Pulp Fiction | The Dagger Affair by David McDaniel

by Unknown

  Napoleon rejoined Illya and Waverly. "I called home," he said. "They'll be sending someone for us."

  "All we have to do is wait for them," said Waverly. Napoleon couldn't tell whether there was a slight hint of sarcasm in his voice or not.

  Illya was scanning the area with the telescope on his automatic. He stopped and spoke without taking it away from his eyes. "There are about half a dozen of them behind that tractor."

  "Keep them pinned down," said Waverly, "but conserve your ammunition. Napoleon, keep looking in other directions. They may have intended to be seen to distract us from the real attack."

  Illya snapped a shot which pinged off the foot of the tractor and howled away into the darkness. "Oh well," he said, keeping his eye to the scope, "at least it's nice to know who our enemies are again." He sent another shot after the first.

  "Tally-ho," said Napoleon conversationally, and let off four quick shots to the other side. "Here come our bandits at a dead run."

  The Thrushes scattered before his fire, diving for cover in various directions. One of them found time to lob a small grenade which burst with a puff just upwind of them. A cloud of smoke rolled over them.

  "Squeeze your eyes tight shut," snapped Waverly. "I think I know what this is. They did this for several seconds until at last Waverly said, "Look out — here they come!"

  They opened their eyes and saw the Thrushes bearing down on them from both sides. They hugged their cover and fired back. Napoleon felt a slug pluck at the shoulder of his coat, and his hat disappeared a moment later, but he was unhurt. His luck was back in operation.

  Then there was a growing thunder in the sky, and a directionless wind whirled dust up all around them. Something chattered like a stick along a picket fence, and the attacking forces broke and scattered. Napoleon looked up.

  There was the rescue force, in the traditional nick of time. The big helicopter with the skeleton-globe insignia roared above them, hovering unsteadily. Leaning out the door, a Thompson in his hands, was Jerry Davis himself, impeccable as ever, his hair only slightly disarranged by the airblast from the blades above him. He waved to them, and they waved back as the helicopter descended.

  It touched the ground, and a door in the side opened to release a dozen or more field agents, who spread out across the blacktop, each with a small floodlight in one hand and a gun in the other, jacklighting Thrushes. Davis vaulted out of the door and, ducking his head under the blades with the ease of long practice, trotted over to them.

  The motor roared, coughed, and died, and in the sudden silence they realized he was shouting. "I THOUGHT THE OLD..." He stopped, looked over his shoulder at the 'copter, and repeated in a normal tone, "I thought the old so-and-so would try a last minute doublecross. Didn't dare have the reinforcements any closer, though, or he might have got wind of them. He's got a nose like a fox, too."

  Waverly harrumphed, and frowned. "I didn't expect him to break the alliance before the hostages were released. They were three key men in the Thrush American operation."

  This time Davis looked worried. "But...we just received word from New York that they had been released, according to your order received an hour ago. Your office said you'd called from Kennedy International with the word you'd arrived safely and to let them all go. And they did.

  "Then they thought to let me know the alliance was officially over, and to go back on a state of alert."

  Waverly didn't say anything. There was nothing he could say, since he never swore.

  He let a decent length of time pass for the number of epithets he had considered, and then said, "Baldwin must have had this entire operation set up to go into effect the moment he received word the hostages had been released. He very nearly succeeded."

  He thought about it for a while, watching the lights moving here and there about the landing field, and hearing an occasional shot. "That's what I get for ignoring my own advice. I said when this whole business started that we had to work with them, but should watch them constantly. I was lulled off my guard by them." He shook his head sadly.

  "And to think I saved that man's life fifty years ago...." He thought about this, too, and then picked up his overcoat. "On the other hand, he saved my life a few times in the last few days, as I saved his. I suppose the balance sheet is even now."

  He started off down the field, Napoleon, Illya and Davis following him. Davis was talking about changing their reservations to the next plane; Napoleon and Illya were checking over their guns and reloading the expended clips. Alexander Waverly walked on ahead, and the thoughts that occupied his mind he communicated to no one.

  Absently he searched his pockets until he found a pipe and tobacco, combined them carefully, and set fire to them. Still he remained apart from the conversations of the younger men — men who had seen so much less of life than he had, but who were already more used to the impermanence of treasured things. His thoughts rose with the cloud of tobacco smoke into the still, cold air, and caught the glare from the floodlights that still illuminated the landing field.

  At length he became aware that the conversation had stopped, and he looked around. Napoleon and Illya were looking at him, and Davis was standing near the entrance to the concourse.

  Waverly looked back at them, and cleared his throat. "Come, gentlemen," he said. "We still have a plane to catch."

  And he went ahead of them through the opened door.

  THE END

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  posted 6.8.2002, transcribed by Connie