Illya and Gaby - The Frenchman (The Man From U.N.C.L.E)

Chapter 8 - The Ship

Gaby couldn't see what was happening, but she could hear it. They'd been hustled out of the warehouse with bags over their heads, lifted into the back of a truck that drove them not too far. When the engine cut out and someone set her back on the ground, she twisted her head, trying to get any kind of bearings from her surroundings.

The lapping of water against boats was unmistakable, and her blood ran cold. The port. They'd brought the women to the port. It would be next to impossible for Illya and Napoleon to find them once they were out on open water.

The other girls huddled near her, some shivering despite the warm weather, some crying. She clenched her jaw, straining to free her wrists from the cords around them, but they were too thick. There was nothing she could do, and she hated that more than anything. She couldn't even call out for help thanks to the tape over her mouth.

Along with the rest of the girls, Gaby was herded along the dock, nearly tripping over the uneven boards. They were pulled up a set of swaying steps, onto the deck of a boat. It must have been dark outside if they had all of them out in the open like this, but she couldn't be sure. The bag over her head was thick, not a speck of light would have gotten through, even if it had been broad daylight.

One of the girls in front of her fell, tripping over a rope strewn across the deck, and a man shouted angrily. She heard the sound of a hand slapping the girl, and she blindly kicked out in the direction of his voice, catching him in the side and sending him tumbling with a roar of anger. She recoiled from the sound of his boots, backing straight into another man, who held her still, calling out in French to the man she'd kicked.

His bitter breath was hot in her ear as he leaned down, speaking to her. "You should be more careful, before you get hurt."

She drove her head back into his chin, hearing his teeth clack together, and slammed her foot down on top of his boot. He grunted in pain, gripping her arms tight enough to leave bruises. "You're a fiery one, aren't you. Come with me." He half-dragged her along the deck, mindless of her struggling in his arms.

He pulled her up a flight of stairs and through a door, and he threw her into a chair, expertly tying her to the rungs before she could try to escape again. "Let's get a look at you." He chuckled, pulling the hood off.

"As beautiful as my men reported." He clicked his tongue. "The buyers will love you."

"You'll regret this. You took the wrong person." Gaby spat, pulling at the ropes.

"Of course. You're expecting your agent friends to come to rescue you, right?" He smiled, shaking his head. "We took exactly the right person."

"You say that now." Gaby hissed, but her heart sank. He knew about Napoleon. About Illya. But his next words made her blood run cold.

"With any luck, they'll try to follow us," he reached out, caressing her cheek, "and we can be rid of them, once and for all."