He closed his eyes and opened them again. The room disappeared and was replaced by darkness. Where was he?

    The agent suddenly felt as if he were slowly falling. Yet, the darkness did not abate. He had no point of reference. Still, he felt as if he were drifting downward, slowly downward. The drifting went on for seconds. Perhaps minutes. Perhaps years. Solo had now way to tell.

    Finally, Solo landed…where? The darkness would not relent. Was he standing? Sitting? Laying flat on his back?

    Solo tried to scream but could hear nothing. What in the hell was happening?

    Suddenly, the thought stuck in his head. Hell? Was in he Hell?

    Solo tried to gather his thoughts. Hang on, you stupid bastard.

    Just then, the darkness gave way off in the distance. Not much, but on the horizon – Solo thought of it as the horizon in any case – there was a sliver of light. Solo couldn't determine the source of the light, but he knew he had to reach it. He would do anything to gain relief from the unrelenting darkness that enveloped him.

    So, he began to travel to the light. Solo wasn't exactly sure how he was moving. He couldn't feel himself walking. He didn't feel as if he flying, either. He felt a sensation similar to, but not exactly like, swimming. More like trying to move through muck, he thought.

    Ignore it, Solo thought. Keep moving. Get to that light.

    Solo still had no sense of time. He had no idea how long it was taking him to reach the light. Gradually, the light widened. First it was a sliver, then a small cylinder of light. At long last it looked like a spotlight was shining from above.

    In the middle of the light, Solo spotted a figure sitting in a chair, smoking a pipe and reading a newspaper.

    Solo moved closer. The man was reading The Times of London. He was reading the paper thoroughly, devouring the words on each page before turning to another.    

    The man kept reading the paper as he spoke up. ``Sit down, Mr. Solo,'' Alexander Waverly said.

    Solo's mouth went dry. It couldn't be! Waverly was dead! Solo had seen the old fox die himself.

    I must be in hell, the agent thought.

    Waverly finally looked up. ``I see you've boggled this latest assignment,'' he said. ``Once again, you've insisted upon bringing some innocent person into the middle of this affair.''

    Solo said nothing.

    ``Oh, I'm sure you felt you could adequately protect her,'' Waverly continued. ``But the road to Hell is paved with good intentions. As you're no doubt discovering.''

    Waverly stood up. ``I was so hoping you could help my brother in law put U.N.C.L.E. back in order. Perhaps even succeed him at one point. Yet, you insist upon playing Cowboys and Indians, didn't you?''

    Waverly took the pipe out of his mouth and inspected it. He took out a lighter and started lighting the tobacco, puffing as he did so.

    ``The simile is even more appropriate,'' Waverly said. ``You're like a saddle tramp, well past his prime, desperately holding on. It is very sad to observe, let me tell you.''

    Solo shook his head. At least it felt as if he were shaking his head.

    Waverly looked at his watch. ``Well, I must be off. I wish I could help you, Mr. Solo. It is no longer my place to do so.'' Waverly turned and walked out of the spotlight.

    Solo tried to reach out, to no avail. Waverly was gone.

    The agent wanted to scream again. Before he could try, the spotlight moved away. Solo again was surrounded by darkness. However, the light didn't move too far away. A few feet away it now fell on two figures in hooded robes. One of them was doing most of the talking.

    Solo moved as best as he could toward the two people. Nausea began to rile his stomach. His mouth was dry as the Mojave. A sense of dread had him around the throat. Yet, he kept moving toward the light. Anything to avoid the darkness, he thought.

    Finally, long moments later, he arrived. The one figure was talking to the other faced Solo. Despite the robes, he could make out a feminine shape. He still couldn't see her face but somehow Solo sensed she reacted to his presence.

    Solo reached the edge of the spotlight. The woman facing him began to take down her hood.

    ``Hello, darling,'' Angelique said. ``Long time, no see.''

    Solo looked at the other figure, also a woman. He sensed coldness surging from the second woman.. She kept her back to Solo.

    Angelique walked past the second woman and slithered up to Solo. ``It's so nice you came to visit, darling,'' she said, using her index finger to stroke Solo's face. ``I knew you'd be by, sooner or later.''

    ``This is impossible,'' Solo muttered.

    Angelique walked around Solo. ``I've missed you, Napoleon. You and I could always find interesting ways to pass the evening on those occasions we could steal some time together.''

    Solo couldn't say anything. He was now completely numb.

    ``I have been having a rather interesting conversation with her,'' Angelique said, arching her eyebrows. ``The subject was you. It turns out there's a side of you of which she was unaware. I gather she found the discussion most illuminating.''

    The other robed woman was now shaking. Finally she lowered the hood and turned.

    The first thing Solo noticed was the striking shade of red hair. The face was the same as he remembered.

    ``You bastard!" Clara Richards, the one-time Clara Valdar said. ``What kind of man are you to take up with a perverted creature like her? I thought I knew you! I thought I loved you!' My God, how could I have been so wrong about you?''

    Solo tried to reach toward Clara but she stepped back.

    Angelique smirked. ``Hope I haven't caused you any problems, darling. I thought Ms. Richards would appreciate knowing all she could about such an important man in her life.''

    They're both dead, this just can't be, Solo thought. Yet, both lived on in his memories of them. They represented the yin and yang of Solo's women. Clara was the light, romantic side, the kind of woman you could spend time with. Angelique, despite her platinum blonde hair, was the dark side, which provided intensity and thrills and danger.

    Clara came up and slapped Solo. ``It must be your work, isn't it? Isn't it?'' She stared into his eyes. ``You can't resist the thrills, can you? That's the only explanation! The only explanation why you could have a bitch like her!''

She began to sob, looking down. She took a deep breath and looked at him directly again.

``When I died, I regretted how I turned you away,'' Clara said. ``Now, I can see I was right.'' There was a pause as she began to tremble. ``You're a damned soul, Napoleon.''

    Before Solo could respond, Clara turned and ran out of the light. Angelique lingered for a moment before speaking once again.

    ``So naïve,'' she said. ``She doesn't appreciate you, Napoleon. She never did. You wasted all that time with her.''    

    Solo tried to yell. No, it's not true, he thought. But no words came.

    ``It's time for me to go again, darling,'' Angelique said. ``No doubt, I will see you again soon.'' She turned and walked slowly into the darkness before Solo could try to stop her.

    Solo rubbed his forehead. Was he really dead? None of this could be real. Yet, Angelique's touch seemed just as real as any time they had made love.

    No! Solo thought. She's dead!

    The light suddenly expanded, as all the darkness dissipated. Solo now stood in the middle of an arena. All around him were stands filled with people.

    He tried to concentrate. Suddenly, he realized he had seen many of these people before. He didn't know all their names, but he knew them all the same.

    Solo had killed them, at least the ones he recognized. He spotted one gray haired Caucasian man, dressed in a suit – the same suit he wore when trying to assassinate Alexander Waverly during a raid in the old U.N.C.L.E. headquarters. The agent had surprised him, tricking him into firing at Solo, who stood behind a bullet-resistant glass shield.

    A few seats over, he saw Greg Martin, the killer Thrush had raised from birth. Martin was cunning, brilliant and seemingly remorseless until he fell in love with a young woman. It was that emotion that gave Solo the edge in the final showdown. Martin hesitated for just a fraction of a second while Solo didn't. Sitting next to Martin was Professor Stoller, the Thrushman who had trained Martin all those years. Stoller died more recently during the Ragnarok affair when Thrush made an all-out attack on U.N.C.L.E.

    Solo looked toward other seats. Andrew Vulcan sat next to Ashumen, the late premier of Western Natumba, his fellow conspirator in another Thursh plot.

    Solo's mind rebelled, like a computer overloaded with data and ready to crash.

    Greg Martin stood up. ``What are we waiting for?'' he yelled. ``Let's tear him apart!''

    They rushed out of the seats and onto the arena floor, moving impossibly quickly. Solo tried to move but was frozen at the spot.

    How many were in the stands? Solo thought. How could they move so fast?

    Now they were on top of him, all striking at him. Solo's body felt as if he were being punched, slashed and stabbed all at the same time. There were so many attackers on top of him that the light disappeared again.

    The pain increased with every passing moment. The darkness grew blacker.

    Then, just as Solo didn't think he could take anymore, a pained, woman's voice cut through the blackness.

    ``I'll do it! God, I'll do it! Just stop it, stop it now! Please!''

End of Excerpt

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