"Napoleon!" Kuryakin hissed loudly, his coat and hair drenched and dripping water down his face. The hotel's hallway light flickered behind him as his rasping voice continued, "Get up! Quickly! The hurricane watch is now a warning. We must evacuate!" He had turned and raced back down the long hall before Solo could form an answer, disappearing down the stairway out of his sight.

  The luminous dial of his watch read six fifteen in the morning. Solo grabbed his jacket, jammed his feet into the hiking boots, and gathered the few items they had removed from their packs. A curious glance at the next bed confirmed that Kuryakin had not slept in it and he wondered what the Russian had been doing all night. Lugging a backpack in each hand, he moved quickly into the hallway, the overhead lights dying out before he made it to the main floor. Power was cut, probably by the authorities in preparation for the hurricane.

  An emergency radio sat alone on the otherwise bare front counter, volume cranked, and an announcer's voice tight with tension read off instructions and danger zones. Dark indiscernible shapes moved in the back of the hotel lobby, then followed flashlights past him and out the front door that was slammed shut again by the force of the wind. Another bodiless voice, Pierre's, called out asking if anyone else was left in the building, then hurried past him, claimed the radio, and wrestled the door open. Solo dug his own torch out for a last check around the deserted room before venturing into the fierce storm that heralded the approaching hurricane.

  A line of cars had already formed, moving slowly, headlights on as they navigated down the center of the road. Their windshield wipers barely made headway on the lashing rain as they headed for the one bridge that connected the island to the mainland. As each one passed, the sheriff stopped them, peering into the vehicle and then scribbling into a notebook that he tried unsuccessfully to shield from the rain.

  Kuryakin appeared out of the darkness from one side of the porch and claimed his pack from Solo's grasp. "We can ride in the sheriff's truck," he yelled urgently into Napoleon's ear, his free hand wiping ineffectually at the streams of water running down his face, trying to push his plastered hair back off his eyes. "This way. Hurry!" he prodded, pushing the senior agent ahead of him.

  The pickup truck was parked in front of the next building, the bench seat in front already occupied by the sheriff's wife and the deputy, Carl Lerner, who was speaking into a CB microphone. Lerner had been in and out during their time in the restaurant the evening before, always in a rush to do what needed to be done, while his more relaxed boss seemed happier dealing with the people of the county. He reminded Napoleon of an ultra-conscientious, ultra-serious worker, who expected too much out of himself and constantly pushed himself beyond his limits. He reminded Napoleon of his own partner.

  Kuryakin moved around to the canopied back of the truck and unlatched the tailgate, lifted the hatch, and threw his pack in, then reached for Solo's and impatiently gestured for him to get in.

  Solo clambered into the cramped area, moving the packs further back. He turned to look over his shoulder when he heard the hatch fall and Illya hadn't joined him. Now where'd you go? His flashlight revealed supplies, blankets, ammunition, and a few suitcases. There was a spare tire and other equipment on one side. The tailgate was back in place, shutting out the rain, but the hatch was not locked. Damn it, Kuryakin. He felt useless, as he had so often the past few weeks. Illya was doing all the work, and he was out of the loop.

  The truck rocked suddenly and Napoleon squinted through the tiny window at the front of the canopy to see the sheriff getting in behind the wheel, slamming the door after him and reaching across his wife to take the radio microphone the deputy held out for him. It was obvious reception was bad for they played with the radio's dial and shook their heads.

  A moment later, the hatch lifted and Kuryakin hurled himself over the tail gate and locked the hatch. He then crawled over everything, Solo included, to pound on the front window. The sheriff gave a brief wave, handed the microphone back to his deputy, and the truck lurched ahead to join the end of the line.

  Only then did Illya turn around, kneeling on the packs and ice coolers and crowbars, one hand on the roof, trying to steady himself in the moving vehicle. "I think everyone is out," he whispered loudly, his voice probably shot, restless eyes trying to see out the small side window. "We banged on every door on the island to be sure."

  "Why didn't you ask me to help?" Solo reached into his pack, pulled out a towel, and handed it to his partner, but after a brief swipe at his wet face, Kuryakin only draped it around his neck.

  "Hmm?" He was still edgy, unable to sit still.

  "I could've helped. Why didn't you come get me? Where were you?"

  From the back, he could see Kuryakin shrug, but Illya would not look at him directly, moving from one side window to the other, then crawling back to the rear and double-checking the latch. "I was in the lobby when the warning was issued for this area. The sheriff said he needed help so I went up and got my coat. You were sleeping."

  "Some of us do that at night. Why weren't you?"

  "Not tired."

  Which is why you look like death warmed over, Napoleon thought, playing the flashlight over Illya's features for a moment before securing it upright between two boxes. At least it gave some light to their cramped quarters, instead of stranding them, isolated, at opposite ends of the cargo bed. "Did you pick up any information?"

  "For the case?" Illya turned and sat down finally, but still did not meet his eyes. "I believe so. An alarm sounded around three a.m. from the campground. A man in a boat was trying to tie up at the dock, and in the wind, was having problems. We all went out and threw a rope to him and hauled him in. Turns out, he was from the facility on Grande Terre. We got him inside and warmed him up, but I wasn't able to get close enough to him with the deputy right there. This man, Brown, has a car parked on the island and he wanted to head out right away. Seemed anxious to get to New Orleans. I believe he fits the criteria, and I've been trying to watch him. He was quite perturbed that the deputy wanted to know if the rest of the residents at the facility had evacuated. He said they were safe there, not to worry, and that—" Here the rasping voice gave out and Illya coughed uncontrollably for almost a minute, one hand at his throat, the other on his chest. It took another minute for him to recover his breath. "And that," he continued, as though there had been no interruption, "most of the workers had already been evacuated. I don't think he knows the area at all. He spent a good deal of time staring at the map of the area on the wall downstairs, and asked for directions and alternate routes." He leaned his head back and breathed deeply, his face lost in the shadows.

  "When was the last time you slept?"

  Kuryakin sat up and shrugged, looking out the rear window into the unbroken darkness.

  "You have to sleep."

  "When this is over."

  "Not good enough."

  The icy voice at the end of the pause was barely controlled. "What do you want from me?"

  "I want... I need this between us to be settled so we can get back on track. I need to talk with you."

  "You are. You have been all day."

  Napoleon shook his head. "I've been talking at you. I need to talk with you and you're not cooperating."

  Illya opened his mouth to deny the charge, then closed it tight and looked away again. "Speak, then."

  "Okay. I'll keep it brief. I want you to know that I still don't agree with what Waverly did. I've stated that to him, and to you, and there is nothing more I can do about it. You have stated your opinion of the matter, and I will respect that and not ask you to agree with me. I only ask you to listen to me."

  "Which means to agree with you." There was no bitterness in his voice, although the words portrayed it. Rather, there was no emotion whatever.

  "No, it doesn't mean that." Napoleon leaned forward when he saw that Illya was not convinced. "As your partner, it's vital that you are aware of my concerns, whether or not you agree with them. As my friend, I would like to know I can talk to you about things, without you feeling pressured to agree. Just listen. Be that sounding board I need, personally and professionally. You have the right to choose what you believe. I have fought for you to have that freedom, and that doesn't give me, or anyone else, the right to take it away from you or criticize you for what you believe or what choices you have made. I apologize. I pushed too far and you pushed back. There are going to be things that we don't see eye to eye on and we will have to simply agree to disagree on these matters."

  "But I do not agree with you," Illya argued, his voice low. "How can we work together?"

  "I don't need you to agree with me. Just listen to me. Tell me what you think, if you want to. But don't close down on me."

  You are closing down on me. Napoleon watched his partner withdraw from the conversation. Illya stared out the rain-blurred rear window, arms crossed over his chest, the towel around his shoulders absorbing the water from his hair and face. It was impossible to tell if he was thinking about what the senior agent had said, or was stubbornly refusing to believe him. Napoleon felt his own anger surge and slammed his fist into the pack beside him. I don't have time for this, Kuryakin. He twisted and looked out the tiny window behind his back, then over to his silent partner, and then pulled out his transceiver and tried to make contact with New Orleans.

  * * * * *

  The truck was on the unprotected bridge now and shook as the wind blasted it, skittering it across the road as the driver fought to keep control. From his cramped perch on the ice cooler, arms around himself to stop his body from shaking from chill, Illya Kuryakin stared out the rain-smeared window, and tried to numb himself to his discomfort and his surroundings. And to Napoleon Solo.

  His thoughts roared unstoppable through his tired body, and he finally shut his eyes in an effort to control the trembling. He was drenched through every layer of clothing, the wind seeping through the truck canopy cracks and chilling him further. That Napoleon was dry and rested both cheered and irritated him, for both were of his own doing. He could have called Napoleon earlier, solicited his welcome help, knowing the CEA would never have refused to aid in the crisis at the dock. Instead, he had left Napoleon to sleep, unable—unwilling—to waken him.

  And a man almost died because of it. They could have used an extra hand.

  Yes, he reasoned, it was highly probable that the man was a Thrush agent and it was highly probable that the man was guilty of enough crimes that death was a fitting punishment. But, highly probable is not enough for a jury, even a jury of one.

  He could see in the window's reflection that Napoleon was speaking into the transceiver, but he couldn't hear what the senior agent was saying over the howling winds outside, and with the tiny speaker pressed up against the CEA's ear, no chance whatsoever of listening in on the conversation. Illya glanced over at his partner once, but the dark eyes were fixed on him, and the Russian looked away.

  I don't know what to say to him. I never know what to say.

  Jump, his stepfather would say, and he would jump from the dock into the open arms. But midair, he would see the spread arms close and Zadkine would turn away. Illya would fall into the water, struggling to stay afloat, choking on the lake's freezing water. Let that be a lesson, Zadkine would say. Never trust. Only jump when you have no other choice and be prepared to die.

  He had learned the lesson well.

  The canopy shifted suddenly, straining the tie-downs, almost lifting off the back of the truck. Illya sat up, holding tight to the interior handle of the hatch. It was impossible to see outside, the rain falling in a dark sheet around them. The truck lurched to one side, brakes frantically trying to grab the roadway. The sheriff battled with the wheel, finally bringing the vehicle to a trembling stop, sideways across the edge of the road. He opened the driver's door, only to have the massive gust of wind rip the door from its hinges, the flying metal disappearing into the night with a dreadful scream.

  They were at a crossroads, a gas station diagonal to a tavern. The descending road before them was already flooded. Kuryakin lifted the hatch of the canopy, ducking back as it slammed shut, almost catching his hand. It took both men to push against the gale force wind and let Kuryakin escape the back of the truck. The blond agent stepped into the lake of water swirling around his calves, and held on to the tailgate until the wind died down a bit.

  Barely discernible ahead in the murky blackness was a half-submerged car on the sloping highway, one hundred feet from them, water flowing into its open windows. Another car was wedged up behind it. Pierre, the owner of the hotel, was already perched on the roof of the second car, while an Isle man Kuryakin recognized, Denis Bernard, tried to convince the older businessman to seek safety elsewhere. The heavily muscled Bernard was the campground caretaker, and he had played a crucial role in the early morning rescue at the dock. While he still argued with Pierre, Bernard reached back into the second car and hauled Brown out from behind the wheel. The supposed government worker anxiously looked around at the blocked roadway, and Kuryakin allowed himself a brief private smile as he turned away to reclaim his backpack from Solo.

  The sheriff slid from his doorless truck, pulling his wife after him. Her dress was plastered to her body as they waded through the foaming stream to the tavern on the high side of the road. She slipped and fell, her husband dragging her upright and half-carrying her to the covered porch, joining four other stranded travelers, most likely the owners of the first half-submerged car, a couple and their two young children, who huddled beneath the meager shelter.

  Lerner, Lafitte's deputy, had been working on breaking into the deserted roadside tavern, and he finally succeeded. He checked it out quickly, then returned to help the other men pull supplies from the truck.

  Over his shoulder, through the curtain of rain, Kuryakin monitored the progress of Bernard as the solid man led the other two from the deepening water. Pierre clung to Bernard as they made their way toward higher ground, with Brown bringing up the rear. The press of the water was strong, and they walked slowly through the hip-deep stream. Brown was wary not only of the water, but also of Bernard, already well aware of the strength of both during the tug-of-war Bernard had waged against the ocean on his behalf a few hours previous.

  The sheriff's truck shifted as the water pushed. Solo jumped from the back, staring at the truck as though it were some wild thing ready to attack him that he would dearly like to shoot. He retrieved their packs instead, grabbed the stack of blankets, only partially dry now, and stomped his way to the open door of the tavern. Kuryakin followed with the ice cooler and its supply of drinking water, trailed by the deputy with the ammunition and medical supplies.

  "Denis—shut the door there as soon as you're all in. Fasten the dead bolt." The sheriff took charge efficiently, obviously versed in emergency procedures. "We aren't going to get any further than this right now, so we better bunker down and see what we can do about outlasting the hurricane. I've checked this place out and it has a fair chance of standing, although the southern wall is not protected. The power was turned off long enough ago that the beer cooler will be suitable for some of us to take cover in. Mabel," he said to his wife, "I want you and this lady here to go pull out all the bottles from the cooler—we don't want any glass in there to get tossed around. You can settle your children in there, ma'am. You, sir, and you, Pierre and Denis, please assist them. Carry out the heavier boxes." The children's father and the hotel owner obeyed without question. "Now we've got to clear out enough space for the rest of us." He gestured to the long bar that ran along the western wall. "There's room under the counter. It's sturdy and will offer more shelter from the wind then if we tried to take refuge elsewhere. Carl and Brown, I want you both to take a look around upstairs and see if there are any flashlights, medical supplies, or bedding there." The deputy motioned the other man to go ahead of him, and they disappeared up the stairs. Lafitte fixed his stare on Kuryakin and Solo as the others moved about to follow his instructions. "You, I want to talk to. Over here."

  He drew his gun on the U.N.C.L.E. agents before either could respond. "Keep your hands in plain sight, Kuryakin. Now, I know you've been plenty help to us already, but I've got to ask you: Do you have a permit for that weapon, boy?" The gun didn't waver as he kept it steadily pointed at the Russian agent.

  Illya stared down at his holster, clearly seen through the soaked jacket. He nodded, slowly reaching for his wallet and passed it over, open to the U.N.C.L.E. I.D. and permit. Napoleon took his out as well, holding it up for the sheriff to see.

  "You have reason to be here, besides on vacation?" Lafitte asked, his voice as calm as his manner.

  "We're on a case, yes." Kuryakin flipped his wallet shut and repocketed it.

  "You seem mighty interested in Brown." The sheriff holstered his weapon, snapping the safety strap in place. "I noticed you watching him this morning."

  Kuryakin nodded.

  "I don't know him, so I'm not going to vouch for him. And I'm not going to interfere with whatever you're up to. All I ask is that you listen to me when I give instructions concerning keeping us alive in this hurricane that's going to hit any time now. There isn't enough room in that locker for us all. I'm making the decision to keep you two out here, as well as Brown, myself, and my deputy, Carl Lerner. I don't want the rest in any line of fire."

  "Thank you, sir. We appreciate your assistance," Solo said, as he stepped forward. "What would you like us to do?"

  Lafitte glanced around the room as the noise from outside rose. "Right now, we've got to take shelter ourselves. There are three cubbyholes under the bar, storage bins for glasses and the like. Solo, you clear out a place for you and your friend here. Take the middle area. Carl and I will bunker in the north end of the bar, and we'll put Brown in near the front end of the counter; there's room enough for one there. Kuryakin, check and see if you can secure it somehow. I understand that you want to keep an eye on him, but that'll be too risky; the wind will most likely be throwing things around and if we want to survive this intact, stay under cover for as long as possible. If the water comes this high—don't look surprised, Solo—I've seen this area under water before. We're not that far off sea level. Take a look at the flood markings on the outside of the building. Ain't nobody going anywhere while that storm is blowing; to walk out the front door is suicide. When the eye comes, it's gonna calm down long enough for us to dig ourselves in for the second half, which will probably be deadlier than the first part. If your man Brown makes a bolt for it during that time, let him go. You can pick up the pieces afterwards."