The Cadillac spewed forth its contents and Solo's stomach clenched in on itself as he saw the thin figure of Louie, followed by the giant man Illya had described. It could only be that same man. There wouldn't be two alike - not in the world.

He jerked his head back to see what Illya had lured out of the Chevy. It was Robard. And an old man. This was the moment, then. He and Illya would have to hold them off alone until the backstop from Point Eight made it to the scene.

A high, hard voice echoed at Solo from the rear. "Caught, Mr. Solo!" Adams yelled. "Give up now. Be sensible."

In answer, Solo leveled his gun and opened fire, aware of the comforting sound of Illya's gun beside him. Louie and the giant ducked behind the Cadillac, and orange spit out over the hood as they returned the lead, round for round. Solo kept up the barrage, pinning them down, fishing in his pocket for another clip.

The scene was straight out of a nightmare. The three cars jammed in upon each other, their head-lamps blasting bright beams of light. The gunshots hammered and echoed off the buildings, a cannon roar, and the smell of the explosions was biting to the nose. But it was as Solo wanted it. He and Illya could fire at their discretion. Their attackers had to be careful, or in firing across, they would hit each other.

Julius bobbed up and down, firing and withdrawing, firing and withdrawing. Solo went to one knee to get a steadier aim. From somewhere close, between shots, he heard the slap of running feet. The man from Point Eight? He fervently hoped so. Because he was effectively boxed. When the ammunition was gone - he thrust the thought away and aimed for the giant's head. But the giant, stupid as he looked, had some uncanny knack of ducking just as Solo's finger made the caress on the trigger. No bullet struck home.

The street-side door of the U.N.C.L.E. car jerked open and Solo twisted in time to see Louie's livid face above a gun that spat fire. Beside him, Illya gasped in surprise and impact and fell sideways against Solo's gun hand, throwing off his lone shot at Louie. The door slammed and Louie was gone.

Solo held his fire for a long moment, and the street was eerily quiet. Illya's weight was against his back, and his guttural, "All right, Illya was answered only with a conglomerate mumble and groan.

Adams yelled again, taking heart from the cease-fire. "Back is to the wall, Solo - literally. Do you want to die on the street? Your friend, too?"

Solo turned half around and attempted a shot at Robard, who stood with the old man by the Chevy. His gun clicked empty. A wave of draining blood washed the strength out of him as he realized his pocket was empty of clips, too. Illya lay against him, stirring, sense returning to his open eyes. But there was blood dribbling down his left hand from under his sleeve.

The moment of hesitation finished the battle that was already lost. The car door that sheltered Solo was slammed against him from the front, toppling him on Illya. Louie and the giant squeezed through to stand over him. Solo raised himself to his feet in smarting fury and humiliation and tossed his gun down. Then he knelt beside Illya.

"Run, Napoleon!" Illya straightened. "I'm only scratched."

Solo quickly inspected the source of the blood. It was just a flesh wound, but his friend's blood was spewing out, staining the street.

"Napoleon!" Illya commanded, "Run!"

Adams said from close by, "There is nowhere to run."

Solo looked up. He was surrounded. The old man and Robard had squeezed by the back door of the car and now he and Illya were in the center of four men. Four guns pointed down at his head, and he felt the lethal load of the barrels deep in his nervous system. Suppressing a shudder, he said to Illya, "The man's right, isn't he? Nowhere to run at all." He fought to keep dread out of his voice. Illya was incapable of helping for the time being. This had to be played out by ear. But where was the agent from Point Eight?

Illya pushed himself to a sitting position and then to his knees, ignoring the blood that covered his hand in rivulets. His blue eyes were staring in recognition and disdain at the giant man with the gun in his gnarled hand. "Ah," Illya said. "The great ape who doesn't know how to drive."

The giant's big foot with the huge shoe came streaking out. It caught Illya viciously in the ribs, forcing his breath out in a painful gasp and toppling him again.

Solo reached for the giant Julius, his face black with anger, but before he could get purchase enough to stand, Louie and Robard pushed him down by the shoulders. He went to his knees hard on the cement. The guns came in to touch his head, three of them still warm from firing.

Illya struggled up, rubbing his side. He said softly, "Never insult a Neanderthal, Napoleon. Remember that when you're in his keeping." His blue eyes met Solo's intently, trying to convey something. Solo knew what it was. Illya was apologizing for failing, and asking how they might try to escape.

Adams' triumphant voice cut between them. "Take him! Now!"

Robard and Louie yanked Solo roughly to his feet. He staggered upward, searching for a route of action, but Robard had already produced a pair of handcuffs with a short chain between them, and from behind him Louie jerked his hands forward so Robard could clamp them on. The click of the steel lock ended it, and Solo knew it. Whatever had been planned for this night was now finished. He was good bait, all right. And he had been swallowed by the fish he had set out to catch.

The fight went out of him in a deep rush of breath as his body gave way to unused adrenalin, shaking. He drew another breath to still the trembling. Yet he wasn't ashamed of it because he had learned and accepted long ago that the body's physical reactions had nothing to do with courage. The body might shake and tremble, might give way altogether, but the man inside that body would still fight.

The old man was giving orders again. "Go through Solo's pockets and throw away everything you find. Communicator, wallet, even his cigarette lighter. Everything. They may have a tracing device planted on him."

Heavy hands started searching him, and from Illya's face Solo knew that the careful Russian had, indeed, planted a tracer on him sometime during the evening. It was pulled out from beneath his lapel and thrown into the gutter. Illya shook his head in defeat.

"Now," Adams said, "get rid of Kuryakin as I told you."

"Why?" Robard asked. "You'll only have to catch him again."

"Then I'll catch him," Adams said. "I want this done properly." He swung on Illya. "Remember, Kuryakin, there's a coffin waiting for you, too, if you stay in your present occupation. Now - get yourself out of here!"

Illya was dragged to his feet and let loose, but he stayed there, holding his arm. Solo knew it was beginning to hurt him as the first shock of the wound wore off. But Illya stood where he was, his gaze intent, asking for a signal to start some action, any action.

Adams shouted, "Louie - set him dancing."

Louie raised his gun and fired at Illya's feet. Illya held his ground for three shots, then moved as the fourth spewed cement dust onto his shoes. He retreated only two steps and stopped, his mouth set, his blue eyes under the ragged hair frantically signaling Solo.

Louie fired again and Solo longed to turn away. He didn't want to watch Illya's pitiful withdrawal. But Illya wouldn't withdraw. His stare still burned into Solo's.

Solo lifted his manacled hands and shrugged. "Go on, Illya. This is my party, now."