The Dagger Affair - McDaniel David - Страница 27
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The two tear-gas bombs he had ready really were about as big as eggs. They contained no explosive other than their own internal pressures, released by impact, to spread their contents over a large area.
In a moment of afterthought, Napoleon got out his nose-filters and slipped them in. He hoped Illya had had time to get his own on. He should have — the firing was sporadic now.
The eggs arced down, and a few seconds later the floor of the warehouse was a blanket of smoke. Illya burst out of the fog and headed for the door, followed blindly by a number of choking, weeping men.
Napoleon sprinted along the catwalk back to the ladder, and dropped down it, hardly touching the rungs. As his feet hit the floor he was jumping for the door by which he had come in.
Illya dashed around the corner and leaped into the car as the engine roared into life, and the little car took off with a squeal just as three figures appeared at the edge of the building and began letting off shots after them.
"They appear sorry to see us leave," said Illya.
"I can tell," said Napoleon, "they're are all broken up about it. Incidentally, remind me to go back there after the air clears and pick up my pistol. I hope it can be repaired after that fall. "
"I didn't want to bring this up, Napoleon, but there appear to be three or four cars following us. It would seem a fairly large force of DAGGERs has come out to welcome us."
"You must really have stepped on some toes. What all did you find out?"
"Nothing, really," said Illya casually as the car suddenly whipped into a 90-degree turn and shot off down a side-street. "I sort of looked around and got a few ideas. It looks as if one of them may have been correct." He popped open the glove compartment and produced another automatic as Napoleon tapped the brakes and twisted the wheel, and with hardly a bit of momentum lost they spun and headed up an alley.
It turned in the middle, and he had to brake sharply to make the corner. Half a block ahead, a car was parked crosswise, blocking the alley.
Illya spoke again. "I hate to be the first one to suggest this, but I think we're outnumbered. Would you rather die heroically or call for help?"
Napoleon had his transceiver out.
"Agents Solo and Kuryakin, requesting assistance."
A voice answered almost at once, requesting situation evaluation and location. Napoleon gave them.
"Thank you," said the voice. "We will have a flying squad there in five minutes."
"A flying squad?" said Napoleon blankly.
Then something shattered the windshield, and shards of glass burst into the front seat between him. They flung open their respective doors and dived out.
There was one single streetlamp high overhead, right where the alley turned. It cast the shadow of their car ahead of them, and picked out several moving figures, ducking behind garbage cans, rubbish bins and the one telephone pole. There appeared to be about a dozen of them.
A moment later Illya appeared beside Napoleon. "I just checked around the corner," he said. "There's another team moving up the other end of the alley."
Napoleon shrugged. "You drew yourself an assignment," he said. "You stop yours, and I'll stop mine."
"And if you don't?"
"We'll think of something." He half-rose from his concealed position and snapped off a shot at something moving. When he ducked down again, Illya was gone.
Two quick shots from behind him meant his partner was on-post, and his rear would be as well-protected as any one man could accomplish. He turned his full attention down the alley.
Something lobbed through the air, and Napoleon buried his head in his arms and clutched at the ground. There was a dull explosion, and the car was suddenly wrapped in flames. Under the rising cloud of smoke, Napoleon saw a number of pairs of legs running toward him, zig-zagging as they came.
He began shooting at them, slowly and carefully. Two men went down, and his garbage can was hit three times by others. Then a gas-masked figure loomed out of the smoke and Napoleon fired point-blank at him, feeling a mild surprise when nothing happened as his gun jammed. Without wasting a moment trying to fire, he leaped sideways as the masked man's gun roared flame. He snatched up the garbage can and slung it at waist level.
It caught the other man across the stomach and the gun hand and bowled him over. Napoleon was in the air by the time he hit the ground, and landed with both knees on the other's rib-cage. He caught the swinging gun neatly across his shoulder and felt pain lance down his arm. He swung his own gun backhanded across the other man's face, tearing off the gas-mask and laying him out unconscious.
The car was burning merrily now, and Napoleon felt glad for the sealing gas-tank that was standard equipment on all U.N.C.L.E. cars. An explosion in this confined space could be quite uncomfortable.
On the other hand, the burning car now effectively blocked the alley from the end he was guarding. He picked up the .38 Special he had been attacked with, tucked his own malfunctioning weapon back in its holster, and looked cautiously around the corner.
Illya was standing behind a telephone pole a few yards down the alley. Napoleon called to him.
"Can you use any help? I got my half."
Illya glanced over his shoulder. "Thank you, no. I'm well matched. They are very bad shots."
All the same, Napoleon experimentally drew a careful bead and ricocheted a slug off the brick wall approximately into the midst of the hiding figures. There was no reaction, so he shrugged and pulled back. Never was that good at cushion shots, he thought.
A sudden roaring sound like a low-flying jet went off behind him then, and he spun, dropping into a crouch with his gun at ready. Then he saw a white cloud of vapor swelling up through the flames of the burning car. A moment later the flames shrank and began to vanish. Through the clouds Napoleon could see several figures in black suits and gas masks. Heaving a tired sigh, he raised the gun.
"Don't shoot," came a muffled voice. "We're your rescue party."
Then he could see on every breast pocket a white patch with the black emblem of Thrush. He sat down on the pavement and leaned back against the brick wall as a fusillade of shots sounded from around the corner. Of course — the other half of the rescue party.
This just wasn't right! Not only had he and Illya blundered into a trap, they had been forced to call for help to get out of it. And to top off the complete humiliation, they had been rescued by Thrush. They must have been monitoring the frequency complex of U.N.C.L.E.'s transceivers, and had answered his call. That was why the voice had promised "a flying squad."
The shots from around the corner stopped, and the sounds of voices came, followed a few seconds later by Illya, surrounded by a troop of heavily-armed Thrushes. His head was down and his shoulders didn't quite have the usual set. Napoleon got slowly to his feet as the rest of the rescue party vaulted over the smoking remains of the car.
The leader stuck out his hand, while peeling back his mask with the other. "Mr. Solo? I'm John Whiting, your friendly neighborhood Thrush rescue party leader. Any casualties on our side?"
Napoleon shook his head slowly. Not only rescued, but automatically included on "our side." He wondered momentarily whether he had really wanted that badly to be rescued.... "No...not as far as I know. Illya?"
"No, I'm unhurt."
"Good. Who is this customer?" asked John, prodding the prone figure with his toe.
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