New story :) Sequel to Unhappy customer, A simple mission, really and Dans la gueule du loup

I hope you'll enjoy this one :)

Here is the design for Théo Devanne (I created an updated album for this story): "https":"/""/""ibb".co"/"album"/"gykrVa (just remove the "")


Unknown location, Asher's p.o.v.


He should be here soon...

Asher Marshall sat up on the narrow, uncomfortable bed and, for the umpteenth time, scanned the tiny room for something he could use as a weapon. The only piece of furniture was the bed and it was bolted to the floor. Even his toothbrush was secured to the wall with a chain.

What would you do with it, anyway? Poke the guy in the eye? Brush his teeth to death?...

The small piece of plastic wasn't nearly sharp enough to cause any serious damage. Asher sighed and looked up at the security camera set in the ceiling. They were watching him, anyway, and he knew that they would instantly notice any suspicious behavior on his part. In a way, he was rather counting on their swift reaction... He looked down at the long chain which connected the manacle around his left wrist to a heavy iron ring in the wall. With no other weapon readily available, this would have to do. Hopefully, he had recovered enough to be able to hold his own in a fight. His captors had taken surprisingly good care of him and most of his injuries had healed nicely. Apparently – for some obscure reason – they were determined to keep him alive and in relatively good shape. That was another thing he was counting on. They had kept him sedated for most of his recovery, then he had been transferred to his "cell". His ribs were still painful. His arm, too. His captors kindly provided pills, which he supposed were painkillers, with his daily meal, but he never touched them. He remembered all too well what had happened the last time he had been "offered" a pill, the sudden, terrifying numbness... He didn't know exactly what type of drug the French guy had given him, but one thing he knew for certain was that he never wanted to experience that sensation again. He suddenly heard footsteps in the corridor outside his cell.

Here he comes. Hopefully it's not soup...

After a few seconds, the hatch at the bottom of the door opened and a tray slid through the opening. He had to suppress a smile as he noticed the piece of bread. It looked stale and was the perfect prop for what he had in mind.

And now for his next trick, ladies and gentlemen, Marshall the Magnificent is going to...choke. On a piece of stale bread...

Granted, it probably wasn't the strongest contender for best plan of the year, but it was all he had managed to come up with in order to lure the guard into his cell. If his captors really wanted him to stay alive, they would send the guy in. The guard would have to come close in order to help him, then Asher would overpower him, get his hands on the key which opened the manacle around his wrist, take the man's gun, and get the hell out of here before the other guards arrived. A walk in the park. What could possibly go wrong...

Everything?...

It suddenly occurred to him how awkward it would be if no one came. What would he do? Continue pretending that he was dying for a while, then lie down on the floor and never move again? Or simply get up as if nothing had happened and get back to staring at the wall while trying really hard to hide his embarrassment? Oh well, it was worth a try, and he was more than ready to risk making a fool of himself if there was a chance that he could get out of this cell. He was not particularly claustrophobic, but the prospect of being cooped up in this tiny room for an indeterminate amount of time – with a chained toothbrush as his only cellmate and a toilet flush as his sole distraction – was unappealing, to say the least.

Okay, Asher, time to show off your acting skills...

First, drink up all the water. He would have nothing to wash down the dry bread and it would make the scene more plausible. Okay, now the bread. Remember, grab your throat, wide, panicked eyes, pretend you can't breathe. That part would be easy. He had plenty of experience in the not-being-able-to-breathe department. His mind flashed back to his recent brush with death at Blake's hands, that agonizing moment when he had realized he would never take another breath. He chased the thought away and grabbed the piece of bread. He took one giant bite of the very stale bread, chewed painstakingly, swallowed... and almost choked on it.

Seriously?!...

He wanted to make it look real, but not that real. He finally managed to swallow the traitorous mouthful and took a second – smaller – bite. There would be no "part two" of the plan if he actually choked to death like an idiot.

All right, let's do this...

As Asher fell to his knees after what had seemed like an eternity, clutching his throat and opening and closing his mouth in a glorious imitation of a stranded fish, he finally heard the door being unlocked and aggressively flung open. The guard rushed in, roughly pulled him up and immediately wrapped his arms around Asher's waist, suddenly reminding him about his painful ribs.

Oh shit, that's going to hurt...

No sooner had this thought crossed his mind than the guard started squeezing his abdomen. Asher bit back a cry of pain and made an effort to let himself go limp in the guard's grasp. He really wanted the man to believe that he was completely helpless and on the verge of passing out. The guard cursed loudly as he struggled to hold him up and, just as he was about to administer another abdominal thrust, Asher suddenly straightened up, threw his head back and head-butted him in the nose. The man let out a satisfying "aargh" and the painful pressure on Asher's midsection disappeared. He immediately turned around and saw the man holding his nose with one hand and reaching for his gun with the other. Crap. He grabbed the guard's gun hand as he was raising it and rammed his knee into the man's gut, as hard as he could. He heard the gun clatter away as the man gasped and doubled over. Phew. Asher quickly stepped around the guard, kicked him behind the knees and pulled him close as he went down. He used his left arm to wrap the chain around the man's neck and pulled it tight. As he waited for the man to lose consciousness, he began frantically searching his pockets with his other hand.

Where are those damn keys?...

He froze as he suddenly became aware of running footsteps just outside the cell. Too late.

Dammit!...

He turned toward the door just as several men – too many for him to fight off alone – barged into the small room. Before he could even begin to contemplate his next move, something hit him in the torso and an intense wave of pain coursed through him. Asher fell down as his muscles contracted uncontrollably. It only lasted for a few seconds. A few very unpleasant seconds. Then the pain was gone, as quickly as it had come. Before he could push himself up to his knees, two guards grabbed him and pulled him to his feet. He gasped as he felt his right arm being painfully twisted behind his back.

"Hmm on dirait que notre petit dur-à-cuire de la CIA a repris du poil de la bête. C'est Wilfred qui va être content. / Hmm, apparently, our tough little CIA agent is feeling much better. Wilfred will be pleased to hear that."

The man in front of him was the one who had shot him with the electroshock weapon. Asher recognized him instantly, he was the green-eyed bastard who had watched with a smile as Cordier was suffocating him and forcing him to ingest the drug. The man stepped closer, reached for one of the barbs embedded in Asher's torso and yanked it out.

Ouch...Yet another ruined shirt...

He repeated the same process with the second barb, then he took a step back and gave Asher a cold smile.

"I suggest you make the most out of your time here, agent Marshall. You might soon find yourself missing the coziness and tranquility of your cell..."

That doesn't sound ominous at all... Oh well, it probably can't be worse than a fight to the death against Blake...


Murmansk, Russia, Illya's p.o.v.


Illya nervously glanced at his watch. Where the hell was everyone? For the fourth time he tried to contact the other members of the team, one after the other. Nothing. He glanced at the the tracking device. Their target and his interlocutor were still in the building. The transaction was underway. Everything was going according to plan. Everything... except for the fact that his colleagues seemed to have vanished into thin air. He sighed in frustration and checked his watch again. Fifteen minutes had elapsed since the last radio contact. That was definitely not a good sign. He was about to try the radio again when he noticed that the target had started moving. Illya cursed inwardly. Was their carefully planned mission really going to fail because those idiots didn't know how to use a radio? But deep down he knew that his colleagues' silence had nothing to do with their radio communication skills. Something had happened to the rest of the team. He shot another glance at the tracking device and hesitated. The wisest course of action was to abort the mission and get out of here. There was no way he would be able to overpower the targets and their henchmen alone. He would end up dead, or worse, be captured. Maybe the whole thing had been a trap from the beginning. Maybe his colleagues were all dead... Or maybe some of them were still alive and needed backup. According to his superiors' orders, Illya wasn't supposed to get out of this van, his role was strictly limited to surveillance and radio communications. He cursed again. Aloud, this time. Working with Cowboy and Gaby had definitely changed him. For the better or for the worse, he wasn't sure yet. But he was about to find out. He took off the headset and pulled his gun out of his shoulder holster. His handler was not going to be pleased. Since he had started working for the KGB again, he had had to constantly remind himself that his superiors were significantly less understanding and forgiving than Waverly.

You're becoming soft, Kuryakin...

That said, they probably wouldn't be pleased either if he let the targets escape and came back empty-handed. He opened the van sliding door and stepped out in the cold. At least, if he died, he wouldn't have to justify his disobedience.


End of chapter 1. :)