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Illya was not usually the one who got caught. That tended to be Napoleon. The Cowboy was often the bait, the distraction, and so often the one still on site and easily grabbed when the bad guys realized they were being played. Illya was not used to being left to his own devices in a cell, assuming Gaby and Napoleon would get him out. And they would. Get him out. He was pretty sure.
KGB would not They would leave him behind as expendable, collateral damage on a successful mission.
Gaby got away with the disk. She possessed the only copy of this new kind of computer program, one that could infect and corrupt memory. One that Thrush planned to use to wipe out both the United States' and Russia's space programs. Now U.N.C.L.E. possessed the disk, the "virus." And Illya would be rescued. Because Napoleon would never leave him behind and Gaby would never see him as expendable.
He waited. He assessed the extent of the damage he sustained in his capture. One eye swollen shut. A knife wound to his thigh. Not so bad. He waited.
Napoleon's voice, all swagger and steel, echoed down the hall. "When I see proof that my partner is alive and unmolested, I will return with the disk. That is the only trade up for discussion." The man rounded the corner with two goons and a curvy Thrush assassin as entourage. From the way the assassin's eyes drank in Napoleon in a three piece silk Armani, Illya could guess what other kind of deal she had offered. Napoleon eyed Illya quickly, never bothering to look back at the woman.
"I'll be back. Give me an hour and have him upstairs when I return." Napoleon turned on his heel and left.
They took that time to rough Illya up a bit more. He's pretty sure he lost a tooth in the process. They wanted him pliant and aching so that he would not cause trouble when he was manhandled out of his cell and up to the large empty warehouse. Perhaps they overachieved. His kidneys screamed and it was hard to focus his one open eye. But there was Napoleon, standing in just the right spot for the light to fall just so across his cheekbones and make the blue of his eyes pop.
"The man for the disk." Those eyes were cold, looking over Illya's battered body and the three Thrush agents.
Illya did not know what the Cowboy had up his sleeve, how he planned to get them out without turning the disk over. It could not be a fake, they would check before releasing him. They might shoot Napoleon now and take the disk from his corpse. His mind spun through options.
"He is not in the condition that I left him in." Napoleon looked to Illya like an avenging angel, sent by a god Illya did not believe in. This Napoleon angel brought to mind words like "wrath" and "smite."
Concussion. He was definitely concussed.
He missed the rest of what was said, too caught up in imaging Solo with great strong wings and a toga. Those arms and wings would carry Illya away.
He coughed. He was on his knees now. He did not recall how that happened.
Napoleon had blood on his suit, the spatter pattern made clear that it was not his own. Blood on his knuckles and wrist. The two goons were dead. The assassin's right arm was hanging at an unnatural angle, limp. She held her torso with the other one while Napoleon lined up a neat head shot that dropped her cleanly.
Illya was ready to let his beaten body rest right there on the bloodied warehouse floor. He was tired and wanted to sleep. But Napoleon's arm slipped around Illya's waist, picking him up to his feet and then urging them slowly towards the door.
He meant to say thank you but the words he heard himself say were, "You came back."
"Peril. Illya." He didn't say anything else. Illya didn't need him to.