Entry tags:
The End - For Sinthia
(Takes place one week after this entry. http://red-peril.dreamwidth.org/2504.html)
He tucked his shirt into his pants, the bulletproof vest with it's squib packs of blood in place. Illya didn't even have time to text Sinthia to let her know that the conclusion of the mission was happening now. His handlers had intercepted him on his way to work as he stopped to get coffee that morning before heading to Ivan's restaurant.
"Are you ready for this, Kuryakin?" his FBI handler asked. Amanda was a petite older woman. She was just over five foot and had to crane her neck to look up at the very tall Russian agent.
"Da," he said curtly, adjusting his tie and putting on his jacket. The new thin fabric bulletproof vest was well hidden beneath his clothes. "Are you sure this is going to work?"
"Nervous?" She asked, her cool green eyes searched his face for any trace of anxiety.
"I would be fool not to be," he told her. His face unreadable. "Listen if anything happens to me," he said pulling a hastily written note out of his pocket, "Get this to Sinthia, please." When she was about to protest, he continued, "She knows about the mission, I already told you that. Sinthia won't do anything to compromise it. And this only goes to her if something happens to me. If everything goes as planned, you can just throw it away."
"Just be careful in there, handsome. Don't make me have to deliver this," she said to the FSB agent as she slipped the letter into her bag.
With that he put his gun in its shoulder holster, buttoned his jacket, and stepped out of the trailer. It was parked in a vacant parking lot behind the coffee shop. Illya went in the back door, ordered coffee and by 7:00 am he was at Ivan's side as the old man picked up his grandchildren to take them to school. The rest of the day went fairly routinely.
"The Chechens new leader wants to meet," Ivan announced. "This afternoon. In a neutral location," Ivan said, amused. There was no such thing as a neutral location in New York. As it was, they would meet at a warehouse on the dock in Brighton Beach. There had been squabbling among the Chechens faction of the Vor since Anatoli, their previous leader, had been assassinated earlier in the week. Apparently some sort of truce seemed to be in order. The new man was wanting to heal old wounds between the two Vor factions.
They arrived at the warehouse exactly on time, Illya getting out of the car ahead of Ivan, as usual. Illya recognized the old warehouse. It was not the first time it had been used as a meet. It was strangely deserted. A single shipping container was sitting in the middle of the warehouse floor. "Wait," Drawing his weapon, Illya checked around the container and there was no one.
"There is no one here. Something is wrong," he said looking around the dark warehouse. He returned to Ivan's side. This was supposed to be a routine meeting and yet the Chechen were not here. "It feels like an ambush, boss. You need to get out of here."
Taking his advice, the old man headed back toward his limousine. Just as he was about to get in, a bullet zinged off the door frame and Illya shoved Ivan inside the back seat of the car. "Stay down! Drive!"
Everything after that seemed to happen in slow motion. Illya knew he would be hit, that was the plan. He turned to return fire but didn't have a chance. Of course, that was when the Chechens decided to join the party.
Three bullets slammed into his chest exploding the squibs and making it look as though he had been fatally hit. But even with the bulletproof vest on, it felt like someone hit him with a sledge hammer. Gasping for air, Illya slumped back against the open door of the car.
But the Chechen didn't know the shots weren't being fired in their direction and they opened up on Ivan's car. He felt another searing pain as a slug tore through his thigh. Two more shots hit him in the chest and the shoulder. He felt like he was falling in slow motion as the car moved away and he collapsed just as another bullet struck him, this time in the head. He had no idea if Ivan managed to escape the authorities or if the task force had caught him. Everything went black.
~~~~~~~~~~
Under the circumstances, Amanda didn't think that just a note dropped off at Ms. Schmidt's workplace was sufficient. At least, she wouldn't want to get such a note in the mail with no explanation if her boyfriend had been the one who had been critically injured. She went against orders to track Sinthia down and headed to the auction house where she worked.
"Ms. Schmidt? I'm afraid need you to come with me." Amanda Bergen told her, as she showed the woman her FBI credentials.
He tucked his shirt into his pants, the bulletproof vest with it's squib packs of blood in place. Illya didn't even have time to text Sinthia to let her know that the conclusion of the mission was happening now. His handlers had intercepted him on his way to work as he stopped to get coffee that morning before heading to Ivan's restaurant.
"Are you ready for this, Kuryakin?" his FBI handler asked. Amanda was a petite older woman. She was just over five foot and had to crane her neck to look up at the very tall Russian agent.
"Da," he said curtly, adjusting his tie and putting on his jacket. The new thin fabric bulletproof vest was well hidden beneath his clothes. "Are you sure this is going to work?"
"Nervous?" She asked, her cool green eyes searched his face for any trace of anxiety.
"I would be fool not to be," he told her. His face unreadable. "Listen if anything happens to me," he said pulling a hastily written note out of his pocket, "Get this to Sinthia, please." When she was about to protest, he continued, "She knows about the mission, I already told you that. Sinthia won't do anything to compromise it. And this only goes to her if something happens to me. If everything goes as planned, you can just throw it away."
"Just be careful in there, handsome. Don't make me have to deliver this," she said to the FSB agent as she slipped the letter into her bag.
With that he put his gun in its shoulder holster, buttoned his jacket, and stepped out of the trailer. It was parked in a vacant parking lot behind the coffee shop. Illya went in the back door, ordered coffee and by 7:00 am he was at Ivan's side as the old man picked up his grandchildren to take them to school. The rest of the day went fairly routinely.
"The Chechens new leader wants to meet," Ivan announced. "This afternoon. In a neutral location," Ivan said, amused. There was no such thing as a neutral location in New York. As it was, they would meet at a warehouse on the dock in Brighton Beach. There had been squabbling among the Chechens faction of the Vor since Anatoli, their previous leader, had been assassinated earlier in the week. Apparently some sort of truce seemed to be in order. The new man was wanting to heal old wounds between the two Vor factions.
They arrived at the warehouse exactly on time, Illya getting out of the car ahead of Ivan, as usual. Illya recognized the old warehouse. It was not the first time it had been used as a meet. It was strangely deserted. A single shipping container was sitting in the middle of the warehouse floor. "Wait," Drawing his weapon, Illya checked around the container and there was no one.
"There is no one here. Something is wrong," he said looking around the dark warehouse. He returned to Ivan's side. This was supposed to be a routine meeting and yet the Chechen were not here. "It feels like an ambush, boss. You need to get out of here."
Taking his advice, the old man headed back toward his limousine. Just as he was about to get in, a bullet zinged off the door frame and Illya shoved Ivan inside the back seat of the car. "Stay down! Drive!"
Everything after that seemed to happen in slow motion. Illya knew he would be hit, that was the plan. He turned to return fire but didn't have a chance. Of course, that was when the Chechens decided to join the party.
Three bullets slammed into his chest exploding the squibs and making it look as though he had been fatally hit. But even with the bulletproof vest on, it felt like someone hit him with a sledge hammer. Gasping for air, Illya slumped back against the open door of the car.
But the Chechen didn't know the shots weren't being fired in their direction and they opened up on Ivan's car. He felt another searing pain as a slug tore through his thigh. Two more shots hit him in the chest and the shoulder. He felt like he was falling in slow motion as the car moved away and he collapsed just as another bullet struck him, this time in the head. He had no idea if Ivan managed to escape the authorities or if the task force had caught him. Everything went black.
~~~~~~~~~~
Under the circumstances, Amanda didn't think that just a note dropped off at Ms. Schmidt's workplace was sufficient. At least, she wouldn't want to get such a note in the mail with no explanation if her boyfriend had been the one who had been critically injured. She went against orders to track Sinthia down and headed to the auction house where she worked.
"Ms. Schmidt? I'm afraid need you to come with me." Amanda Bergen told her, as she showed the woman her FBI credentials.
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First time for everything, indeed. She stood, putting the necklace and glass into a small velvet bag, slipping it into a locked drawer in her desk and taking a breath. "Is there something you need to fear?" she asked, stomach feeling tight. As much as she wanted to ask where Illya was, what had gone wrong, and simply tear off to find him, it wouldn't have done her much good, not with the window she'd likely have. If the FBI had gotten him killed through stupidity--or malice, she wouldn't count that out--there would be infinite amounts of hell to pay.
"What went wrong?"
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"What did you do to him?" she asked, voice simmering with controlled fury. "Is he alive?"
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As she followed the woman out of the building and back into the afternoon light of New York, she pulled her car keys out of her purse. "Which helipad are we going to?" She can promise, though it shouldn't be needed, that she can get there faster.
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This was exactly why she didn't like most government agencies, the ones who had traded her like a brainless object suitable for horrible tasks notwithstanding; most people involved int hat she had actively hunted down and killed. "He may be your friend. I respect that. He's something more to me."
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"Not unless you take rather extreme measures." The scars dotted in nonsense patterns over her scalp told that much.
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It wasn't that she personally thought Amanda herself was a fool, though this wasn't much raising her opinion of the woman. But if she, who had far less money and resources to expend on keeping up with the movements of international criminals, could keep up, why a federal organization couldn't was beyond her. "You haven't upgraded to the armor with STF yet?"
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"Define 'just a scratch'."
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"You first," she said, distracted but following Amanda; the flight was thankfully short, because Sinthia wasn't thinking about anything but getting to Illya.
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She didn't even break stride as she went through the doors to the ICU, focused and formidable.
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The man lying in the bed didn't much resemble the formidable Russian agent that she knew. With all the equipment around him, he looked small, vulnerable and pale. His normally pale Northern complexion was even paler and slightly gray. Nasal cannula pumped oxygen into his nose; there were a couple different IVs, one feeding plasma into his system through the artery in his arm, the other wasn't immediately identifiable; the left side of his face was swollen and bruised, his eye nearly swollen shut and a bandage covering from his eye to just above his ear; his other arm was stabilized and kept immobile by a splint that went from his knuckles clear up to his shoulder which was heavily bandaged; and he lay so very still.
After a moment, a doctor and the hospital's medical director came into the room, "Miss... I'm sorry you can't be in here right now."
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She slipped her hand into the one of his not encumbered by a splint, rubbing her thumb very gently over his knuckles as she schooled her breathing. "What did you get yourself into, ptichka?" she asked softly, more to herself than actually expecting Illya to answer, since she certainly wasn't addressing anyone else in the room. Not until she turned around, anyway.
"What's his condition and prognosis?"
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"He came through the surgery on his shoulder very well," the doctor started, keeping his voice low out of habit. "Even with the amount of blood loss he suffered. We're giving him extra blood products to try and give him a better chance of healing. The rest of it is really superficial. Broken ribs, the bullet wound to the side of his face, and one through his thigh were easily patched. At the moment, he's in a coma. Which is serious, but not as bad as it sounds. People always think the worst when they hear that, but really, it's the body's way of protecting itself and giving itself time to heal. He make wake up in a few hours or a few days," he explained. "He'll initially have limited movement with his right shoulder and he'll have to go through physical therapy to increase that. He's got several things going for him, he is very physically fit and he's young."
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She knew her own version of the medical language, yes. Having put people into hospitals, and taken them out, for many years it was impossible to remain ignorant of it and still do a good job. "He;ll need a cane at first." She'd had her knee broken once, she knew how the recovery went.
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The damage to the shoulder would be a lengthy process to fix, though. "He plays music."
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