The End - For Sinthia

[red_peril]

(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.

Comments

[red_peril]

"I know he does. That's also why I came in person rather than dropping that note in your mailbox," Amanda hadn't planned on talking to her in the back of the cab. Closing the door, she waved him off. "We'll take your car then." She walked up to Sinthia. "I was the first person the big lug told about you. He wasn't supposed to fall in love."

[abyssum_invocat]

"It's not really something you can plan against," she said, sliding into the driver's seat and checking the rear mirror before tearing off; she was an excellent driver and didn't worry about the traffic around her, trusting the other drivers would gt out of the way.

"Not unless you take rather extreme measures." The scars dotted in nonsense patterns over her scalp told that much.

[red_peril]

"Yeah, I know," she said with a faraway look in her eyes. Amanda wasn't the least bit worried about her driving. She'd been with worse. On high speed chases. "Personally." Amanda had married another agent, so she was very sympathetic to Sinthia, even if the other woman was a little too angry to tell. "Illya is not an expendable asset. He was only supposed to take a couple of hits in a kevlar vest and pretend to be dead. No one told him he had to be quite so dramatic. But then we weren't expecting the Chechens to actually show up."

[abyssum_invocat]

"That was a stupid mistake," Sinthia said, halfway to a vaguely disgusted laugh. "They're Chechen Vor, what did you think they were going to do, send a note with tea and halva? Anatoli isn't properly cold yet, they weren't going to miss a meet with the Russians for half the gold in the Orient."

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?"

[red_peril]

"Yes, it was," Amanda hadn't had a say in this mission. But she wasn't going to make excuses either. It was a disaster. "We did use the new STF and Kevlar armor. The bullets till would have left bruises just from the force of the impact. And it doesn't cover everything. He was hit in a few places that weren't planned. His right shoulder was the worst of it and I believe that's what they're doing surgery on. But Illya also had a through and through wound to his thigh and one to his head which was just a scratch."

[abyssum_invocat]

Sinthia didn't respond to the list of injuries, while she was glad they were so relatively few; still, the right side of the chest was a bad spot for injuries given the proximity to the heart, and her frustration showed in her picking up speed as they got closer to the helipad. It was turning slowly from anger on her pert to tangible worry, and she fidgeted incessantly, tapping her fingers on the wheel when they were stopped before she could get out. She needed to take a few deep breaths, but the time that would need seemed too precious to take right then.

"Define 'just a scratch'."

[red_peril]

When the car stopped, Amanda could see Sinthia's worry. "The bullet just grazed the side of his head, luckily," she pointed to a place just above her right ear. "Any head impact is significant, but it didn't fracture his skull." She thought about making a joke about the Russian agent's thick headedness, but decided against it. "The flight will only be about forty minutes. We should hurry." She got out of the car and headed for the helipad where a helicopter waited for them.

[abyssum_invocat]

There was a fraction of a second where Sinthia flexed her fingers around the steering wheel, breathing deeply at the news that it hadn't fractured the skull; she knew all too well how easy it was to do that without the force of a bullet.

"You first," she said, distracted but following Amanda; the flight was thankfully short, because Sinthia wasn't thinking about anything but getting to Illya.

[red_peril]

When the copter landed, they were met by another agent, a young man. He escorted them down a single flight of stairs and to the lift. "He's out of surgery and has been moved to ICU," he reported. He took them directly to the Intensive Care Unit. "They won't let anyone in to see him yet."

[abyssum_invocat]

"Get me the dean of the hospital," Sinthia said, not angrily but firmly. "Because I'm seeing him. Poke me later if you want for proof, I have nothing he can catch. I'm seeing him."

She didn't even break stride as she went through the doors to the ICU, focused and formidable.

[red_peril]

"Miss! You can't go in there!" The nurse protested. Amanda intercepted her so that she couldn't attempt to stop Sinthia.

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."

[abyssum_invocat]

"Since I already am, you're already wrong about that," she answered absently, standing and not taking her eyes off Illya, as if memorizing the injuries and cataloguing them for some unknown purpose. Her brows creased, normally clear blue and brown eyes flicking back and forth from his face, bruised and relaxed by sedatives and bandaged, to the monitor showing his vital signs.

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?"

[red_peril]

"Are you a relative, miss?" the doctor was asking when she turned to demand his prognosis. From the look on her face, it was clear that she wasn't going to take no for an answer no matter who she was.

"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."

[abyssum_invocat]

"Did you induce the coma or did he slip into it naturally?" she asked, masking the tremor of fear that shrugged its way up her spine when he'd said it first. "I assume no punctures of the intercostal muscles, since he's not ventilated."

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.

[red_peril]

The doctor was a little surprised that she obviously had some medical knowledge. "It was natural, but we're encouraging him to stay unconscious for a while. Just to give him more healing time. The fractures in his ribs were luckily minor. It will be very sore for a while and breathing will hurt the first few days. I don't think he will actually need a cane. The thigh wound was only in the muscular tissue. It didn't go through the femur or damage any connective tissue. It will just be painful as it heals and he should be able to bear his weight on it. The shoulder wound was unfortunately, not as lucky. Broken clavicle, tear to the rotator cuff and fractured scapula. It's going to take a long time to heal and may require further surgeries. He'll have to be very careful of that shoulder while it heals. He doesn't play sports, does he?"

[abyssum_invocat]

"No," she murmured, looking at his shoulder while the doctor described the major problems with it. "He doesn't play any sports."

The damage to the shoulder would be a lengthy process to fix, though. "He plays music."

[red_peril]

"That's good," At least he wouldn't be re-injuring it playing football or baseball. "We'll be sure to pass that on to the physical therapist. Eventually, if he recovers most of the movement of his shoulder, he'll be playing music again. It's going to take some time and a lot of practice to rebuild the muscle without straining it." It would probably take a year or more and a lot of hard work and patience to recover. Illya had a long road to recovery waiting for him and patience was not something he had a great deal of.

[abyssum_invocat]

"More than a year?" she asks, tilting her head but not looking away from Illya where he lay. "I'm staying with him here. Until he gets moved to a room."

[red_peril]

"It could be. If he doesn't need any further surgery and he doesn't push it too hard so that he reinjures it, it could take as little as six months." For a rotator cuff injury that was the best prognosis he could give. "That's perfectly fine. I'll have someone bring a chair in for you." ICU wasn't set up for visitors. "I'll also get him referrals for a specialist and a physical therapist."

"I would like to meet with you later," the administrator added before leaving. She had the doctor's permission to be there, it would do nothing useful to argue with her. The doctor told her he would be back in a few hours to check on the patient and also left. A few minutes after they departed, a nurse brought a chair in for Sinthia.

"I'm Bruce, duty nurse for the ICU tonight," the man introduced himself to her. "If you need anything, don't hesitate to ask. Its a slow day and your friend is the only patient here tonight."

[abyssum_invocat]

"I'm sure you would," Sinthia said, the only direct comment she gave the administrator, indeed the only affirmation she gave the man that she acknowledged his existence. Sinthia didn't react much to the doctor's notice that he'd be back in a few hours, but when Bruce came in she accepted the chair, watching Illya's monitor.

"Thank you," she murmured. "I need to make some phone calls, but thank you. I should be able to get whatever I need." She'd need to call her boss, and make sure someone would take care of her dog for the next day or two; all those things done the adrenaline rush wore off, and she curled up in the chair, shoes kicked off neatly under the seat, lacing her hand through Illya's unresponsive fingers, listening to the beep of the machine monitoring his oxygen levels and heart rate. She hummed a Russian lullaby tune gently as she sat with him, waiting for him to wake up.

[red_peril]

A few days later, he finally awoke. Consciousness came slowly to him. His eyes opened to slits and it took him a while to realize that he was in a hospital. He tried to move his arms and couldn't manage it. He was in some sort of cast. Everything hurt. Though he could feel a hand holding the fingers of his left hand. Illya couldn't turn his head in that direction, but he moved his eyes that way and saw Sinthia sleeping with her head on his bed.

"Sinthia?..." His throat was dry and his voice was little more than a raspy whisper and he squeezed her fingers again and tried to speak louder. "Sinthia."

[abyssum_invocat]

She blinked awake at her name being murmured, and lifted her head towards Illya, not fully recognizing that he was awake yet, until she saw his face, and those eyes, and gave him a slow, sleepy but entirely happy smile.

"Hi soldier," she murmured. "I'm glad you're awake, love."

[red_peril]

Illya managed a weak smile. Blue eyes were slitted and a faded gray with pain. He tried to access the damage, but his mind was sluggish.

"Little water please?" He rasped. His tongue felt like dry leather and he didn't have any saliva to properly swallow with.

[abyssum_invocat]

She reached for the water cup that had been on the table mostly for her, and lifted it to his lips as she got up from the chair. "You've been out for a few days, Illya. Apparently you're an overachiever," she managed to tease.

"Amanda came to get me from work. I've been here since you arrived."

[red_peril]

He sipped carefully at the water when she offered it to him. Illya was tempted to gulp it, he was so thirsty, but he tried to control himself. When he spoke again, his voice was a little better, "What do you mean?"