"No...*not* Napoleon...Please!" The words were a softly hissed prayer to the
God
that Ilya had been taught not to believe in. For a moment that seemed to
last
forever, he was frozen with indecision -but then his training took over and
he
was moving. Even as he ran, bullets nipped at his heels, sending bits and
pieces of tile and plaster into the air. //Damn!// the Russian cursed
silently.
Whoever the sharpshooter was, he was good -very good. That one had almost
hit him. And where was Napoleon!? He had heard neither his voice nor the
retort of his weapon in the last few minutes.

Illya rolled behind a decorative statue -breathing space. His mysterious
assailant had the advantage -whoever he was *he* had a perfect view of
his target...a lone Russian agent who had come to the grim realisation that
he was pinned down. Illya checked his weapon -one shot left. He aimed in
what he believed was the direction of the source of the hail of bullets.

But he did not get a chance to shoot.

There was the familiar retort of an UNCLE Special and a darkly garbed
suddenly tumbled from a shadow-cloaked area on the balcony that
had been his target. Trained though he was, Illya's stomach lurched
with nausea at the sickening crunch and the thick metallic odor as
the body hit the marbled floor.

"Now what would you do if I wasn't here?" A slightly rumpled Napoleon
said with a soft, chiding grin.

"I..." Illya's cheeks flushed with overwhelming relief. "I...hope not to
find out...Tovarisch." Swallowing his embarrassment at being so open
about his feelings, Illya crouched over the crumpled, bloodied body
and pulled at the mask, covering the face. He started with surprise.
A...woman!? And strangely familiar, but he could not quite place--
"Napoleon, come look at this." No answer. He looked up. "Napoleon..?"

The elder agent's expression was one of blank bewilderment as he
brought his hand away from the left side of his chest -the fingers were
wet with blood. "Well...Hell..."

Napoleon collapsed.

---

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