Gabriel Hunt - Hunt Through Napoleon's Web

“Khufu was very upset that you left without saying good-bye. I’m afraid he insists you return.”

“Who are you?” Lucy said. “Why are you working for them?”

“Why? Because they pay me,” the man said. “As for who I am . . .” He bowed slightly from the waist. “Reza Arif, at your service.”

Sammi double-parked the hotwired Citroen outside the baggage claim area and ran inside. She found Gabriel more or less in the same spot she’d met Arif. He swept her up in his arms and she found hers going around his neck. She hadn’t planned to kiss him; she got the sense it surprised them both when she did. But neither of them seemed in any hurry to end it.

“I was so worried about you,” she said when they finally separated. “Are you all right?”

“I’ve been worse,” he said. “You?”

She looked away. If anyone could understand —

“I killed two men,” she said.

“Did you,” Gabriel said, and stroked her hair gently. “Well. I’m sure they had it coming.”

“One did,” she said.

“I’m sorry,” he said.

“It was terrible,” she said. “I did not know if you were alive or dead; I did not know if I would live or die, I just knew I had to—had to . . .”

He took her in his arms again. “It’s okay.” Then he whispered something into her ear. “When I say ‘duck’ . . .”

“What?”

“Duck!” he shouted, and pressed one palm down on the top of her head while drawing his Colt with the other. Sammi dropped and rolled toward the metal bench against the nearest wall, wedging herself beneath it. She saw Gabriel running toward a pair of open glass doors, where two men with guns were charging toward him. All three guns were roaring and spitting flame; airline staff and deplaning passengers were running, screaming, trying to get out of the way.

One of the men went down, sprawling as the impact of a bullet above his right knee swept his legs out from under him. The other one kept coming, squeezing off shot after shot in Gabriel’s direction. Gabriel hunched down and a glass light fixture just past his shoulder exploded into fragments.

He whipped up a suitcase in one hand, saying “Sorry” to the astonished tourist who’d been reaching down to pick it up, and hurled it at the remaining gunman. The heavy bag split open in midair, punctured by a pair of gunshots, scattering clothing and duty free souvenirs in all directions; but the bullets didn’t halt the bag’s momentum and it smashed into the shooter’s hand with an audible crack. The gun flew out of the man’s hand and he dropped to his knees, cursing and cradling his broken wrist.

Gabriel ran back to the bench and extended a hand. Sammi grabbed hold and pulled herself to her feet. “Come on,” he said and raced toward a door marked PRIVATE FLIGHTS. They shot through and Gabriel slammed the door shut behind them, twisting the lock.

“Can I help you?” a young woman asked. She was well trained—her voice exuded calm and professionalism in spite of the sounds of gunfire she must have heard coming through the door.

“Yes,” Gabriel said. “Hunt Foundation, Gabriel Hunt. Where’s our plane?”

They heard someone try the doorknob, then start hammering on the door.

“Do you have any ID?” the woman said.

Gabriel grinned ruefully. He waved his Colt at her. “Honey, this is all the ID I’ve got, and it’s going to have to be good enough.”

A huge blow rocked the door. It wouldn’t stand up to many more.

“I’m sorry, sir,” the woman said, “but I am going to have to confirm with the pilot . . .”

“Come on, we’ll go confirm together.” Gabriel pushed past her, past the counter, and kicked open the metal door behind her. Across a hundred feet of sun-baked tarmac, the Hunt Foundation jet sat with its cockpit door open and stairs extended. A man in short sleeves sat at the top of the stairs, reading an issue of Plane and Pilot .

“Charlie!” Gabriel yelled as he ran toward the plane. “Get off your ass and get the engine started!”

Behind them, Sammi heard the door lock splinter.

“Sir,” the woman called breathlessly. She was running behind them, as fast as she could. “This man claims he’s Gabriel Hunt. Can you confirm—”

“That’s Gabriel, all right,” Charlie called back, and he disappeared into the cockpit.

“Happy?” Gabriel said.

The woman stopped running; she stood bent over, her hands on her knees, panting. Sammi knew how she felt. But she kept pushing till they reached the foot of the stairs, then followed Gabriel up, taking the steps two at a time. The stairs began retracting the instant her feet cleared the last step.

Looking out the window, she saw three men—two in airport uniforms, one in plainclothes—race across the tarmac after them. But Charlie already had the plane taxiing. A few gunshots sounded dully and one bullet spanged off the side of the plane. Then their nose was up and the ground dropped away behind them.

“Where we going?” Charlie called from the cockpit.

“Corsica,” Gabriel called back.

Pressing his hand against Thabit’s leg wound, Naeem made another call to Amun.

“They got away,” he reported. “On a private jet.”

“Never mind,” Amun said. “He will go right where we want him to, and he won’t raise a finger against us. Not now that we have his sister again.”

Chapter 18

Gabriel was glad for the chance to take a proper shower and change his clothes. He apologized to Sammi for not having anything on board she could change into.

“That’s all right,” she said, tousling his wet hair. “I’ll make do.” She shut the door between them. Gabriel heard the sound of the shower’s spray going on, then a zipper sliding down and a pair of shoes being kicked off. Then he heard the spray interrupted as she got in, followed by a low growl of contentment.

She’d be a while. Gabriel went up front to talk with Charlie.

“All due respect, Mister Hunt,” Charlie said, “you can’t just come running and expect me to take off on a dime. Not at a busy airport. Took a miracle to make it out of there without hitting anything.”

It was the longest speech Gabriel had ever heard from the man. He patted Charlie’s shoulder. “Didn’t take a miracle, just a great pilot.”

Charlie grumbled. But it was true—he’d seen Gabriel out of many a tight spot.

“Still,” he said. “Your brother wouldn’t like you taking risks like that. Or me, with Foundation property.”

“He ever complains to you about it,” Gabriel said, “you just tell him to talk to me.”

He sat in the copilot’s seat for the next hundred miles, watching Africa’s northwest coast disappear behind them and the south of Spain come into view. In the distance he could just make out the small humps in the water that were the Balearic Islands.

He thought about the ordeal Lucy had been through, and the one Sammi had. At least Lucy was on her way to Paris—that was one less thing to worry about, a big one. But Sammi was with him now, and he knew there was no way she’d agree to stay behind with the plane when they landed. He could tell her that Lucy had gone to Paris and would be looking for her there, encourage her to let Charlie fly her there, too—but he had a feeling she wasn’t going to let him face the Alliance on his own in Corsica any more than she had in Cairo. And the truth was it might be good to have her along. She was the historian, after all, not him, and her store of knowledge about Napoleon seemed likely to be more than a little useful if he wanted to get his hands on the Second Stone.

From the main cabin he heard the sound of the bathroom door opening, then footsteps padding toward the rear of the plane and storage compartments opening, one after another. When Gabriel went back, he saw Sammi standing with a blanket clutched around her, the fabric bunched in one fist.