Lane’s End, Maine was a coastal community. The population was just under 7,500. There were a few motels to house the occasional tourist in search of the perfect lobster dinner, two small movie theaters and several factories on the outskirts of town. The Lane’s Inn Diner boasted the best seafood in the north. Across the nearly deserted street from the diner and next to the town’s largest marina was the Marina Bar ‘N’ Grill.
    The sun was putting forth its final efforts at day light as Illya and Solo drove into town. The marina and the bar were easy to find. The smell of smoke accosted them as they entered, though the air was not yet thick at this early hour. Solo entered first and removed the sunglasses he had been wearing to drive. He stood a few moments at the door and watched as he waited for Illya to come in behind him.
    There were only three patrons spread out around the room. One, a burly brown haired man with a thick beard and mustache sat at the bar in a dark turtleneck, jeans and rubber boots. He looked up and watched the two strangers enter. The bar ran the length of the room to the left of the door and way in the back a little more light shone on two pool tables. Two young, black men ignored the front of the room as they laughed and enjoyed a round of pool. From behind the bar a young woman, dressed in a tight fitting, red T-shirt, blue jeans and a white apron, turned to greet them.
    "Well, hello gentlemen." She raised her eyebrows at Solo’s prim, crisp suit and the confident lift of his chin. "What can I get for you?"
    Solo smiled his most charming smile and sidled up to the bar. The burly man at the bar watched him closely. Illya smirked and wandered in the other direction. He found a table against the wall and sat where he could see the entire room. He watched as Solo played the young women and her burly protector. He could not hear everything that was said, but within minutes they were all three chuckling like old friends.
    Illya was wishing for half of his partners social charms when four more strangers walked into the bar. These men could not have been more obvious if they had "Thrush" stamped on their foreheads. Illya quickly turned away and lowered his head in what he hoped looked like a drunken stupor. For Solo, disappearing would not be so easy.
    They stood at the door and gazed around the room. They did not speak even when the young woman looked up at them and uneasily welcomed them in.
    "Gentlemen, come in. What can I get you this evening?"
    Solo sighed when he saw them enter but resisted the urge to look over at his partner. When he turned to the men, one of them smiled in recognition and another slipped his hand into his jacket pocket. Solo’s eyes widened in apprehension and he stepped forward before they came into the room any further.
    "Ah...Friends, don’t trouble yourselves here. I have all the information these people can give you." He walked right up to the men and took one of them gently by the arm. The muscular man didn’t budge except to glare down at him in confusion.
    "Come," Solo continued, "let’s step outside and I’ll be more than happy to share it with you." He tried to corral the men back out the front door.
    Confusion moved the men several steps before the big one stopped.
    "Hold it, Solo! Where’s Kuryakin?"
    "Oh, he went across the street to the Inn. We need a room for the night you know." He applied some pressure to the man’s arm and without being seen moved his other hand closer to his gun.
    The big Thrush henchmen wasn’t convinced and his companions were growing uneasy. He looked up around the room again and motioned with his head.
    "You over against the wall, Come over here. I want to see you in the light."
    Illya didn’t move, he made a sound that may have been a snore.
    The big, burly fellow at the bar could sit still no longer. He stood up form his stool and yelled at the intruders. "Hey, who the hell do you guys think you are? Myra, go call the cops." He took a step forward. Myra took a step back.
    The Thrush leader moved quickly for his gun, but Solo moved even quicker and the big man froze as he felt the muzzle of Solo’s gun bury itself in his ribs.
    Solo spoke next with forceful determination hidden in his voice, "I’m telling you, friend, there is nothing here you need. Outside you can get all you want from me." He was determined to remove these thugs from the bar. He did not want a repeat of what happened in London, even if he had to sacrifice himself to prevent it.
    The Thrush leader looked over at Illya again and hesitated.
    Behind the bar, Myra was beginning to get a vague idea of what was going on and before her burly friend could speak again she motioned toward Illya and said.
    "That guy’s been dead asleep over in that corner since early this afternoon. It’ll take more than a little yelling to get him out of that seat."
    Solo looked at her and then nudged his gun, reminding the thrushman that it was there. Finally, the man grunted in resignation and moved toward the door. His three companions followed he and Solo out.
    As soon as the door closed. Illya jumped up. "Is there a back door?" he asked.
    Myra nodded and pointed though the pool room where the two men had stopped playing. Illya turned and sprinted across the room, and out the door into the early evening darkness.
    Myra let out the breath she had been holding. "This place is just getting too weird." she said. Big and burly nodded his head in agreement and took his seat at the bar

Illya peered around the corner of the building. Solo was surrounded by the four Thrush henchmen. They stood next to a dark sedan. The biggest of the men held Solo close to his face by the collar of his expensive suit coat. Another threw a viscous punch into the ribs on his right side.
    ‘A distraction,’ Illya thought ‘I need a distraction.’ He looked around the alley he stood in and considered the various weapons and devices he had concealed on his person. Then he remembered the green and brown station wagon he had run past behind the bar. He looked up to see Solo receive another blow to the midsection and then took off back down the alley.

Solo wrapped his arm around his stomach and mumbled up at his assailants as they roughly pulled him upright for the fifth time. He didn’t try to speak coherently, he just concentrated on breathing.
    The big leader finally grew impatient. "Throw him in the car, they’ll get everything he knows out of him."
    The back door of the dark sedan they had pinned him up against was opened and he was roughly thrown in and pushed to the floor. He didn’t try to resist and he wasn’t particularly worried about escape. The men had missed Illya. It was only a matter of time before he was rescued, and he didn’t know anything to tell them, about the vanishings.
    Thrush piled into the car and squealed away from the curb. One of the men in the back put his feet on Solo’s shoulders. The other jabbed a wooden club into his kidney to keep him in place. 
    Illya reached the station wagon, jumped in and yanked the wires down from under the dash. In seconds the car rumbled to life. Jamming the gas pedal to the floor, he sped out of the alley. The stationwagon hit the street at the same instant that the sedan passed the ally. The two cars slammed together in an ear shattering crash and their combined momentum smashed them into a telephone pole.
    The two Thrush in the front seat of the sedan didn’t move even a twitch. Illya pushed back from the steering wheel and shook his pounding head, it had connected solidly with the windshield. He quietly berated himself for not wearing his seat belt. The two Thrush in the back seat of the sedan cursed the station wagon and slammed Solo’s head against the floor boards before getting out of the car, relatively unscathed.
    Illya got out of the station wagon in time to meet the first Thrush getting out of the sedan. He slammed his foot into the door hitting the thug squarely on the forehead. Then he pulled the door open and reached in to pull the man out. Instead he was hit by a sudden wave of dizziness and stumbled. This gave his adversary time to recover and send Kuryakin flying backwards and to the ground. By now the other man had raced around the cars. Together, they pulled him to his feet.
    "Kuryakin! We should have known," one groaned.
    "Yeah, where there’s one roach there’s another!" the other laughed at his own joke.
    "Shut up, idiot," the first yelled. Then he took out his frustration on Illya’s chin sending him back to the asphalt.
    Suddenly, the idiot fell to the ground in a heap and his insulter looked up in time to see the long wooden club connect with the side of his own face. Solo stood over them holding the club at his side and looking down at Illya who looked up at him and shrugged.
    "Your suit’s torn, Napoleon," he said holding his chin.
    "My suit... Illya, what were you thinking! I seem to remember you calling me messy! Look you’re even bleeding! What were you trying to do, get us both killed?" Solo dropped the club and helped his friend to shaky feet.
    "No, I was rescuing you, couldn’t you tell?"

Sleepless nights, adrenaline letdowns, jet lag, fruitless efforts, long hours of travel and the crash of two fast moving vehicles had begun to take it’s toll. Even U.N.C.L.E.’s top agents need rest. After calling for assistance with the Thrush mess they had made in the streets of Lane’s End, they were flown by helicopter to Maine’s largest U.N.C.L.E headquarters. They flew out into nowhere for over an hour before touching down in a field that looked, to the unknowing eye, completely empty.
    A loud, mechanical grinding was the only indication that something was different as Solo and Kuryakin disembarked the helicopter and followed two local U.N.C.L.E. agents away. As the chopper took off, the ground before them shook and began to rise. Out of the ground appeared a doorway. The four men stepped in and let the doors close behind them.
    As the small room began to descend, Illya leaned against the wall and closed his eyes. Solo frowned in minor concern as he watched him. The first place they were going was medical.

After nearly an hour of insistent poking and prodding of his ribs, Solo walked briskly out of the treatment room. Behind him, a nurse called out in surprise.
    "Mr. Solo, the doctor wanted to see you again! Please, wait sir!"
    Turning toward the nearby desk in the next room, he smiled at the pretty blond lady typing at a computer. She looked up at him over a pair of round, red eyeglasses.
    Using his most insistent tone he asked, "What room is my partner in? Small, blond...bleeding from his scalp."
    "Oh!" She looked at up at him, uncertain how to respond. His look convinced her. "He’s down the hall, Sir, but..."
    He didn’t stop to hear her tell him he couldn’t go into Illya’s room. A few steps down the hall and he could hear Illya’s voice, his tone was irritated. Solo smiled slightly and pushed the door open. As he had expected, a doctor stood over the Russian trying to hold him down on the exam-bed as Illya, complaining indignantly, kept trying to sit up.
    "Being as difficult as usual I see." Solo said as he entered, the hint of a smile still in his eyes.
    "Here now," said the doctor, "Who are you? You can’t come in here."
    With the doctor distracted, Illya quickly sat up on the bed and swung his legs off the side. "Finally, Napoleon. They let you out?"
    "Hmm, yes, in a way, but it looks like you’re not quite finished?"
    "On the contrary, I have had my fill of tests for tonight."
    "Are you sure?" Solo squinted his eyes and questioned him, he leaned forward and examined the stitches on his forehead.
    "Yes," Illya answered in frustration, "I’m fine, Napoleon." He brushed his friend away like a pesky fly. Please, don’t mother in front of strangers!" He stood off the bed to leave.
    "Now wait a minute," interrupted the doctor, "where do you think you're going?" He put a hand on Kuryakin’s arm to stop him.
    Illya sighed and started to respond, but another man walked into the room and interrupted him. Solo recognized him as the same doctor that had examined his ribs in the other room.
    "What’s this? Mutiny, already!" the new doctor said without surprise. "Waverly wasn’t exaggerating."
    Solo’s eyes widened questioningly, "Mr. Waverly? No, I can’t say I’ve ever heard him exaggerate. What did he say, Doctor?"
    With a chuckle he answered Solo, but did so speaking to his colleague. "He said these two would be difficult to keep in medical, that we should be certain that they would survive, and send them on their way as soon as possible. It seems that they’re needed back in New York."
    Solo and Kuryakin were surprised that Waverly had suggested they be released quickly, but glad at the prospect of getting out from under the medical probing! Solo knew, few doctors could be persuaded to release patients before they were ready. He asked, "And how did you answer him?"
    "I told him I would release you both under two conditions."
    Illya looked at him waiting, Solo prompted, "And they are?"
    "Mr. Kuryakin has suffered a minor concussion. The first condition is that he not be left alone for 24 hours."
    "Done. He’ll be with me." Solo said before Illya could protest. His partner frowned but remained silent.
    "The second condition," continued the doctor, "Is that your flight not leave Maine for 12 hours, and that you both use those 12 hours to get some rest."
    Solo and Kuryakin looked at each other, then at the doctor. Solo asked in amazement, "Waverly agreed to 12 hours?"

After leaving the buried Maine Headquarters, Solo and Kuryakin spent the rest of the night in an U.N.C.L.E. safe house. The whole time was quiet and uneventful, which Solo found unsettling. He did sleep some, but paced a lot, anxious to be back on the trail. Illya, as usual, slept soundly and only protested mildly when Solo insisted on waking him every few hours.
    They were both awake and ready to go when the knock came in the morning. They were driven to the airport and were sitting in Mr. Waverly’s office within a few hours. This time Mr. Waverly only had one print out from his computer. It was a list of names. He handed it to Solo and waited while he read.
    After reading only a few names Solo let out a low whistle and handed the sheet to Illya. Illya began reading and did not stop until he had finished the entire list of twenty names, committing them almost instantly to memory.
    When he looked up both men were watching him. He cleared his throat awkwardly and said, "That’s quite a list."
    "A Who’s Who of great political and financial power," commented Solo.
    "Indeed," agreed Mr. Waverly, "but more a Who’s Who of astonishing disappearances."
    Solo and Kuryakin looked at him in surprise. "All of these men have vanished?" Solo asked, wide-eyed.
    "Every last one," answered Waverly, grim faced. "And all within the last 48 hours. Practically one right after the other. Thank goodness it seems to have stopped now. I haven’t received a report in the past few hours."
    "Strange," Commented Kuryakin, "They are suddenly so specific. Obviously, these men were chosen for their power and wealth. What can they possibly have in common with a gardener and a school teacher?"
    "That’s a very good question, Mr. Kuryakin, and I hope you have a suggestion for finding an answer." Waverly looked tired as he sat down and puffed his pipe. He looked at his men expectantly. All three men sat in silence. Finally, Solo quietly cleared his throat. He was hesitant to speak and shifted slightly in his seat. Illya looked up and over his glasses at him. Waverly took a long draw on his pipe and held it in anticipation.
    Solo shifted in his seat again and suggested, "Maybe Thrush could help." Waverly choked and coughed on smoke. Illya sighed and shook his head in disapproval. "Napoleon, I think Mr. Waverly was waiting for a constructive solution not a sarcastic one."
    Frowning deeply and with tears in his eyes, Waverly turned to admonish Solo. "Mr. Solo..."
    Interrupting him, Solo sat up straight to defend his suggestion. "Now, wait, Sir, I am thinking constructively..." Illya raised his eyebrows, but listened attentively.
    "Thrush may just know something that we don’t. Like who might have the power, motive or ability to accomplish something like this."
    Waverly stopped him. "We are already very certain Thrush is not involved. The men you captured knew nothing and even went so far as to say they were trying as hard to figure out who was doing all this as we were."
    "Yes, Sir, exactly! They don’t know. They want to know, probably as badly as we do! I can’t even imagine what they would do if they got there hands on this technology."
    "They may just be desperate enough..." Started Kuryakin.
    "Yes, they might!" agreed Solo.
    Waverly scoffed doubtfully. "I certainly doubt it!"
    "Who would we approach?" Illya wondered aloud. "All we’ve seen so far have been thugs, muscle only, no brain."
    "If I were Thrush, I would be extremely interested in what the world leaders, what is left of them, are planning to do next," suggested Solo.
    "They will send someone to the press conference at the United Nations," said Waverly without enthusiasm.
    "I suppose it’s worth a try, If we can get them to listen," said Illya with only slightly more conviction than his superior.
    "Well, with such an earnest endorsement, how can we fail?" Solo replied as he stood to leave.
    Walking out behind him, Illya quietly questioned him. "Now, that was sarcasm, right?"

One of the hardest things to do is write a story and keep to a pre-formed format. There are very few who can do this. On this site we award those that can do that or in some cases the award is given for attempting this challenge. If you think your site or story deserves this or our fantasy award then please contact me. Remember, if your story is regarded by us as good you could be published here and have your story illustrated. Sepia