by Gabriel Hunt
The three of them circled, Grissom with his dagger, the cult leader with his staff, and Gabriel with the shotgun. His finger twitched on the trigger. He was tempted to try to blast them both, but buckshot was hardly a precision projectile. If he shot at either of them, there was a good chance he’d hit the gemstones. He didn’t know what would happen if they shattered, but with the amount of energy they seemed barely to be containing he suspected it wouldn’t be good.
“We are at impasse,” the cult leader said, his words thick with a Russian accent. The emerald glowed at the top of his staff. “But not much longer. All Teshub’s Eyes are to me soon. And world will burn in Ulikummis hand.”
“Oh, just shoot this man already,” Grissom said to Gabriel. “If I have to listen to one more minute of his gibbering…”
“Quiet, both of you,” Gabriel said. “Now: give me the gemstones.”
“Give you the sacred eye?” the high priest spat. “Never.”
Grissom shrugged. “I’m certainly not going to give you anything. I suppose we are, as the man said, ‘at impasse.’”
Gabriel heard a sound then overhead, a sound loud enough to cut through the clamor of battle and bloodshed. It sounded like…a helicopter? He risked a glance up, but could only make out a blur high above him, something dark moving across the sky. What would a helicopter be doing out in the middle of the Kalahari Desert at night? Had it been drawn by the sound of gunfire, or had someone reported the sudden twilight appearance of a colossus half the height of the Statue of Liberty?
But the shape—copter or otherwise—sped out of sight before he could properly make it out and Gabriel returned his gaze to the scene before him. It had changed meaningfully even in the fraction of a second he’d looked away. At first, he had the impression that Grissom and the high priest were wrestling, standing so close together they seemed to be grappling with each other. It was only when the staff fell to the ground that Gabriel realized Grissom had stabbed his dagger into the high priest’s chest. Grissom shoved, driving the dagger deeper. The high priest dropped to his knees as Grissom tore the dagger out, then he fell forward onto the ground. Grissom grabbed the staff from where it lay in the sand and cut the emerald free from its lashings with a single swipe of the dagger’s razor-sharp blades.
Gabriel swung the shotgun toward Grissom and stepped forward so the barrel was just inches from his face.
“What are you going to do, Hunt, shoot me?” Grissom said calmly. “And risk destroying three priceless historical artifacts in the process? I don’t think so. I don’t think you’re the kind of man who—”
Gabriel jabbed the muzzle toward Grissom’s forehead. “You don’t know what kind of man I am.”
Grissom’s self-confident smile faded.
“I don’t want to kill you,” Gabriel said, “but I will if you don’t hand over the jewels.”
“Well, then, Hunt, you’ll have to shoot, because I’m not handing over a damn thing. But,” he said, “before you do, you might want to consider what will happen if you accidentally hit one of the jewels. Ah—I see you have been thinking about this. Good. You are wise not to pull the trigger. It could be like a nuclear explosion if it went wrong.” Grissom slid the third jewel—the emerald liberated from the high priest’s staff—into yet another pocket on his vest. The thing was bulging around him now like a life jacket.
“You have to make a choice, Hunt. There are only two options. Shoot me—and risk blowing us all up, and the statue, too—or let me go.”
“You’re wrong,” Gabriel told him. “There’s another choice.”
“Oh?”
Gabriel clubbed Grissom across the face with the shotgun’s stock. Grissom fell backward, dropping unconscious to the sand, a streak of blood across his mouth.
“There’s always another choice,” Gabriel said.
Hanging the shotgun over his shoulder by its strap, Gabriel knelt beside Grissom to pull the vest off him. He felt the jewels inside, knocking gently against one another through the padded fabric. The Three Eyes of Teshub. Together again, for the first time in millennia. Even through the fabric, the energy passing from one to the others made his palms tremble.
He hung the vest over his other shoulder. The Cult of Ulikummis and Grissom’s men, unaware that their leaders were out of commission, were continuing to struggle across the patch of desert standing between Gabriel and the statue. Which meant he had to go around. Cradling the vest under one arm, he started running, keeping to the outskirts and sprinting as fast as he could. Stray bullets zipped past him and puffed clouds out of the sand where they hit. He kept his head down. The statue loomed up ahead.
He glanced behind him as he skidded to a stop and in the distance saw Grissom climbing unsteadily back onto his feet. They wouldn’t have long. He turned to Joyce, who was standing beside Daniel with her arms by her sides. His Colt, he noticed, was nowhere to be seen—and neither was DeVoe. “What hap—” Gabriel began, but the question answered itself: Joyce shook her head sadly, apologetically, as DeVoe stepped into view, training Gabriel’s own weapon on him.
Gabriel ducked away, dashing around the statue’s leg. He heard a gunshot and saw a chip of stone fly off the statue where DeVoe’s bullet had hit.
Gabriel ran across the stretch of sand between the statue’s legs and took refuge behind the farther one. He clutched the shotgun to his chest, got his finger around the trigger, made ready to bring it out—but, glancing over, he saw that DeVoe had run behind Joyce and Daniel for cover. DeVoe raised the Colt above Joyce’s head and Gabriel snatched his head back—but very nearly too far back, since a gunshot rang out behind him, from the direction of the battlefield, and the bullet came within a hairbreadth of his ear. Gabriel’s back was exposed—but there was no way to protect it without putting himself in DeVoe’s sights. He looked up at the statue towering above him. There was only one way to get a better position.
Strapping the shotgun fully across his back, he began climbing the statue’s leg, pulling his way up by hooking his fingers and toes into fissures in the stone. Another bullet struck near him. He forced himself to ignore it and keep climbing.
Moments later he heard Grissom’s voice directly below. “Stop shooting, you fool! You’ll damage the gemstones!” Looking down he saw that Grissom had managed to cross the battlefield and was standing beside DeVoe. Grissom had picked up a shotgun, too, and he used it now to gesture at Joyce and Daniel. “Leave them to me. You get up there and stop him—and bring me those stones!”
DeVoe stuffed the Colt into his belt and started scaling the statue’s other leg. And damn it, the man was fast. Gabriel kept climbing, as quickly as he dared. He was approaching the statue’s outstretched hand, which stood palm-up forty feet off the ground. If he could get to it—
He reached out for it, but it was still too far. He climbed another few feet and tried again, straining across the gap. He could feel the stone under his fingers…but could he get a solid grip? He clamped down with one hand and prepared to bring the other over—and as he did, his left foot slipped out of the fissure he’d braced it in. Desperately he swung his other arm across, biting down on the rough stone with his fingertips. His other foot slipped from its hold as momentum carried him across, and he found himself dangling from the statue’s hand, the jewel-filled vest pulling heavily on his arm. He tried to swing his legs up. His first try failed—not high enough. As he tried again, he glanced to the side and saw that DeVoe had reached the statue’s hip and was starting to inch his way over toward him.
Pulling with all his might, Gabriel managed to get one leg over the edge of the giant stone palm. Breathing hard, he hauled himself the rest of the way over and lay back, panting. He unslung the shotgun and, rolling over onto his belly, pointed it at the mercenary’s head. He pulled the trigger. The man flinched—but nothing else happened. Gabriel pumped the shotgun and fired it again. Nothing. DeVoe grinned ruthlessly and pulled himself nearer while Gabriel pawed through his pockets. One more shell—he had to h
ave at least one more…
The sound of whirling blades overhead cut the air for the second time that night. The helicopter was back, making a wide circle over the battlefield. It was long and sleek, but also wide, built to carry several men—a military vehicle. Against the darkening sky, Gabriel could just make out a green and black camouflage design on its hull. The side door slid back, and standing in the doorway was a man whose face was masked by a helmet and goggles. Something was balanced on his shoulder—a cylinder like a poster tube.
Or a missile launcher.
The vapor trail of a missile shot out of the weapon. It hit at the edge of the battlefield, its explosion sending up a wave of sand and smoke. Gabriel saw bodies tumble through the air, propelled by a blast that was strong enough to make the statue shake a dozen yards away. He saw DeVoe struggle to keep his grip, clinging like a spider to the statue’s belly. From the battlefield, bullets and arrows flew at the helicopter, which swerved away and disappeared into the night sky.
Gabriel finished going through his pockets—no shells.
He chanced a look down at the ground. Grissom swung his shotgun up to fire at him, but as he pulled the trigger Joyce reached up with one arm and clocked him on the side of the head. The gunshot went wide—and Grissom went down to his knees. Gabriel saw Joyce drop the stone she’d picked up from the ground and run over to the statue’s leg to begin climbing herself.
“No, Joyce—don’t come up here,” Gabriel called, but either she couldn’t hear or wasn’t listening, since she kept coming. And Gabriel had more immediate things to worry about, as DeVoe made the leap from the statue’s side to the thumb of its upturned hand. Gabriel bent to pry the mercenary’s fingers off the stone, but they were like steel. As he raised the stock of the shotgun to bring it down on DeVoe’s fingers, DeVoe swung his legs up, dealing Gabriel a savage kick in the temple. Gabriel fell sideways, almost toppling off the hand entirely. He felt a trickle of blood well up and touched the side of his face. His hand came away sticky. Steel-toed boots. An inch or two to the left and he’d have been wearing an eyepatch like DeVoe’s—assuming he’d survived at all.
DeVoe pulled himself up onto the palm. He drew Gabriel’s Colt from his belt, pointed it at him, and held out his free hand. Palm up, like Teshub’s. “Come on, Hunt. There’s nowhere for you to go. Just hand the jewels over.”
“You won’t shoot,” Gabriel said, panting. “You might damage the jewels. Maybe blow us all up.”
“You think I can’t put a bullet through your head without hitting that vest?” DeVoe said. “Does eight years as a sniper with the U.S. Army mean anything to you?”
“Bet you still had both your eyes back then,” Gabriel said. “And your depth perception.”
DeVoe cocked the gun and aimed it.
At that moment, the helicopter flew over them again. Another missile shot out of the open door in its side and landed in the middle of the battlefield. The explosion knocked both Gabriel and DeVoe off their feet. Gabriel managed to hold onto the statue’s stone fingers, but DeVoe teetered on the edge and went over, clawing at the air. Gabriel crawled to the edge. The mercenary was forty feet off the ground clinging to a fold of Teshub’s stone robe. Shaking his head to clear it, planting his feet solidly against the statue’s side, DeVoe started climbing again.
A glance in the other direction showed Gabriel that the battlefield had been thoroughly decimated. Bodies lay scattered across the sand. Few of the figures were moving on either side, and those that were were moving slowly—white robes crawling back toward the desert, bloodstained khaki fatigues toward the jeeps. The helicopter was flying off again, smoke trailing from bullet holes in its tail.
Who the hell is that? Gabriel thought. And whose side is he on—Grissom’s or the cult’s?
As Gabriel rose to his feet, he saw that, climbing swiftly, DeVoe had made it up to the statue’s shoulder. He watched as the mercenary climbed up to the crown of the statue’s head. Unfortunately, DeVoe had managed to hold onto the Colt, and now he had a perfect vantage point from which to use it.
“Gabriel!” Joyce shouted. He looked down. Joyce had reached the side of the statue directly across from the hand. Holding on with both knees and one hand, she flung something at him with the other—a handful of shotgun shells. One flew by well out of reach; he grabbed at the others. One landed squarely in his palm. Turning, he slammed the shell into the chamber and aimed at DeVoe, who was balanced atop the head and turning the Colt toward Gabriel. They both grabbed for their triggers—but Gabriel got to his first, the blast hitting DeVoe in the chest. The force of the buckshot knocked him backward off the statue. He cried out as he fell, twisting in the air. The mercenary slammed into the ground seventy feet below, his cry suddenly silenced.
Gabriel helped Joyce up onto the statue’s hand. She threw her arms around him and planted a kiss on his mouth.
“What was that for?” he asked.
“For not being dead,” she said. “Yet. Do you have the Eyes?”
“All three of them,” Gabriel said. He patted the vest, where the Three Eyes of Teshub felt like they were throbbing. He noticed they’d grown progressively warmer with their proximity to the statue.
A shotgun blast rang out, and a chunk at the end of the statue’s middle finger broke off. Gabriel peered down. Below, Grissom was aiming up at them. Gabriel ducked back as Grissom fired again, the buckshot peppering the edge where he’d been kneeling. He took one of the gemstones from the vest—the ruby—and handed it to Joyce. “We’ve got to split up,” he said. “Keep them away from Grissom.”
“We’re pretty far from Grissom up here,” Joyce said.
“Not for long,” Gabriel said, and pointed. Sure enough, Grissom had begun making the climb. Daniel tried to grab hold of his leg, but Grissom kicked him away, sending him sprawling.
Gabriel groped for another of the shotgun shells Joyce had thrown earlier; several lay scattered around the palm. He reloaded the gun, then took the vest and climbed with it precariously up Teshub’s bent arm and across to the statue’s massive head, balancing with both arms out like a high-wire walker. He stopped beside one of the figure’s ears. Looking back, he saw that Joyce was still standing on the upturned palm—and Grissom was coming closer by the second.
“Joyce, get away!” he shouted.
She stuffed the ruby under her belt, but didn’t move off the hand. Grissom was started to make his move across, his shotgun strapped across his back.
“Joyce!” Gabriel cried again.
“I can take care of this bastard,” she said. Standing over Grissom, she pulled back one leg to kick out at his head—but he snaked an arm around her other ankle and yanked, bringing her crashing down.
Grissom pulled himself the rest of the way onto Teshub’s palm and swung the shotgun off his back. He leveled it at Joyce. “Get up,” he said. “Slowly.” Grissom kept the gun on her as she did. The ruby glinted at her waist.
Sighting down the barrel of his shotgun from his perch by the statue’s ear, Gabriel cursed under his breath. There was no way he could pull the trigger without spraying them both with buckshot. He thought of what Joyce said back in Borneo, that if he had to make a choice between saving her and stopping Grissom, he should forget about her and do what needed to be done. She’d meant it, and he’d promised that he would. The trigger felt cold against his fingertip. His heart hammered his ribs. Sweat trickled from his forehead.
The question was whether he could do it.
He looked down into Joyce’s eyes and lowered the shotgun.
Grissom came around behind her, using her as a shield, the shotgun pointed up at her head. It was an awkward angle, but by bending over slightly he managed to keep his finger on the trigger. “If you don’t want to see your lovely friend’s brains spread across the desert, throw down the gun and come back here now. This is it, Hunt—the end of the line.” He smiled, but there was nothing of pleasure in it. “World’s End,” he said.
Chapter 24
> Gabriel aimed the shotgun again, but all he could see was half of Grissom’s head behind Joyce’s grimacing face. “I’m in no mood to repeat myself,” Grissom called. He grabbed Joyce’s hair, pulling her head back, and with his other hand jammed the shotgun muzzle under her jaw.
Gabriel lowered the shotgun and let it drop from his hands. It sailed down from where he stood until it was lost in darkness. They heard it land on the sand below.
“Very good,” Grissom said. “Now come back here.”
Gabriel walked along the statue’s outstretched arm back to the hand.
Grissom’s eyes narrowed as he watched Gabriel approach. “No surprises, Hunt.” He pushed the muzzle harder against Joyce’s jaw.
“Don’t do it, Gabriel,” Joyce managed to say through clenched teeth.
“I won’t let him hurt you,” Gabriel said.
“You’ve got to—” she began, but Grissom silenced her with another jab of the gun.
“Now,” Grissom said. “Please take the ruby.”
“Take it?”
“Yes,” Grissom said. “Thousands of years ago, the Hittite Empire hid the Three Eyes of Teshub around the world. Now, I am going to let you have the honor of being the man who gives them back.”
Gabriel lifted the ruby out from under Joyce’s belt. He could see how rapidly she was breathing. She was frightened—but of what? That Grissom would pull the trigger? Or that he wouldn’t, because Gabriel would do what he wanted?