[Magazine 1968-012] - The Million Monsters Affair - Davis Robert Hart - Страница 11

“Who?” Solo asked.

“The news photographer who tried to take our picture in the terminal!”

“So what? This thing is news. I’d be surprised if -”

“Yeah,” Illya cut in, “but he hasn’t taken a single picture. He keeps pointing that camera, but never shoots. If I remember correctly, the fight went out of those zombies in the terminal when he was bowled over and his camera broken!”

“A camera would be an excellent place to disguise a transmitter,” Waverly put in.

“We’ll find out right fast!” Napoleon said grimly. He shoved down the antenna to cut the connection with U.N.C.L.E. headquarters.

“Where is he?” Napoleon asked Illya.

His companion nodded his head. “He was standing atop that overturned car a moment ago. He can’t be far. Come on!”

Ahead of them the riot mob was weaving an insane dance. Then suddenly the fury went out of them. The length of the jam packed street of destruction men and girls were dropping in exhaustion. Panting, shivering, bewilderment on their faces, they sagged in their tracks, too tired to move a step. The terrible electronic will that had forced actions beyond their strength had released its hold upon their minds.

“There he is!” Illya cried, pointing across the street.

Solo whirled. The collapse of the riot revealed the man they sought crouched back against a brick wall almost directly opposite of them.

Napoleon saw the man duck and the blast of a gun cut above the sobbing gasps and moans of the suffering rioters. The glass window just opposite of the wall shattered as the bullet plowed into it.

“It’s the girl!” Illya gasped. “Marsha Mallon! She’s trying to kill him!”

Then Napoleon saw her. She was leaning around the corner of the building. The coat she was wearing was partly fallen open. Underneath he could see a polka dotted bikini.

She fired again. The photographer was knocked back as her bullet smashed into his leg. He twisted as he fell, apparently seeking desperately to keep his camera from being smashed in the fall.

The girl stepped from the partial protection of the brick corner. She raised her gun to get a better shot at the fallen man. It was not a case of protecting herself. She was out to commit murder!

Solo jerked up his U.N.C.L.E. Special, snapping the double cartridge cylinder to insure the stunning pellets were in place instead of the steel jacketed bullets. They would render her unconscious without any ill after-effects. He had a double motive in knocking the girl out: to prevent her from murdering the photographer and to save the man for questioning under the powerful U.N.C.L.E. truth serum.

But before he could shoot, Illya called frantically: “Quick, Napoleon! There, behind her!”

Kuryakin, who had lost his own gun in the fire, pointed to two men coming up fast behind the girl. One had the oddly shaped THRUSH gun in his hand.

Napoleon and the THRUSH agent fired at the same time. The agent collapsed with a strangled cry. Intent upon the second man from THRUSH, Solo did not see what happened to the girl.

The second killer dodged back around the corner. Solo shouted back over his shoulder to Kuryakin, “Get that photographer, Illya! I’ll try to take care of the other one!”

He started across the street, his way impeded by the fallen rioters. Kuryakin headed for the photographer, who was writhing in agony on the pavement.

But before he could reach him, a third man opened fire from across the street. Kuryakin ducked, falling flat on the pavement between two dead girls, killed when they fell in the crushing mob and were trampled.

Solo caught his frantic movement and whirled to see what the danger was. As he did a bullet whined past his head, shot from the gun of the man he had been pursuing.

Caught in the cross fire between the two THRUSH agents, Solo ducked behind an overturned car. Partially protected, he aimed through the broken windshield, firing first at the left side of the street and then at the right.

He shot rapidly, exhausting his ammunition to provide cover for Kuryakin. If he could keep the killer’s attention riveted on him, then the more exposed Kuryakin would have a chance to get better cover.

Illya, under cover of the rapid exchange of gunfire, got to his feet. His legs shook from fatigue. He stumbled and fell. Grimly he forced himself to get back up, although every muscle in his body screamed for rest.

Only his iron will kept him from falling. He got across the street. His legs were shaking as if he had run five miles. Illya Kuryakin’s throat was raw from his gasping breath.

He glanced back. Napoleon and the two THRUSH agents were still blasting away at each other. In the distance three police sirens were screaming as reinforcements poured into the area.

They were too far away to be of any help to the men from U.N.C.L.E. and the street was too much of a shambles to permit any fast action by anyone. They could expect no help. As so often happened in their dangerous work, the only persons Illya and Napoleon could depend upon were themselves.

As Kuryakin closed in on the suspected photographer, the man snaked his body around. He jerked up the camera. Illya tried to duck, but his exhausted legs wouldn’t support the sudden movement. He fell.

The photographer swung the camera in a murderous blow at Illya’s head.

Kuryakin threw his head back and took the blow on the shoulder. The camera burst open. Illya caught a momentary glimpse of the interior. It wasn’t the usual black box.

He saw a flash of complicated wiring and transistors.

He hurled himself at the THRUSH man. His shoulder was numb and his legs refused to support him. But he snaked his body around and grabbed the photographer’s arm. He threw all his dwindling strength on it, attempting to wrench the man’s limb back in an imprisoning grasp.

The man jerked back and then lunged forward, driving his head into Illya’s stomach. The man from U.N.C.L.E. was knocked back. His head struck the pavement. He gave a choking cry.

THREE

NAPOLEON SOLO saw his companion fall. But he was powerless to come to his aid. The two THRUSH killers had him in a cross fire. He raised his head, looking for a target. A THRUSH bullet smashed into the car and ricocheted up the street with a murderous whine.

Ducking as low as possible, Napoleon pulled out his pen communicator. He extended the antenna and called New York.

“Mr. Waverly? An emergency! Can you transmit a call to the Los Angeles sheriff’s office? They have men surrounding this area doing the best they can, but we need their help. The photographer is getting away. Can you ask the patrols to look out for him?”

“What is his description?” Waverly’s voice came back.

“About Kuryakin’s height. His hair is black and his chin so narrow that his face appears wedge-shaped. Light summer suit of an olive plaid.”

“The call will go out,” Waverly said. “And you? Isn’t that gunshot I hear in the distance?”

“Yes, sir. A slight detail to take care of. If you’ll excuse me, sir. I’m busy!”

Slamming down the pen communicator antenna, Napoleon Solo checked his weapon. His ammunition was dangerously low. There were three shots left. He was sure that his adversaries were in equally bad shape.

Their firing had tapered off. He suspected they were holding their shots, husbanding their ammunition and waiting for him to present a target.

“Give them what they want!” he said grimly.

He snaked his body forward. He half raised up, still protected from their sight by the body of the overturned car. From this vantage point he reached up with the barrel of the U.N.C.L.E. gun and gave the upturned front wheel a spin.

Instantly there was a crash of gunfire as the two THRUSH liquidators caught the movement and started shooting in nervous haste.

Solo caught a glimpse of the one across the street as he leaned around the corner of the building to shoot. He squeezed off the Special’s trigger. The shot caught the THRUSH man full in the chest. Solo whirled to face his second adversary.