Napoleon Solo
stretched his legs out in the space that First Class seating afforded and,
sighing with contentment, tilted his head back.
"It's nice to
see how the rich fly," he murmured with a lingering smile. "We were fortunate that Mr. Waverly
wanted us back in such a hurry.
Otherwise, we'd be back with...them." He waved his hand towards the back of the
plane.
"I don't
know." Illya Kuryakin spared a
brief moment from the report of their latest assignment to glance out his window. "Aside from the drinks being free and
there being a little more leg room, I don't see much advantage. Scenery looks the same from here as it does
from there." He pushed his glasses
back into place with a finger and brushed a handful of blond hair off his
forehead, returning to the papers before him.
"Perhaps for you,
but the scenery I prefer doesn't entail eyestrain." Napoleon's eyes lovingly caressed the
inviting sway of a passing stewardess.
"Napoleon, you
are hopeless." Illya shifted, then winced.
"Something
wrong?"
"No, I should
have anticipated that the straps of this holster would shrink when they
dried. Never trust new holsters."
"Or
old enemies." He trailed off as their glasses of champagne were
refilled, then raised his to his partner. "To
drip-dry holsters."
"And the
profound hope that we may soon never again need them." Illya touched his glass to Napoleon's.
"Nostrovia."
Napoleon nodded and
sipped delicately at the wine. "Not bad... not good, but not bad. Reminds me of a bottle I had in a small town
in Italy, about two years ago. There was
this girl--"
"There always
is." Illya's dry comment was
interrupted by a flurry of activity and a woman's panicky scream.
"Okay, none of you slobs move," a voice shouted
and Napoleon's attention dropped to examine the meticulous crease of his
slacks. Obviously, the comment was not
aimed directly at him.
"We can run, but we cannot hide," Illya muttered.
The curtain was swept aside and two men pushed their way
into the First Class section of the plane.
The second man dragged a stewardess along with him, frequently waving a
gun in her direction.
"Pity, even First Class seems to be slipping
downhill." Illya tugged off his glasses and tucked them into a shirt
pocket, casually slipping the P-38 from its resting place beneath his left
arm. Just as easily, he lowered it,
nestling it beneath the pages of his report before the gunman could react.
"You got a death wish, Blondie?" The large-barreled gun swiveled towards
Illya's blue-eyed stare of innocence.
"No,
just one for a little peace. You
wouldn't happen to have a silencer for that, would you?"
"Probably not," Napoleon cut in. "They don't look very well
prepared."
"You want to see
the inside of a pine box, sucker?" The gun now found Napoleon as the first
of the pair forced his way into the cockpit, threatening the pilots with harsh
promises of crude violence if they tried to intervene.
"Pine? Illya?" The velvet brown eyes asked a silent, but
pleading question.
"Mahogany,
Napoleon, I promise. Only
the best." Illya nodded
slowly. "And your pall bearers will be
the most beautiful women I can find. I
swear."
The man backed away
from them, closer to the cockpit, remembering to glare about at the other few
First Class passengers. "Nobody get any ideas about playing
hero, because if one of you makes a smart move, the girlie here gets her brains
splattered all over--"
They never did find out the rest, for Illya's Walther P-38,
resting on the armrest of the preceding seat, spat softly and the man crumbled,
gurgling his protest at the mercy bullet implanted in
his arm.
The remaining man spun from the Captain and, predictably
bent on self-preservation, leapt into the compartment reserved for over-sized
carry-on luggage. He used the thin
plywood wall as a shield as he targeted the slender UNCLE agent.
"Okay, Blondie,
you with the gun, drop it!"
"Silly, really," Napoleon observed, drawing his
own UNCLE Special and aiming, all in one smooth motion. "They focus so much on one of us that they
forget the other." The bullet sent the
man back into the cockpit from the recoil.
"Their loss," Illya muttered.
The pilot looked down at the hijacker, then fearfully up at Napoleon,
who was helping the stewardess to her feet.
She smiled at him, thankfully, then looked back
at the pilot.
"Not to worry,
Captain. These are the men from UNCLE.
Are they...dead?" She directed the
question to Napoleon.
"No, they're just asleep and they should stay that way
until we land in New York. Only a madman
would discharge a weapon on an aircraft."
"How can I thank
you, Mr...?"
"Napoleon,
Napoleon Solo, my dear. Perhaps
in New York, we can get together and discuss the topic further." His smile curled around each word as the
cultivated Napoleon charm kicked up into full force. "Now I think you'd best attend to your
other passengers."
As she walked hesitantly
away, Napoleon returned to his glass of champagne as if nothing at all had
occurred. "Remind me not to fly this airline again. This one attracts the wrong type of
people."
"Doesn't it
just?" Illya slid the P-38 into its
holster, reseated his glasses upon his nose and returned to his report.
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