Twenty, thirty, forty, Illya counted mentally as customers fled in all directions before the invasion. They kept coming in, the main mass in action within fifteen seconds, smashing chairs, kicking over tables and slashing the. upholstery along the walls.
Their leader, having established himself, led a small charge towards a specific table where sat the object of his opening address, a lean, keen-featured man in a casual sport coat over a white shirt over a black turtleneck. This individual spoke briefly to his companion, a beautiful brunette in a silver panne velvet pants suit, who looked coolly up at the advancing force, then opened her evening bag and flicked out a nine inch switchblade. The main focus of hostility rose smoothly to his feet with the chair between him and the approaching bikers.
He handled himself like a professional, but somehow Napoleon Solo didn't like the idea of twenty to one.
A cashier was frantically jiggling the hook on her dead telephone as Napoleon suddenly got up from his table and started forward.
"Where do you think you're going?" said Illya, catching his arm. "If you get into this you'll be noticed. Thrush is just as likely to have Harry followed tonight as they did two nights ago. Maybe more likely. Do you want to blow this whole scene?"
"But…" Napoleon stopped, one hand on the wrought iron railing that separated their table against the wall from the main floor.
The man, presumably Hewett, stood with his back to the matching railing at the front of the low stage. His hands gripped the top of a chair, and it was obvious without a spoken threat that the first arms and legs to reach for him would be broken. His companion remained seated, and had not opened her knife, but she eyed half a dozen hairy brutes on her side of the table, and none of them wanted to be the first to move.
Halted, several detached themselves from the fringes of the pack and started around onto the stage from both sides. A score more were content with systematically smashing the front of the club, ripping fixtures from the walls and slashing drapes and pictures.
Napoleon looked at Illya, then back at the stage where a deadly drama was developing. "Call HQ and have them call the police riot squad, code three. Call anonymously. I can't stand here and watch this – just don't tell Mr. Waverly!"
He vaulted over the rail and leaped to the stage, grabbing at a piece of wrought iron decoration as he landed. He stumbled and a two-foot section with a twist in the middle broke off in his hand. Three bikers turned to face him. "Keep out of this, you verbing adjective noun one of them warned.
"You don't have more than a couple minutes before the riot cops get here, punk," snapped Solo. "Do you want to leave walking, riding, or being carried?"
The unkempt biker laughed, a snort of derision. Then with a crash battle joined on the main floor. There were other knives in evidence, but the very press of numbers around Hewett prevented more than half a dozen coming within attack range of him. His stance was still solid, with a leg from the now-broken chair in each fist, and from his coiled crouch a hand or foot could dart and strike between thought and deed.
A long rip in one shoulder of his light jacket had laid bare the skin and a trickle of blood welled forth, but his breathing didn't seem hurried and his hair was undisturbed. He balanced like a dancer, holding off the first rush with the help of his companion, who stood straight and silver as a sword blade; a steel sliver stood from her dainty fist and its point flickered like a flame in a breeze – a respectful circle drew back from its bite, but a charge of animal rage was moments away. Not all the clientèle were huddling towards the exits – several otherwise unconcerned citizens had stayed to join the brawl. Most of them seemed unexpectedly able to take care of themselves against the undisciplined biker gang – experienced looking men, several with scars of more than age, and cold professional eyes – but one or two were unlikely allies. A plump little man with grey at his temples wielded a neatly furled umbrella like a rapier, jabbing at faces and stomachs with the grace of a trained fencer; at his back a taller man who looked like an out-of-condition executive distinguished by the white forelock on his otherwise black head swung a chair.
"Hiram," he gasped over his shoulder, "are you sure we should stick around?"
"You wanted to come here, Clarence," said the other, before lunging forward to half-impale a sweaty sternum.
The detachment expected to surround the embattled pair had been delayed by Napoleon more than ten seconds before the U.N.C.L.E. agent finished his repartee with the biker stud, who laughed and said, "No fuzz coming here, man. Sparky pulled the phone wires. We got five or ten minutes. You wanna, go-round?"
"How many of you does it take to pull down a man?"
"As many as it takes, man – there's lots of us." He lunged suddenly for Solo and a heavy waterglass hurtled out of nowhere to burst against the back of his head. His footing vanished and Napoleon sidestepped as he flew past with an inarticulate cry and shot full length off the stage.
During the moment his two cohorts took to react, Napoleon cracked one across the shins with his iron rod and just managed to ram the second in the pit of the stomach as he leaped forward. Now five more were coming towards him.
The first in the pack was floored by a heavy pitcher which entered the scene stage right along a parallel trajectory to that of the preceding glass. Napoleon glanced beyond him to see Illya in mid-air between their table and the back of another biker who was borne to the floor and did not rise again.
Then Illya was on the stage with his partner and their battle was fully joined. They had the stage cleared in the matter of a minute, and held the position for most of another minute until a wail of sirens pierced through the din and brakes squealed in the alley outside. Four masked and helmeted patrolmen ran in, batons at ready, cans of assorted incapacitants at their belts. Two were on the floor amid rubble before they had taken three steps; one was holding his own against five but more were leaping to join them. The fourth backed hastily out to call for reinforcements. "Napoleon," Illya yelled over the general noise, "I think this is getting out of hand. Unless you want to be arrested along with everybody else, we should begin to disengage. Besides, I'm allergic to tear-gas."
The half-circle around Hewett and his striking friend had dissipated, tempt(away by the prospect of policemen to loot, and the center of the brawl had shifted to the fallen guardians of public order. Suddenly the two men from U.N.C.L.E. found themselves with nobody to fight. The erstwhile target of the bikers' wrath stared after them for a moment, then the girl looked down at her silver velvet suit and swore a longshoreman's oath. "They spilled the Chateau d'Yquem all over my panne!"
Hewett turned to the team behind him on the stage and nodded. "Thanks," he said. "Care to go another-round?" He indicated the embattled officers with a toss of his head. Without waiting for an answer, he turned back to his companion. "You can sit this one out, Kish," he admonished her, then picked up a fresh chair and darted forward like a cat. Napoleon started to follow, and Illya grabbed him by the shoulder.
We're not supposed to be noticed!" he hissed. "Harry's not going to walk into the middle of this. If anybody spots us and Baldwin hears and this project is blown, Mr. Waverly isn't going to care if I did my honest best to stop you and failed – he'll have us both cataloging fingerprints in Kansas City for the next five years! A full riot squad will be here in a matter of minutes – I saw the fourth officer get outside to call for help. Now will you put down that crowbar and come the hell with me?"
"Not for a minute," said Napoleon, pointing at the front door with his crude jag-ended weapon. "Look. Here comes Harry."