Duke, Ben, and HPD had taken care of the attackers on the other side of the estate. They were assigned to see to the other bodies and take the single survivor to the nearest hospital under heavy guard. The others quickly gathered equipment, ammo, weapons to load into the borrowed Huey.

Kuryakin slipped several UNCLE issue explosives into his pockets and scanned the area, pondering what other items he should bring. It was then he finally noticed Solo. The senior agent was struggling to come to his feet, leaning against the wall for support. The fatigue, the pale, drawn face -- these clues suddenly coalesced in Kuryakin's mind. In a few quick strides he was beside his partner and took Solo's arm, as Napoleon came to an unsteady stance.

"You were hit?" he accused harshly. He could feel the wet blood on Solo's back. "You are such a fool! Why didn't you say something?"

Solo winced as he straightened his back. "It's just torn stitches. I'll live." He removed a black pouch from his belt, extracted two pills, and swallowed them before Kuryakin could protest. "Just to keep me on my feet during the next few hours," he defended as he held up a hand to forestall Illya's objections.

Kuryakin glanced at his friend's back. Blood soaked the dark material. A bullet rip along the back had torn the material. It had nearly been more than just torn stitches. The Russian bit his tongue before he dared to speak. If he didn't control his temper he would more than likely punch Solo. Not only did Napoleon deserve it, but it would be wonderfully therapeutic for Kuryakin.

Upset that Solo's reckless heroics had been nearly fatal, Kuryakin was caught in the dichotomy of emotions; he was alternately angry at his partner's foolish disregard for safety, and irritated that Napoleon's life mattered so much to cause this kind of reaction. Every mission caused him to reevaluate himself, wondering how he could remain an effective agent when his judgement was clouded by concern for his partner. Each operation reaffirmed that they were greater as a team than their individual talents. The years had formed their successful partnership into a tight bond of friendship. That was now more important that the professional teamwork.

The quest for Karkov had been emotionally trying for Solo, draining him to a physical and emotional low. It had been almost as draining for Kuryakin, watching his friend change to an obsessed fanatic who recently found a crutch from occasional dependence on alcohol and stimulants instead of common sense. Out of duty and friendship Kuryakin had assigned himself to protect Napoleon from self-destruction, knowing this was the most difficult trial Napoleon had ever faced. If their friendship could survive this, they could endure anything. Kuryakin's stubborn refusal to give up kept him from leaving Solo to whatever destiny awaited maverick spies.

There was no doubt about Kuryakin's anger but Solo didn't have time to let him cool off. They had to clear this up. It would be fatal to go into a fight with bad feelings. Their lives depended on their compatibility on the job. Instinctively he recognized the future of their partnership depended on their reactions to each other in this operation.

Suddenly Karkov and a twenty-three year vengeance didn't matter as much as holding onto the most important friend he ever had. Napoleon adopted his most persuasive expression and for a rare moment let honest sincerity speak for him. He had strained their friendship for many weeks. He had to make peace before the breech between them was irreparable.

"Illya, I didn't want anything to stop me from the denouement." He paused to study his friend with sober intensity. "Neither did I want this -- obsession -- to affect us." His voice was filled with concern. "Has it?"

Confronted with the chilling realization that he had finally pushed his friend too far, Solo felt his obsession to kill Karkov recede. He still wanted to bring Karkov to justice, wanted to save Dan, but more important, he wanted to save his partnership.

Accustomed to shielding his deeper feelings, Napoleon was unsure how to convince Illya of his sincerity.

The Russian nodded slightly, accepting the explanation. As usual, Illya had accurately read between the lines. And typically, the response was a superficial quip camouflaging his own emotions. "Sometimes I wonder why I bother saving your life," he sighed with long-suffering. "You seem determined to kill yourself."

"No more suicidal than you," Solo countered cautiously, still not sure if he had been forgiven, not sure he could ask for it. "Are we going to keep score now?"

A smile twitched at the Russian's mouth. "Much higher mathematics than we need tonight."

Napoleon smiled and winked. "I think you're right."

Higgins and Magnum came from the beach, engrossed in a debate about battle tactics.

"Everything is set," Magnum reported. For the first time he noticed Solo's weakened condition.

"Are you all right, Napoleon?"

"Fine," the agent responded easily. "I've just taken some very effective pain killers."

Higgins glanced at Solo's injured back. Then he took the equipment pack that Magnum had been carrying and brought out a first aid kit.

"We don't have time . . . ," Solo protested.

"This will only take a moment," Higgins insisted. "I am quite good at emergency first aid. I remember once in Kenya one of the lads was wounded . . . ."

"I'll find you a shirt," Magnum offered hastily. eager to avoid another of Higgins's stories.

Forty minutes after the start of the attack on the estate, the black Huey was flying through the night sky of Oahu. Kaena Point was visible in the distance. In the pale moonlight the abandoned sugar mill was a shadowy toothpick structure against the dark mountains. A dim light was visible in one of the ground floor rooms.

Solo swung the helicopter to the mauka side of the building, where the mill backed against the mountains. By landing next to the mountain they would be closest to the area where Dan was being held, and away from the guards quarters. When the chopper lightly touched the ground, there was no sign that their ploy was detected.

On the second night of imprisonment, Dan had reached the limits of his patience. He had been treated civilly during confinement, ignored except for mealtimes, when plates of food had been slipped under the door. The prison was a small wing of the sugar mill. Corrugated tin comprised one side of the wing. Plaster walls comprised the rest of the area that included a bathroom and small rooms furnished with cots. A bolted metal door was the only exit or entrance and windows were securely boarded up. The mill was old, so cracks in the wood and wide seams between tin and plaster enabled him to glimpse outside. It also brought refreshing Trades into the sultry rooms.

When he had first regained consciousness, he realized, aside from a painful lump at the back of his head, he was unharmed, unarmed and on his own. With some experience at being captured, he considered his plight with optimistic professionalism.

Canvassing the rooms, looking for listening devices or any easy avenue of escape took up much of his time initially.

"They'll try to rescue me," he told himself, "but it may take them awhile."

Not sure if that would be a good thing or not. Certainly Steve would be beside himself to free Dan, but at what cost? The lives of old friends? The risk to Five-0 detectives? The danger to McGarrett, which Steve would ignore.

From the sounds of the sea, the direction of the wind, and lack of traffic sounds, Dan had guessed the location. He believed he was on the North Shore, close to the ocean and yet secluded from civilization. The building was definitely an old sugar mill, and that left only one spot on Oahu that he knew of. Knowing where it didn't make much difference, but every bit of knowledge helped.

The first day of confinement was hot and stuffy in the rooms. He tried to escape instead of wait for a rescue. Dan knew this side of the island well enough to lead him to some sea caves where he would be safe from pursuit. All he had to do was get out of the sugar mill.

Afternoon of the second day he found a crack in the wall at one of the boarded windows facing the mountains. Rain, wind, and time had loosened the nails from the plaster. Patient jiggling of the board loosened the nails even more. Just before nightfall a helicopter left. Though he couldn't see anything, he knew something was going on and he was determined to get out before he lost the chance.

"They've been careful not to show themselves," he observed in a mutter as he worked with the boards. "It might be that they have no reason to talk to me." Realizing he was talking to himself, he laughed self-consciously. His introspection became silent. 'I'm bait, that's all. My usefulness is over when Karkov gets what he wants -- after he's killed the men who can identify him.'

In the back of his mind what worried him was that McGarrett would go to great lengths to get him back, even risk his own life. And with him would be Napoleon, Illya, and Oscar, all willing to go into the lion's den to rescue him.

Instinctively, he knew when the helicopter came back he better be out of there. It was after dark when he had loosed the boards enough that the two nails on the bottom gave way. He'd wait until the chopper came back -- use the noise as cover. Then, one way or another, he was making a break, not waiting for his friends to risk their lives for him.

The distinctive hum of rotor blades could be heard over the gentle Trades. He grinned and waited for the peak of the blade's roar, then pushed out the boards and climbed out the window.

The Huey touched down and most of the group were out the door instantly. "That's Danny!" Rick exclaimed as he studied the buildings through night-vision field glasses.

McGarrett scanned a figure running from the back of the building. A relieved laugh escaped. "Yeah -- yeah -- it's Danno."

Oscar tapped his arm. "You better get him. We'll hit the main building."

Racing along the side of a building, McGarrett caught Dan's eye and the younger detective scurried over to join his boss behind the solid cover of the building. Steve patted him on the shoulder, nearly speechless with relief.

"Danno. Are you okay?"

"Yeah. Great to see you guys, Steve. Like the cavalry."

"Wish we could have been here soon." It was all he could manage to say to reveal the incredible satisfaction that his friend was alive and well. "What can you tell us?"

As they made their way back to the group, Dan briefed his colleague on his captivity, which, he admitted, would give them very little information. Nearly literally he was kept in the dark his whole stay.

Agreeing on their separate directions, Oscar, McGarrett and Dan went around the back. The others sprinted to the front of the old sugar mill. They were close enough to see several guards at the door. At the same time the guards realized there was something unusual about the returning force. Without questioning, they opened fire. The attackers hit the dirt and returned fire.

Illya dug out some of the small arsenal concealed in his pockets and lobbed several small bombs toward the enemy. The mill was old and the explosives reduced the front walls to ruins. The guards pushed back to the farther rooms, still holding their suicidal positions.

The desire to find Karkov was too overwhelming for the frustrated Solo. He waited for the cover of another explosion, then dashed to the side of the building. Illya was on his feet to follow, but dove to the dirt under another volley of bullets.

"Madman," he muttered under his breath and furiously threw the rest of his bombs.

Solo dashed through a scattered junk pile and dived for cover behind a tree stump. From the edge of his vision he noticed a lumbering shape stumbling across the open field toward the road. Even in the dim moonlight Solo could tell the running figure was Karkov. Instantly the UNCLE agent was on his feet and chasing the renegade Russian across the small road to the beach.

Karkov turned and fired and Solo dove to the sand, barely escaping the bullets that flew perilously close. He scrambled to a low dune and returned shots that were wildly wide of their mark. Karkov shot back, and after only a few rounds the pistol clicked empty.

Solo was already on his feet and closing the distance between them at a run. The Walther was held with steady, deadly intent, a bead drawn between Karkov's eyes. The man never flinched as he stared his murderer in the eyes.

Over two decades had passed, but still this man made Solo's skin crawl, still froze his nerves with icy fear. The black eyes bore into Solo's soul and he realized this rendezvous with the past was somehow his destiny. The guilt and regret which lingered from his first meeting with Karkov suddenly returned with full force.

The agony could only be erased when he removed Karkov from this world. There was an ethereal detachment to the moment and he wondered if the painkillers accounted for only part of the reaction. Almost like a vision, Karkov was backdropped by a shimmering ring of fire from the burning mill. Anemic moonlight shone on the distorted visage and Solo was transfixed by the repulsive wound.

Solo noticed his hand was starting to shake and the Walther's stock was slippery in his sweaty palm. Karkov could still get to him. Just a look from the dark eyes could recall the humiliation, guilt, fear and failure he had known in Manchuria. He had sought out the revenge, but now wondered if Illya was right. Was his search for a piece of courage he had lost when he had faced Karkov before?

With almost dream-like surrealism, the moment of his failure in Manchuria was now recreated. he was again the only defense between Karkov and freedom, and he was every bit as scared as he had been as a young ensign.

"So we meet again, Napoleon Solo,"

Napoleon's spine chilled at the sound.

"I have not forgotten the young fool who nearly destroyed me." He touched his disfigured face. "I have always hoped to pay you back for the damage." Karkov would never know how Solo had paid for the emotional damage repressed and glossed over since Korea. It was time for Napoleon to pay a debt. For those many years he had waged a private battle with himself, a personal war that was in its final skirmish.

That war would be won as soon as he pulled the trigger. So why did he hesitate? Recognition shone in Karkov's eyes and his smile was an evil that snaked across his face. It seemed he could read his thoughts, his fear, and a subtle flicker of -- apprehension? -- made Karkov's arrogant smile fade. Napoleon fleetingly wondered if Karkov was afraid. It was a new concept he had never considered.

"You are a renowned spy, Solo," Karkov commented with a bravado that seemed forced. "But inside you are really the frightened boy I broke, in Manchuria."

Napoleon's grip on the pistol tightened and the finger tugged on the trigger, but stopped before the pistol fired. He still felt the dry-mouthed, throat choking paralysis of fear, but Karkov's words struck his senses like a bullet. Had he really learned nothing in his entire career? The introspection was interrupted by the sound of running feet in the sand. He didn't have to turn his head to know that Illya was coming up behind him.

"Napoleon . . . ." It was spoken quietly, a breath between a warning and a plea.

Solo remained frozen, aware of the gentle, constant lap of the tide, the crackle of the distant fire, the heavy, nervous breathing from his partner. Others joined the tense circle. Karkov's expression, like a mirror, reflected the Russian's other victims had arrived, and he seemed relived.

"Drop the gun, Napoleon," McGarrett requested quietly as he came up on Napoleon's left side.

"Don't!" was the crisp warning and no one moved. Solo didn't take his eyes off Karkov, still trying to analyze the signals on the hated face.

"The hunt is over, Napoleon. You have won. Do not stain yourself with his worthless blood." Illya's voice was calm, understanding not demeaning, and filled with reason.

Solo trusted his partner implicitly and instinctively wanted to respond. He wiped sweat from his face with his left hand, his aim on Karkov never wavering. "I have to kill him," he finally answered, his tired voice reflecting the fatigue that was catching up to him. "For Murray and Magnum. He's got to die."

Magnum came up next to Solo and suddenly seized the weapon, pointing it at Karkov. "Murdering him won't bring back my father." He put the enemy in his sights. "But it will be justice."

Now that the younger man -- with so much to prove -- was the one ready to pull the trigger, Solo realized some abrupt concepts. Napoleon knew that -- an old truth he had learned over a career that had seen many agents fall to the enemy. He had never applied it to this situation because of his guilt. With sudden perspective he knew killing Karkov would not benefit anyone, including himself.

As if reading his thoughts, Oscar slowly stood beside Magnum and spoke softly from beside him. "You have nothing to prove, Thomas. But unlike him, you have a conscience. Let us take care of this. Let it go."

As soon as the words were spoken aloud, they served as a balm for Solo. Glancing at his partner, he exchanged a brief glance, confirming he accepted these ideas as the truth. Illya, his other friends, had been right all along. They had made that peace for themselves, knowing justice, but not murder, should be served. If he pulled the trigger would he be any better, any different, than Karkov?

"Are you going to arrest him?" Magnum questioned McGarrett, the pistol still trained on Karkov. The voice tottered on the final vestige of reason.

"Right now," the Five-0 detective assured. "He'll be turned over to the Federal authorities and put away forever."

Magnum nodded and lowered the Walther. "He's all yours," he offered to McGarrett.

Williams and McGarrett stepped to the enemy spy. Solo glanced at Kuryakin, who was still at his side. There was a feeling of quiet victory the old and new friends grouped together. Oscar reaffirmed that Thomas had made the right decision. Now that the crisis had passed, Napoleon felt the full the effect of the painkillers and the world tilted.

Illya grabbed him. "Would you rather sit down or fall down," he asked rhetorically. Before Napoleon could answer they heard an angry shout from McGarrett.

"You can't!" They turned to see McGarrett take a passport from the Russian.

"What is it?" Oscar asked and joined Williams and McGarrett. He read the passport with stunned incredulity. "Diplomatic immunity?"

Karkov nodded smugly. "I am an official of the Russian government."

"I won't accept this," McGarrett snarled.

"You have no choice," Karkov countered arrogantly.

With a sudden burst of strength Solo pushed Kuryakin aside. Caught off balance, the Russian wasn't fast enough to stop Solo. The Walther was still in his hand and Solo brought it to bear on Karkov.

"Oscar, move!" was the hoarse warning and the OSI director stepped aside, instantly allied with Solo's decision.

Illya collided with Solo, pushing the pistol down as he tackled his friend. A shot harmlessly sliced into the sand. Kuryakin confiscated the pistol before his partner was tempted to indulge in any other rash impulses.

"Why did you stop me?" Napoleon gasped, the pain from his wound slicing through the thin layer of drugged haze. His tone was shadowed with tired defeat.

"This changes nothing," Kuryakin replied sympathetically. He helped Solo to stand. He looked around at the other members of the group, all feeling the betrayal and frustration Solo and he felt. Illya cautiously released his partner. Once assured Solo would not fall over, he stepped away.

"I better get Karkov out of here," Illya advised as he usurped custody. "I will take care of him."

The Communist smiled smugly at the group of defeated former officers he had once more outwitted. Then he disappeared into the night as Kuryakin escorted him toward the road. Several moments of silence passed before the subdued cough of a Walther was heard. It took a second for Solo to recognize and react to the sound. Without a word he raced after his partner. Magnum and the others were a few paces behind. The group rounded a dune near the water. Illya stood over the body of Karkov. The Russian agent glanced at the group, then bent and retrieved a small caliber pistol from Karkov's lifeless hand.

"He had something up his sleeve," Kuryakin explained and held up the pistol for public view.

Under McGarrett's skeptical questions, Kuryakin recounted that the Chinaman had pulled the pistol without warning. Illya's speculation was that the diplomatic documents were fakes, or that Karkov did not want to return to Russia in disgrace. Though suspicious of the story, McGarrett could not refute the claim of self-defense.

The rest of the group accepted the killing with equanimity, seeing it as a kind of poetic justice. For several moments they stood in silence, each wrapped in private retrospection. They slowly dispersed, quiet conversation lifting in broken words above the rhythmic rise and fall of tide.

Solo accepted the weapon and turned it over in his hand, the barrel still warm. He glanced at Karkov's body, then at his partner. "You didn't want ME to kill him because of my conscience. But it's all right for yours?"

Kuryakin's shrug was neutral. "You may believe what you want," he responded cryptically.

Solo stared at him for a long time. Many years and experiences had punctuated their friendship. This was his closest friend, yet there was so much the Russian still kept hidden from view. However, this time Solo believed he had his partner pegged. Those years had not been spent in idleness.

Solo had learned many things about the laconic Kuryakin. "I don't think the passport was fake," he stated firmly. "And I don't think he pulled that pistol."

"Oh?" Solo shook his head and tapped Kuryakin's hand which held the small pistol. "Karkov never did anything impulsive."

Illya's eyebrows rose, surprise easily discernable on the unusually open expression. Though he was a master at prevarication there was little he could hide anymore from his friend.

"It wasn't murder in passion or revenge," Solo continued with firm confidence. "It was a contract. Waverly ordered the hit."

The visage closed to inscrutability. There was no telltale expression on the impassive Russian countenance. "Surely that is mere semantics."

"Is it? Don't try to tell me there's no difference when it's personal or when it's just a job," Napoleon quickly countered, sinking to the sand, his energy reserves completely drained. "We don't like to kill, but when it's necessary we can accept it. When it's revenge I'm not sure we could live with the knowledge that we lost control."

Illya's eyebrows raised nearly as high as his shaggy bangs as he knelt down next to his partner. "It is too late for philosophy, Napoleon. Karkov is dead. Your war is over."

Closing his eyes, Solo nodded in grateful agreement. Solo felt a tremendous satisfaction wash over him, as gentle as the cool Trades. Karkov was history. And the other wars for his friends, those were over as well. Had Quixote felt life this after a skirmish with a windmill? So much of the guilt and resentment Napoleon had harbored over the years seemed manufactured from his own lack of confidence, his own weaknesses.

There were very real wars, real scars left from Korea, Vietnam, and every other war. but there were private wars each soldier brought home -- self-induced battles with guilt and unnecessary ghosts. Napoleon and Illya were constantly reminded of the deadly business they were in. The great danger brought with it a tremendous responsibility. They literally held life and death in their hands, could personally make the difference in world matters by the actions they took on routine assignments. They were only separated from their enemies by their consciences, by their moral control of the great power they wielded. To lose sight of that morality was to enter a grey area where they were indistinguishable from those they opposed.

"Waverly knew about Karkov's plot and couldn't risk its fruition," Solo speculated aloud to his partner. "Some of the allegations on a few of the US officials are probably close to the truth, if not fact. So Karkov had to die. If I didn't kill him, you would."

He paused and eyed Kuryakin speculatively, then ruefully suggested Illya had been assigned as a watchdog. An ulterior motive had possibly existed: a scenario to cause so much tension between Solo and Kuryakin, they would split the partnership on their own. Waverly had threatened such an action for some time, unhappy that their friendship frequently interfered with their efficiency as agents.

There had certainly been dissention between them. Solo felt lingering doubts that he had sealed the breach he had created from this obsession with Karkov. Now, it seemed a childish vengeance, insignificant compared to what he might have lost in Illya's respect and friendship.

"No," Illya corrected. "Coming with you was my idea."

Solo studied his partner, the beginnings of realization dawning. Illya was a very quiet, private person, undemonstrative and unrevealing in any personal matters. But the depth of his loyalty seemed unfathomable. It seemed amazing that even at with his worst behavior he had not driven Illya away.

"Why did you stop me from killing him?" Solo wondered in a soft voice.

"You said it yourself. For you it was personal." Kuryakin responded just as quietly, but glanced away from direct eye contact, almost embarrassed at the revelation that said so much with so few words.

There was no response possible. Though they had saved each other's lives too many times to count, there was never a need to mention their close friendship. Solo had learned at an early age that he could depend on no one but himself. Relationships reflected this superficial attitude, the inability to depend on anyone or commit to anything remotely resembling emotional ties.

Napoleon was touched beyond expression, wondering what he had ever done to deserve this kind of devotion. Illya would obviously do anything to protect him from physical harm as well as emotional hurt. A friend who would fight his personal wars with him -- beside him -- even FOR him. He reached out and squeezed Illya's shoulder, an inadequate response, but the only answer that would not diminish the moment.

The contact became a necessary support as the aftermath of events caught up with him. Solo felt completely drained in mind and body, energy spent. A phase of his life was closed, a few old ghosts were laid to rest, and an old war finished. Surprisingly, that realization was not nearly so satisfying as the comfort he derived knowing in any war or battle he would never have to fight alone. The unique partnership he shared with Illya could withstand any pressures, from without or within.

Solo abstractly questioned if he had acquired a new level of maturity. He could view this whole episode of his life -- Manchuria, Karkov -- as a learning experience. The pain was already eased by a feeling of growth within himself. He was changed for the better and could look at the world with a bright perspective. Strange that his guilt-ridden sense of friendship for the companions from Korea had brought this new outlook on present friends. But, that what friend's were for.

"Let's go home," Kuryakin suggested, his tone light. A subtle message that nothing more need be said between them. Life and their partnership, were back to normal.

"Higgins says the car is packed," Thomas Magnum reported as he joined Napoleon on the beach. Afternoon sun glinted off the clear water and lent a golden sheen of warmth to the tropical scene. Solo pulled his eyes away from the perfect blue sky.

"I'm set."

"Reluctant to leave?"

Solo shrugged. "It's always hard to leave paradise," he replied philosophically. "But it's time to go back to reality."

The last two days had been spent recuperating from the battle with Karkov. The old friends had caught up on years of absence. New friends had been firmly adopted into the group. All had promised to stay in touch, and it was a vow they intended to keep. A hot case had taken the Five-0 detectives back to work that morning. TC was combing the island for a place to house his new charter business. Rick had talked them into investing in a nightclub and was scouting a location.

Goldman had talked with Robin Masters about Magnum. If Thomas ever wanted to stay here in Hawaii and drop out of the Intelligence game, there was a place for him here, but Goldman was still pressuring the younger man to join the OSI.

"What have you and Oscar been cooking up?" Napoleon asked as they walked back to the house. "He was calling in favors all day yesterday."

"I'm thinking of retiring to become a private investigator," Magnum answered with a smile.

Napoleon scowled at what he considered a waste of material. "With your talents . . . ."

"I know, UNCLE or OSI would be happy to have me." Magnum laughed. "Just kidding. I'm not resigning my commission yet."

Solo looked at him closely. "The worst was behind you."

The young man assured the agent that his own ghost of mystery surrounding his father was diminished. He had learned a lot from these four special men. Magnum had been included in their quest for justice. A mission that had ended years of speculation about his father's death.

"Thanks doesn't seem enough," he said and stopped to put out a hand to stop Solo. "You never told me the whole truth, did you? Why were you so compelled to kill Karkov."

"That's a hard question to answer," Napoleon sighed, unsure of the reasoning himself. "A very personal revenge, I guess. I had to resolve it myself."

"Then why didn't you shoot him?"

Now that a few days had passed Solo could analyze the situation with an objective mind. Since Korea he had felt compelled to prove himself, to make up for the moment's hesitation that kept him from killing Karkov. When he had Karkov in his sights again, he had already proved his abilities to himself. Pulling the trigger would have been an excessive gratification of death. He hoped he never came to enjoy assassinations, even when the victim deserved it.

"I didn't have to." A smile brightened Solo's eyes. "Besides, Steve would have arrested me."

"When you found out he had immunity you almost killed him."

"Yes. It was the only way I could see that justice would be served." Solo started walking to the house again. "Just remember a bullet isn't always the answer to everything." He sighed and his voice was suddenly tinged with a fatigue that could have been sadness. "But you'll find there will be times it's the only answer."

"Offering more fatherly advice?" Illya asked as he joined them.

"More like advise from a Dutch Uncle," Solo countered wryly.

Higgins impatiently waited in the driveway with Oscar. Illya and Napoleon warmly shook hands with Higgins, then Magnum. Oscar made a last effort to draft Thomas into OSI, but the former NI officer declined. Goldman hugged the young man whose welfare he had covertly looked after for over two decades.

"Take care, Thomas. I'll keep in touch."

"I'll make sure you do," Thomas said affectionately.

He had no intention of drifting away from Oscar. Though they had met only a few weeks before, Goldman had been adopted as a mentor and friend. Magnum walked over to Higgins. The major-domo was seating himself behind the wheel of the Audi.

"I thought I'd run into Honolulu," Magnum said as he leaned near the window. "Do you think Robin would mind if I borrowed his Ferrari?"

The question was accompanied with a winning smile. Higgins scowled but reluctantly agreed. He commented that Robin's guests were free to use all the facilities of the estate. However, he made it clear they would have to lay down some ground rules if Magnum's stay ever became indefinite -- as the Naval officer was joking.

Goldman smiled at the young man. "And you didn't want the regimentation of the service? How could you survive Higgins?" he whispered in amusement.

"It would be a challenge, wouldn't it?" he answered with a smile indicating he would enjoy the game.

Goldman shared amused speculation with Solo and Kuryakin, appreciating the happy end of a long and bitter quest. Happy for everyone with the possible exception of Higgins.

At the airport a Five-0 sedan was waiting beside the private OSI jet. McGarrett and Williams talked with the three who would share a jet back to the east coast.

"And you better warn me next time you plan an operation on my turf. I'll lock down the airport to keep you guys out." It wasn't quite a joke. McGarrett resented the way his intelligence friends had handled themselves while on his rock, but he couldn't argue with the results.

The luggage was loaded onto the jet. Oscar shook hands a with each of the detectives, then boarded, consulting with the pilot. McGarrett took Solo aside and admonished the spy to take care of himself. Worn and on edge, Solo seemed strained beyond reasonable limits.

"No place like sunny Hawaii for a little holiday."

With a thin smile, Napoleon declined. "Another assignment awaits. You know how that goes."

A notorious workaholic, McGarrett momentarily saw things from a different perspective. "Yeah, I do. And I see what it's doing to you."

"Thanks, old friend, maybe next time." Napoleon gazed out at the distant view of Diamond Head against the backdrop of blue sky and white clouds, then sighed. "I'd love to stay for a very long time."

"But we are needed elsewhere," Illya reminded. The four exchanged shakes. "Aloha, until next time."

Solo boarded and McGarrett held Kuryakin back for a moment. "Take care of him, Illya."

"Always," he assured with a salute, then disappeared into the jet.

Watching the jet taxi away, Williams leaned on the sedan and sighed. "And I thought being with Five-0 was tough. Being a spy can either kill you or age you." He looked at his silent friend. "Bet you're glad you got out of that rat race." A wispy smile played at his lips. "And into this one."

McGarrett clapped him on the shoulder. "Yeah, different kind of stress." He gestured around him at the perfect day in paradise. "And the fringe benefits are unbeatable." Following the jet take off into the azure sky, he shook his head. "Wish it could be this good for all my friends."

"I have a feeling we'll see them again. I don't think Napoleon and Illya are going to stick with the game for much longer." At the questioningly look from his friend, Dan shrugged. "Instincts."

"Yeah, that's what my instincts tell me, too."