Napoleon Solo leaned back in the white plastic lounge chair and regarded the rain soaked landscape before him with a bored eye. Having to supervise the opening of a new office was not all it was cracked up to be even when it was in Hawaii. Just off the patio, the day was coming alive; insects, birds, and animals were all waking up and going about their daily task of just surviving. A little gecko scurried across the railing and paused to stare at Napoleon before hurrying off.
"Yup, everyone has something to do or somewhere to go, except me," Napoleon muttered, sipping his coffee. For some reason the song, It's my Party and I'll Cry if I Want to, kept running through his head. Mr. Napoleon Solo was wallowing in the middle of a massive pity party and wasn't about to leave it.
He couldn't shake the feeling that he was being punished for something. This would be a restful change of pace, if it hadn't come on the heels of two other such assignments. Neither he nor his partner, Illya Kuryakin, had seen any real excitement in months and, far be it from him to admit to being an adrenalin junkie, it was exactly that rush that was so essential to a field agent's peace of mind. Both he and Illya were fit, rested and had been certified for field duty two months ago and yet, here they sat, overseeing the opening of yet another remote field office, away from all the action.
And then there was Waverly's explanation that both he and Illya were familiar with the area. It didn't sit as well as it might have three months earlier when both were exhausted and literally running on fumes—special THRUSH induced fumes. Mind-controlling cigarettes, who, besides THRUSH would have thought of it?
The detox period hadn't been pleasant for either of them, but it was in the past now. Yet, Napoleon felt as if his superior still held him responsible for the damage done to both him and his partner and the price that they paid for slipping up, for just that one moment of being human, was to be sent here.
The name Hawaii conjured up images of beautiful beaches, sun-drenched days, long, peaceful tropical nights and soft, compliant women. Unfortunately, the new facilities were located in Hilo—on the rainy side of the island. It sported lush, heavy jungle undergrowth—a treat for tourists, but hardly impressive to a man who'd braved the mighty jungles of Africa and the Amazon. There were no beaches to speak of, not much in the way of sun-filled days, no night life, just a sleepy little town with absolutely no social life for someone as cosmopolitan as Napoleon Solo.
No, he decided, what he really needed was a shower, breakfast and some action. Perhaps some bodysurfing, scuba diving, or even rock climbing or maybe doing all three was just ticket. They had the day off and Napoleon Solo was going to see some action even if he had to make it himself. And right now, Napoleon was ready to try just about anything that would kick start his energy level again. He rose and slipped past the heavy curtains back into the darkened hotel room that he shared with his Russian partner.
A soft snore greeted him and Napoleon smiled affectionately in the direction of the sound and its originator, Illya Kuryakin. He'd known Illya to go for days without sleep, forcing himself to operate to near collapse to get a job done. Add boredom and the Russian would sleep as if stockpiling it for the days ahead. Having shut down the hotel bar last night didn't hurt either. Napoleon had stayed until midnight, but the Russian was still going strong. How anyone could have that sort of capacity for alcohol and still remain standing was beyond him. Napoleon had managed to drift off before the man made it back, but judging from the scattering of clothes he'd tripped over this morning, Kuryakin had been pretty well into his cups by the time he'd returned.
Not that Napoleon resented it—field agents tended to do everything to extremes. It was the nature of the beast. He massaged a stress-tightened shoulder, wishing vainly that he could follow Kuryakin's example and simply relax enough to just to fall asleep for more than a couple of hours at a time. This whole thing had given him a walloping case of insomnia. He'd tried warm milk, which was more disgusting than it sounded, brandy, mental games, and nothing seemed to work. He was almost to a point of taking the Russian up on his offer of a right cross sleeping pill. Instead he sat up most of the night, staring off into the darkness, waiting for that first glimmer of daybreak that meant the rest of the world was ready to join him.
Brooding was the Russian's stock and trade, not his, so he padded quietly to the restroom, stripping off his robe as he entered the small room. There was a sink area and mirror set apart from the toilet and shower facilities. After shaving, Napoleon hung his pajamas neatly upon the back of the door and climbing into the shower.
He dipped his head forward, allowing the water to splay over his back, pounding away at muscles stiffened by inactivity. He just stood there for what seemed like forever, just permitting the rhythmic jets of the water to work their magic.
Finally, he got down to the actual business of showering, a three minute task at best. He cut off the water and stepped carefully from the tub. Draping a towel over muscular shoulders, he decided that it really was far too steamy in here to see anything. He wrapped a towel around his trim waist and opened the door.
Leaning against the threshold, hand upraised and prepared to knock was his partner and fellow UNCLE agent. However, Napoleon had to admit that Illya didn't look like he'd pose much of a threat to an enemy agent at the moment. Not with the sleep-ruffled hair, bleary eyes and one hand hitching up his pajama bottoms. If the ladies back at HQ saw him like this, the poor man would be hogtied and carried off into the deepest reaches of the building.
"Did I wake you?" Napoleon asked innocently, grinning at his partner. "Do you know your pajamas are on backwards?"
"They are? That's a relief. You know, between that rush of water and all that beer I drank last night, I'd say you've single-handedly created a brand new torture." Illya pushed past him with only a trace of sleeper's stumble and headed straight for the toilet.
Napoleon stepped out of the small room and shut the door to give his partner a little space and used the time to dry off. "Perhaps it's the King's revenge for what you did to his stockpile of beer," he said as he toweled off his hair. " I told you that you should have stuck with the imported stuff. King Kamehameha beer sounds a little exotic for my tastes."
"Napoleon, Budweiser is a little exotic for your tastes." Kuryakin's response was nearly drowned out by the toilet flushing.
"I can't help it if beer gives me a sore throat."
"Do you see my razor anywhere?" The shower restarted and Illya, toothbrush in mouth, stuck his head around the door frame.
Napoleon glanced around until he spotted the article resting near the TV, obviously dropped there from the night before, and crossed the room to fetch it for the sandy-haired agent. "When are you going to go modern and get yourself a nice electric razor?"
"When they devise one that works in the shower." The man ducked back inside.
Napoleon chuckled as he attempted to corral his hair into something close to its usual lines. The humidity was playing havoc with it, making it fall into more natural waves. Even his hair was refusing to play fair.
Finally, he surrendered, hung up the damp towel and went to the closet to hunt down something cool, yet fashionable, to wear. Aloha wear was too bright for him, but a regular suit was much too heavy. Because they were both carrying weapons, he needed to layer. Daylight trickled past the opened curtains and patio door and through the haze of the rain outside, giving him just enough light without having to turn on a lamp. Not that it would have helped. No matter how many they turned on, this room, with its dark wood and even darker fabric, stayed depressingly dreary. The room he'd stayed in on the Kona side had been alive with color and bright white furniture. It amazed him just how different the two sides were.
It was a little bit like him and his partner. He was dark, Illya fair. He was polished, refined and always ready to smile while his partner was the polar opposite in more ways than one. That is, unless you knew the man behind the façade. Napoleon had glimpsed that man, so deeply compassionate, so given to self-sacrifice for the good of others, so brilliant, yet though to be so disconnected with life. It puzzled Napoleon as to why Illya encouraged people to think of him that way.
Then he sighed at the sight of Illya's half-hung suit. "The man is capable of making bombs, hotwiring cars, cracking safes and yet he still can't figure out how a clothes hanger works," Napoleon grumbled softly.
"Are you talking to me?" Illya emerged from the bathroom, rubbing his arms and torso with a towel.
"Yes, when are you going...?"
Napoleon was interrupted by something that flew through the open patio door and curtain and past the tip of his nose. Automatically, he dropped behind a chair and began to crawl to where his holster hung, shocked to find that the Walther P-38 had been removed.
"Illya?" The Russian crouched behind a small settee and reached over to snatch up his holster and pants from where he'd dropped them the night before.
"Mine, too. Look what replaced it." Kuryakin threw something to Napoleon and he, in turn, nearly dropped it by misjudging the weight. It appeared to be a real gun, down to the detailing of the butt. However, instead of metal, it was formed from plastic and had a rubber-tipped dart protruding from the muzzle.
"THRUSH's idea of a joke?"
"I've never known them to have much of a sense of humor and I refuse to believe that they'd do anything but play for keeps. Beside, why would they come in here, remove your gun and replace mine when they have the advantage of erasing us out?"
"Rubbing us out, Illya."
"Exactly my point." Illya, heedless of the comical image he presented as he made crawled across the room to the patio. He kept close to the floor and pulled the glass door shut.
Napoleon rolled off to one side and drew the curtains, throwing the room into darkness again.
Immediately they moved back from the area of the window and Napoleon shook his head, chastising his partner. "You should have never opened the curtains."
"Napoleon, I can assure you that when I woke up, I had one thought and only one thought on my mind and it wasn't opening a curtain," Illya countered. "I thought it was an attempt on your part to wake me up. All anyone would have to do would be to leap over that stream and climb over the railing. That wouldn't be too difficult for someone who's in reasonable shape. For the record, I hate ground floor rooms."
"When one is staying in a one-story hotel, there's not much choice I'm afraid."
Now in the darkness of the room, Illya rose, knotting the dropped towel around his waist and examined the object that had flown in through the window. The rubber-tipped dart was still firmly affixed to the wall and he pulled it free with a soft pop. "Who would shoot at us with darts? That's just asking for trouble."
There came a soft knock at the door and he exchanged a serious glance with Illya. Napoleon self-consciously tugged on his pants, feeling curiously naked without his gun. He rose and went to the door, keeping to one side of it. "Yes?"
"A message for a Mr. Solo or Kuryakin."
Napoleon opened the door the smallest of cracks until he was assured of the man's identity and accepted the hotel envelope. "Mahalo." He patted the pockets of his pants and looked over a shoulder. "Ah, Illya?"
Napoleon busied himself with the letter as Illya dug out his wallet from a pants pocket.
"Why do I always have to pay the tip?" he muttered as he shoved it into Napoleon's outstretched palm.
"You should learn to hang your pants up more often." Napoleon dispensed the tip, making sure the door was locked behind him. He passed the wallet back to its owner and took the letter into the bathroom to read.
"That's blackmail."
"That's right." Napoleon agreed as he studied the message. He read it twice before handing it over to an increasingly curious Russian.
"'Touche! Signed, 17 & 5.' Any ideas?"
"I had every intention of asking you the same thing." Napoleon picked up the dart gun and studied it carefully before aiming it a few inches from Kuryakin and pulling the trigger.
The dart stuck to the wall beneath the Russian's nose and he jumped back in surprise.
"Bang!" Napoleon grinned at him. "I kinda like these little gizmos."
"Napoleon!" Illya was properly affronted. "It isn't bad enough that complete strangers are going mad. Must you join their ranks?"
"Oh, calm down, my excitable Russian." Napoleon, amused, continued to turn the gun in his hands. "Get dressed and let's go get some breakfast. I'll even pay."
An hour later Napoleon Solo led the way down the open-air hall and halted before their door. Behind him Illya Kuryakin cleared his throat and Napoleon started to chuckle.
"I don't know what you find so amusing about a man nearly choking to death," Illya muttered.
"Sorry. It isn't really, but when you discovered the sugar was really salt, your expression was...well, I stop short of using the word wonderful. I told you that you needed to cut down on the amount you use in your coffee."
"Something a little more subtle would have been appreciated. I'd just like to know who made the switch on us and why us? Out of all the empty tables, I refuse to believe it was accidental."
"On that I agree with you." Napoleon unlocked the door and pocketed the key. "Someone is definitely out to get us."
He pushed the door open and stepped in just as a bowl of something grey fell from its perch. It landed on Napoleon with a soul-rendering plop.
Instinctively, Illya headed for the cover that surrounding shrubs provided, leaving Napoleon to share his fate alone.
When the splattering ceased, he sneaked a glance over the bush and grinned widely at his partner.
"Not a word, Kuryakin," warned a voice that issued from somewhere beneath the mess.
"I never knew you to be partial to poi, Napoleon." Illya tried his best to keep a straight face. "Good thing the maid hasn't been here yet. I suspect she'll have to put in a little overtime."
While Napoleon took another shower, Illya poked aimlessly around the room, restless, bored and ready for anything that smacked of excitement. In fact, if it hadn't been for the fact that he had to work with Napoleon on a daily basis, he might have devised these pranks himself to add a little spice to their day. He paused then, frowning. If he could, then why not some other UNCLE agent? It certainly wouldn't be a first. Not when you consider the havoc they had played in Sidney with their contemporaries.
"Oh my..." He let the sentence trailed off as things suddenly started making more sense. He opened up a drawer and withdrew a plain manila envelope, which contained the names of their replacements. Pulling out his glasses, he scanned the list quickly. Halfway down, his finger stopped and he tapped the sheet, grinning. Wayne Czitarone and Monroe Reduci out of the Australia office, he should have known.
He walked over to the bathroom door to knock, and then stopped. With experience borne of much practice, he began to systematic search their room until he finally found what he was after—a small disc on the underside of a chair. It was bugging device, in fact, one that he himself had helped devise. He removed it and turned it over in his fingers as he considered his next course of action. Standing, he took the listening device over to the bed and stuffed it beneath the covers and then he trotted to the bathroom and walked in.
Napoleon's head came up at his entrance and he wrapped a towel around his waist. "I'm all for togetherness, Illya, but..."
The Russian brought a finger to his lips and shook his head. "Shh," he whispered, leaning close, lips brushing Napoleon's ear. "I found out who our friends are, but they've put one listening device in the room. There may be more."
"Who?" Napoleon formed the word silently and then read the names that Illya etched onto the steamed mirror. "Please say you're joking," he whispered back.
"They're our replacements."
"We should have guessed."
"We really should have. However, I have a feeling we'll wreak a more satisfying revenge if we pretend we still don't know. I'm going to go check out the hotel registry. If UNCLE put us up here, chances are they're here, too."
Illya Kuryakin walked casually into the parking lot after having obtained all the necessary information from the desk clerk. Sometimes it amazed him that Napoleon's lines worked as well as they did, but, after all, the dark-haired agent considerable practice perfecting them. Adding just a drop of boyish charm, Illya had been able to weasel everything he needed out of the desk clerk, including her phone number. He folded up that piece of paper and tucked it into the pocket of his polo shirt.
He spotted the license plates of the car that was being rented by W. Czitarone. Illya hesitated a moment—it would be like Wayne to use someone else's license number, but he didn't think the agent even had the slightest suspicion that they had been found out...yet. He popped open the passenger's door easily enough to make it seem like he had a key. He slipped inside the sedan and glanced around to see if he had any witnesses. A pungent aftershave hit him and he knew there was no mistake. Only Reduci used that particularly smelly Italian brand
Illya slid a bug into the ashtray, smiling to himself as he worked. As an afterthought, he jimmied the glove compartment open and laughed softly. Nestled among everything else, partially hidden by badly folded maps, were his and Napoleon's pistols, each carefully wrapped in a cloth.
Pleased, Illya removed them, pausing to check the well-being of his own weapon. He frowned and used the corner of the cloth to remove a speck of dirt from the white 'K' embedded in the butt of the P-38. Contented that that was the only fault, he slipped it back into its shoulder holster, happy with the familiar feeling of the extra weight beneath his left arm. He put Napoleon's gun in his windbreaker's pocket, feeling more relaxed now that he was armed.
Humming an old Russian song to himself, Illya stretched out across the seat and fiddled with the door handle. Luckily, it was one of those types hidden within the armrest. A few minor adjustments left it appearing normal, whereas a sharp tug would reveal its uselessness at its primary function in life—opening a car door.
He duplicated the procedure on the only remaining door before turning his attention to the windows. The driver's side window was cracked open slightly and either agent would notice a change in its position, so closing it was out of the question. No, he'd have to leave it the way it was.
Illya pulled out a tube of glue from his pocket and unscrewed the top, only to cough at the fumes and make the decision to use it outside the car. If he used it inside, the smell would alert his fellow agents. Replacing the cap, he reached into another pocket for one more item—a small exploding device. Not particularly powerful, it was more designed more for scare than anything else, but it would serve this purpose admirably.
He removed the original pack of smoking powder, replacing it with a bag of confectioner's sugar he'd lifted from the restaurant's kitchen. Glancing at his watch, he set the timer for two hours and hid the bomb beneath the passenger's seat.
Again Illya grinned, then climbed out and carefully closed the door, reaching for the glue.
"Let's hope you dry as fast as your manufacturer claims you do," Illya murmured to the tube as he began to squeeze glue down into the space between the car door and window.
"Hey, Napoleon, I'm feeling a little peckish," Illya announced as he wandered into the hotel room. "How about coming up to the macadamia farm with me? You always like that place. We'll pick up something and maybe afterwards we could hunt up some nice deserted beach and sunbathe. We could both use some sun."
"I thought you said..." Napoleon came around the corner and Illya slapped a hand over his mouth. The Russian nodded and withdrew Napoleon's weapon from his pocket. Napoleon took the weapon, tucked it away and pulled Illya's hand down. "...that you wanted to drive over to Kona and do some scuba diving."
"That can wait. Tide's coming in and the water will be murky. Besides, I'm due for a refresher course in that when we get back to New York anyhow. How could Hawaii compare to the East River? You want to come?"
Why not? If nothing else, I can reminisce about when we were real agents and actually had some excitement in our lives."
Napoleon watched Illya slump in his seat, his attention focused upon the side view mirror. It was very obvious that the Russian was up to something.
"Have you noticed a car, off-green, following us for the last couple of miles?" he asked as they cleared the city limits.
"It could be a coincidence. Eleven is the only road out of town."
"It's not a coincidence." Illya brushed a handful of blond hair back off his forehead. "Floor it when you get past that banyan tree. There's usually a cop hiding out behind it."
"How would you know?"
"Nailed me twice last week alone. We're on a first name basis now. He wants me to meet his sister."
"I want to see you voucher for that." Napoleon drove to the prescribed spot and allowed about a hundred feet to separate him from the suspicious vehicle before increasing his speed considerably.
The tailing car duplicated the move, sailing by the parked police vehicle 40 miles above the speed limit.
When the sedan was pulled over by the wailing sirens, Illya laughed and made a motion with his hand. "Okay, Napoleon, it's time. Let's turn around and head back"
They were abreast with the car an, even with the greenbelt divider between the cars, it was apparent to Napoleon that both men inside were panic stricken about something.
"What's wrong with them?"
"I imagine that they are discovering the bomb I left for them under the driver's seat. Nothing big, just a L-5, but I didn't want it to go off while they were driving."
"Hence the speed trap—I get that. So, why don't they leave?"
"They have probably also discovered that the windows are glued shut and the door handles no longer work."
He was cut short by a muffled pop as a fine white powder filtered from the partially open window.
"I'm almost afraid," Napoleon ventured.
"Powdered sugar."
"You are nasty, Illya, especially for an UNCLE agent."
"I prefer to consider myself vindicated." Illya crossed his arms and gestured on with an elbow. "Drive, please."
Napoleon unlocked the door to their hotel room and pushed it open, staying behind the protection of the jamb. However, nothing fell, flew out or made threatening noises. "Appears to be all clear," he said, cautiously moving into the entryway of the room.
"I wouldn't count on it. They've probably progressed to mines in the toilet." Illya eased in and bumped on a light with the tip of the shoe he carried.
Both men blinked at the brightness, ready to duck back into the safety of the hall at the slightest hint of trouble. The sight that greeted them, however, rooted both men in their footsteps.
"The furniture," Napoleon deadpanned. "They've taken all our furniture."
"Not only that." Illya continued, pointing skyward. "They nailed all our clothes to the ceiling."
"Those barbarians!" Napoleon was furious. "How could they do that to a $300 suit?"
"Probably the same way they did it to your fifty-nine cent socks, with a hammer and nails." Illya was actually impressed with their antagonist's ingenuity. "Perhaps we should check the closet and see if anything was spared the public execution."
"Right." Napoleon went to the closet and slid open the door. The spring-loaded plate flew out, landing squarely against Napoleon's shirt front.
While Illya fought a losing battle to keep his laughter in, Napoleon glared down at his soiled poplin shirt, his stomach now covered in strawberry chiffon.
"Hmmm, a little low. Must have been expecting you."
The chuckling choked off, "I am truly hurt, Napoleon." Illya clutched his chest for a moment before he started laughing again.
"Good. Now, get me a towel."
Illya walked to the bathroom, but the door wouldn't open. "I'm almost afraid to look," he murmured. "How badly do you want that towel, Napoleon?"
"Illya, get me a towel!"
"That a direct order, mon Capitan?"
"What?" Napoleon came around the corner just as Illya kicked open the door and a near tidal wave of water gushed out.
"Hmm, spring-loaded water cannon...that's new." Illya, drenched from the chest down glanced over at his partner. "At least it washed the pie off you."
"Not funny, Russian."
"Not laughing, American. I'm thinking escalation. It's time to confront and disable."
"Waverly is going to have our hides over this. This carpet is ruined."
"This carpet was ruined long before we got here." Illya shook one foot and watched water flicked off it. "But, yes, there will be repercussions, I suspect. Escalation now?"
"Escalation now."
Two forms crept silently into the near empty hotel room, creeping adeptly to the beds where twin shapes lay huddled beneath a mass of blanket and sheet.
"You take Napoleon. I can handle Kuryakin. I know his weak spot," murmured the taller of the two.
"Please, do tell," said a voice behind them as the room's lights blazed on. Napoleon and Illya, dressed in all black, sat on the floor, backs against the wall, guns out and aimed.
Wayne Czitarone and Monroe Reduci exchanged worried glances. With all the trouble they had brought to these men, it was just possible that they might pull the triggers.
"Hi, guys," Czitarone held up his hands in mock surrender. "It wouldn't look good to have our deaths on your records. Think of the explanation you'd have to give the Old Man."
"He'd probably give us a medal," Illya countered, keeping his weapon steady.
"We won't kill you." Napoleon assured, patting his hair into place as he stood. "We want you alive to stand trial by a group of your peers."
"No way!" Reduci burst out. "I want a fair trial."
"All's fair in peace and war." Illya rose slowly.
"Love, Illya, love and war," Napoleon corrected gently.
"Exactly." Illya walked closer to the taller Czitarone. "Now, Wayne, I want you to tell me how you know my weak spot. I wasn't aware that I had one."
Czitarone backed up until he was stopped by the wall, his hands resting upon his black hair in the classic submissive posture. "C'mon Illya, have a little consideration for the hotel guests around you."
"There must always be fatalities in war and usually the innocent suffer the most. I shall try to be efficient and break your neck as quietly as possible."
"Napoleon!" Czitarone pleaded with the American. "Call him off!"
Reduci regarded them and then Napoleon. "Okay, so maybe things did get slightly out of hand, but we couldn't stand having you guys just sit around and let your talent go to waste. You guys were spoiling for a little fun, but you put a bomb in our car. You could have killed us.
"Had I wanted you dead, Monroe, dead you would be and I would not have resorted to a bomb to do it. Killing is much more satisfying when done with that personal touch."
"We were just having a little fun with you two—payback for all that crap in Sydney. You have to admit, we were due some revenge, right?"
Reduci glanced over at his partner and nodded. "Right!"
Abruptly, Illya found himself with an armful of Australia's finest, but the fight was over almost before it started. While all four had similar training and skill, Napoleon had the advantage of more experience over the two and Illya had his wiriness and agility.
Illya clamped his foot down upon the back of the man's neck and twisted an arm behind him. "From this position I can either break your neck or dislocate your shoulder. Any preferences?"
"All right!" Czitarone closed his eyes against the pressure. "We surrender...completely."
"No more tricks for the duration of our stay?" Napoleon had Reduci in a vise grip, the man's arm jammed up between his shoulder blades. He enjoyed the feeling of the man's arm trembling from the strain upon it.
"Spy's honor."
"There's no such thing," Napoleon allowed, relaxing his hold. Illya was less willing to release his prisoner, but Napoleon slapped a shoulder and, reluctantly, Illya permitted the Australian to scramble away.
"Damn," Czitarone breathed, rubbing his neck. "Now I know why they write all that stuff about you guys on the bathroom walls."
"They write about us in the bathroom? That's reassuring," Napoleon muttered. "No more tricks or I will let Illya have you," he warned, dusting off his hands. "And believe me; when I say what you saw was him not even getting warmed up."
"Until you board your plane tomorrow, there will be no more funny stuff."
"Good." Napoleon slapped his hands together. "Now, let's go see if we can find a bar that's still open."
"I know where there's a great Chinese restaurant. Not much to look at, but the food's great."
"Fine, but you have to drive—the Hilo police impounded our car," Reduci said, brushing off his hands.
"No problem; it'll be nice to know where you are for a change."
Napoleon leaned over Illya's lap and glanced out the plane's window at the two men waving and smiling.
"They're certainly happy to see us go. Maybe Mr. Waverly will have an actual assignment when we get back...as long as it's not with those two..." Napoleon's voice trailed off.
"What's wrong?" Illya looked up from buckling himself in.
"Those two...they've got suitcases...OUR suitcases!" Napoleon began to rise from his seat, but Illya's hand caught him.
"Be calm, old friend. I figured they were good for one more, so I sent our clothes on ahead. They'll be waiting for us in New York."
"So that's where you were last night after you left us."
"Among other things, desk clerks can be very...accommodating when offered the proper incentive."
"Hence the smug expression this morning, but won't the suitcases feel light?"
"Not with as much explosive as I've loaded them with. It should be quite an experience for them when they try to open them." Illya leaned back and closed his eyes. "Wake me when we land in SFO."
Napoleon settled back into the seat and clasped the ends of the armrests for a long moment. What an affair this had turned out to be. He still couldn't believe that they were finally heading home. Just to reassure himself, he started to lean over Illya to gaze out the window again. Unfortunately, the sleeves of his jacket wouldn't come with him. Puzzled, he tugged, but they remained fastened to the armrests.
"Oh, Illya?" He looked up into a pair of smoldering blue eyes and noticed that Illya was suffering a similar fate with his windbreaker. "What is it they say about the last laugh?"
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