Walther from its holster, fumbling in his jacket pocket for the clip. "I'm going back to McGuire's room. He's got to know something about this. Somebody is going to give me some answers now."

  Scotty was pulled back as Kelly stepped between them. "No way, not now. We will deal with it, but now is not the right time. You're too close to the situation. First, we retreat, get our ground, and then attack when we're ready and it's on our terms, not theirs. Morgan taught us that, at least. We're not in it for revenge, remember? Those were your words." Kelly held out his hand. "Come on, give me the gun, man."

  Scotty watched, ready to jump into action as Solo stared at Robinson as though seeing him for the first time. The U.N.C.L.E. agent's dark eyes flashed pain, then gradually clouded over as returning awareness showed through his icy mask. He backed down, accepting the evaluation with a quick shrug. "For now." Tossing the gun on his jacket, his attention went back to Kuryakin, but his actions were gentler now, calmer. He turned the Russian's chin to look at the red marks on the sides of his mouth and the deep scratch across his cheek.

  Kuryakin opened his eyes and distantly watched Solo's movements, but made no comment. He tried to ask something; his one hand reached up shakily and touched the bandage on Solo's upper arm. When his partner didn't respond, Kuryakin's eyes closed in defeat, his body curling away from the other man.

  Solo didn't seem to notice, but leaned forward, his face buried in the palm of his hand, fingertips massaging his forehead. "Damn it, Kelly. What do they want? What do they want from me? Why is this happening again?... I can't even think straight."

  Scott glanced to his partner as Kelly dropped back into the chair and shuddered, hearing and seeing some terror of long ago that had come too close to them again. You 're just as wasted as he is, Kell. I've told you to stay away from booze. We've got too many memories that don't stay lost when you start drinking.

  Solo was quieter, mumbling a list, staring off at the far wall. "Tommy's ribs were broken. His skull was cracked. The nails on every single finger were ripped off. When they finally threw him in the cell, he was half dead already––and they knew he didn't know anything! He was just a kid. An innocent farm kid from Saskatchewan. A kid with a mother and father and girlfriend back home waiting for him. A kid with big dreams that never happened."

  Pushing off from the bed, Solo left the room and staggered over to the bar. With trembling hands, he poured himself a drink, tossed it back, and poured a second one. "The bastards!" His voice broke as the words ripped from his mouth. "I will get them for this. And for Tommy. Especially for Tommy." He stared ahead at the speckled mirror behind the bar, not seeing his distorted reflection.

  Scott moved around Solo, removing the bottles and hiding them from sight. Then he returned to the bedroom and did his own quick triage of the Russian. Instead of fighting him, as he had previously, Illya was lying almost motionless, his body only occasionally trembling from fatigue and pain––and God knew what else. He was in no condition to give any information at present, which had probably added to Solo's frustration. How do you exact revenge when you don't know who was responsible?

  Scotty heard his partner's voice from the other room saying the same thing.

  "You'll get who for this?" Kelly was asking. "We don't even know who did it. You don't know that McGuire is responsible for anything other than trying to clear Morgan's name. Just like you were talking about clearing Kuryakin's name a while ago."

  Scott reluctantly covered Illya with the blanket and let him rest for a few minutes. He turned off the bedroom light and shut the door part way behind him, wordlessly catching his partner's attention, then held it for a moment, shook his head, and stared pointedly at Solo's back.

  Robinson nodded and moved to stand beside the U.N.C.L.E. agent, laying one hand awkwardly on Solo's shoulder. "Lee— Napoleon, let go of it for now. That happened a long time ago. This is different. This is exactly what this George person wants you to do. To transfer what happened to Tommy onto Illya. Think about it. Illya's alive. He needs to get to a doctor, but he's alive. Don't try and make this the same thing as Tommy. Like you said, we're the professionals, not them. Don't let George get to you. This isn't you––this is that kid on the tape. We've got to deal with this present situation, before it goes further, man. We've got to sit down and decide some things. If we stay here, eventually George––whoever he is––or maybe even McGuire, is going to find Illya. We've got
to get him out quickly, before they can act. From the second message left at the front desk, it sounds like this George might not even be in the building at the moment."

  "What do you mean?" Scott asked. "Who's George? What message?"

  Robinson filled him in quickly, adding, "There was a note for Lee that said George would meet him tomorrow morning. He'd leave an envelope at the front desk saying where and when."

  Solo pulled from his grip, the whiskey he held sloshing over the rim of the glass. "Let him come. I'll deal with him my way."

  "Hey, man, I don't know if I like things done your way," Scott said softly from the doorway of the bedroom.

  *****

  Calm down. Breathe. Push it back in place. Back in the box. Think.

  Solo glanced up to see Alexander Scott's eyes cold and uncompromising as they stared at him. You don't like what done my way? Can't you just leave me alone? I've got to think What's happening here? The man seemed to be waiting for a reply. Napoleon irritably downed his glass and stalked across the room to drop into one of the armchairs. His arm felt like hell, the stitches and nerves screaming at him to hold still; he ripped the sling off and let it fall on the carpet. "What are you talking about?" McGuire knew about Zadkine. He could have held back about this... McGuire.

  "Your partner," Scott supplied from his post near the bedroom. "You have made no effort to help him and he won't let me get near enough––I've barely convinced him to stay on the bed. His feet are bleeding and should be bandaged properly. I need some help with this. Make up your mind what you're going to do while I go get some ice."

  "Napoleon, he's not Tommy." Kelly watched his partner leave, then pulled off his jacket and tossed it in the general direction of the closet.

  "Who said he was? I want to keep him out of this. It's not Illya's battle; it's mine." Who is it? Laurier? Carter? Powhatan? Opperdorff?

  "Is he or is he not Zadkine? Was he there when you found out about the scepter?" Kelly asked, watching the other man's face carefully. "Did Illya kill Morgan?"

  Jaw clenched, Solo said nothing, the whiskey already dulling the pain. I can round all four of them up and hold them until I find out which is responsible. And McGuire. I'll call into New York for their dossiers. Laurier. Carter. Powhatan. Opperdorff. One of them.

  "It's Illya's battle, too." Robinson paced the room, trying to work off his nervous energy, tight with the day's turn of events. "For whatever reasons, Illya is involved. You're involved. I'm involved. And now Scotty's involved. We've got to make some decisions here and we're running out of time. If you want us to let you deal with Illya by yourself, fine. Then do it. But don't let him lie there in shock and hurting."

  Illya? It took a moment for the words to make it through the fog in his brain. No. Not again. Napoleon rubbed one hand over his eyes wearily, forcing himself to calm down. Focus. Focus. Not like me to respond like this. "Yeah. Okay. You're right" The image of Tommy was slowly replaced by that of his partner, the pale eyes needlessly apprehensive of Napoleon on top of the physical pain. "Damn."

  Tommy was dead and buried twelve years before. Illya wasn't. The ache in his chest worked its way to his throat and lodged in his temples. "Damn," he repeated, then pushed himself out of the too-comfortable armchair and headed for the bedroom.

  He stood breathing heavily at the doorway of the room, attempting to pull together his sanity. What am I doing? I've been drinking like a fish. I haven't drunk this much since— He cursed softly and pushed open the bedroom door.

  He saw Kuryakin shudder as the light from the other room once again fell on the bed where he lay curled beneath the blankets. Wary blue eyes flickered over Napoleon. The guarded tension in the inert form cut through the remaining haze of Napoleon's memories and anchored him in the present.

  The enforcement agent moved slowly to the bed, aware of Illya's eyes in the dim light following him as he walked across the room and sat carefully on the edge of the mattress. He paused, unsure of what to say. He wiped the sweat from his forehead and watched as Kuryakin's eyes drooped shut, his breath slowly exhaled through clenched teeth. "Illya?"

  Kuryakin nodded. "S'okay," he mumbled. He shifted slightly toward Solo and opened his eyes, still shivering.

  The steady vacant gaze, held for a few seconds, lost the border of fear and Solo relaxed somewhat until the eyes rolled back, unconscious. His hand darted to Illya's throat, shaking, images of Tommy forcing their way through, but the steady fast pulse was there. This time. Beat. Beat. Beat. Beat. There was a sudden irrational fear that it he removed his hand, the heart would stop.

  Scott passed through the room with a full ice-bucket and disappeared into the bathroom. There was the sound of ice being dumped into the sink and water running, then Scott returned with a handful of towels and the ice-bucket, now filled with warm water. "Kelly's gonna stumble on back to the bar and make an appearance," he said in way of explanation. "If you'll hold Illya so he doesn't sock me again, I'll doctor."

  He gave a brief reassuring smile and Solo removed his fingers from the pulse, awkwardly raising his partner's head so the trainer could get his hands underneath. "Keep his head still," Scott instructed. "If he does have a concussion, he shouldn't be moved much." He washed the dried blood away and took a look at the bumps that were left, nodding to himself. "Doesn't appear to be a skull fracture, but he should get x-rayed later. It's just as well he's out; it makes this a lot easier. I tried to get a look at him when I brought him in here earlier, but he wasn't too cooperative. He wouldn't let me touch him––Was rather adamant about that." Grinning, Scotty gestured with one hand to the swollen lump on his jaw.

  "Illya did that?" .

  "His hands were tied, but he got me with the back of his head. Quite resourceful."

  Napoleon smiled faintly. "You have to watch him. He doesn't like being fussed over." He could feel the previous pressure drain away as he focused on his partner's injuries, a new concern taking its place. Knowing the Russian's tolerance for pain, the shock and lack of consciousness were disturbing. What damage did the dirt and sweat cover?

  Solo supported the blond head as Scotty put ice in a hand towel and had him hold it against Kuryakin's skull. A flashlight was used to check the pupils, and the CIA agent shrugged noncommittally. There was little they could do for the beating to the abdomen; Scotty's careful check revealed no obvious internal injuries, but until Kuryakin could be checked properly, they decided to give him only a little ice to suck on, no water, just as a precaution.

  Then they had a good look at the bottom of his feet, at what the blood that oozed from raw skin hid. It was not a single cut, as they had assumed, but several layers of skin were missing from the left sole and the right showed a multitude of angry red lashes. Tommy... Just like Tommy. Damn it, Illya, who did this to you?

  Kuryakin woke with a start as Scotty started to clean the flagellated soles. He didn't move his legs, but watched the trainer's actions with intense eyes, his body pressed back against the bed. He gave Scotty no indication that the gentle cleaning or binding hurt in any way, but Napoleon could feel the pain in the tension of the body he was supporting. When Scotty had finished, Illya closed his eyes finally, giving in to the blackness again, his breath still short and fast.

  "Let him rest." Scott placed one of the pillows under the bandaged feet and pulled the blanket up over the narrow shoulders.

  "Illya needs to see a doctor. I need to know how long this will take to heal. I need to talk to him." I'll get him to safely. Then deal with this.

  "He'll probably need a specialist The recovery time might be lengthy, depending on the extent of damage done to the nerves," Scott said, softly, trying to prepare Solo for what could be ahead.

  "I realize that. And I can't afford for him to take time now. I need some answers from him. I need to know who did this to him." Solo got up quickly, ignoring the disapproving glare tossed at him, and headed into the other room, back to the small bar, but the CIA agent stopped him.

  "No way." Scott
y motioned for Solo to take a seat. He unplugged a tiny travel kettle and poured the boiling water into a mug. "You, Napoleon Solo, are still drunk. Very unprofessional. Instant coffee. Doctor's orders."

  Solo accepted the cup with a nod of appreciation, sinking back into the chair and dutifully sipping it, finally meeting the other's eyes. Scott was silent, waiting, watching him. As if Solo were a double-agent who hadn't decided which side of the fence to camp on. 'Very unprofessional' doesn't begin to cover it. "Thanks, Scotty. For the coffee. For all of this. For getting him out. I owe you one."

  "As I said before, I didn't get him out. He got himself out; I just found him running down a hallway one floor above. I had gone to get ice from the machine when suddenly he slams right into me. This goon was after him and was having no trouble following the trail of blood he was leaving. I had a fight with the other guy, then I picked up your partner, got whacked in the face, threatened him, and brought him here. I was no sooner in the door when Kell phoned up to see if I was in yet. I said, 'You will never in a million years believe who I just found.' He says, 'A Parisian painter?' And then in a flash, you guys came up."

  Scott retrieved the abandoned arm sling and tossed it to Solo, then replaced the ice bag on his own face. "Why don't you rest in the other room? You can keep an eye on Illya. Kelly will be back soon; he just wanted to spread the word that you canceled the dates and are holed away in your room all upset about something and don't want to talk to anyone." Scott gathered the first aid equipment that had been scattered around the suite and returned to the bedroom.

  Solo nodded, dropped an U.N.C.L.E. detox pill into his coffee and drained the mug quickly. It took a few minutes for the pill to begin breaking down the alcohol's effects, but soon his head started to clear and he downed another pill to take care of the residual headache. I should have done this first. I should have done a lot of things...