Gabriel Hunt - Hunt Through Napoleon's Web

It was Gabriel’s turn to say, “I have no idea.” Instead of some glittery, fashionable purse, the young woman carried a cloth-wrapped bundle of some sort. The cloth was a faded red, and to Gabriel’s eye, it appeared old. The fabric looked distressed, the edges frayed.

A waiter moved in front of her, offering her a drink. She shook her head and looked irritated that the man had interrupted her progress across the hall. When Gabriel saw that, he tossed back the champagne in one of the glasses he held, then pressed the other into Michael’s hand.

Either the lady didn’t drink, or she had something else on her mind at the moment.

Gabriel set the empty glass on a pedestal supporting a clay vase, then turned to greet the young woman with a smile as she finally reached the spot where he and Michael were standing, near one of the pillars that ran along the sides of the hall.

“Señor Hunt?” she said. He caught a hint of a South American accent, but only a hint.

“That’s right,” Gabriel said, but before he could ask her who she was, she spoke again.

“Señor Michael Hunt?”

Gabriel shot a sidelong glance Michael’s way and Michael stepped forward, smiling. Shorter, younger, and studious-looking rather than ruggedly handsome, he was accustomed to paling into insignificance next to his more dynamic older brother. But that didn’t mean he had to like it.

“I’m Michael Hunt,” he said. “And you are . . . ?”

“My name is Mariella Montez,” she told him.

“And what can I do for you, Miss Montez?”

Before she could reply, the waiter who had stopped her on her way across the hall appeared behind her sleek, bare left shoulder. “Excuse me, ma’am, but I believe you dropped this.”

With an annoyed look again on her face, she turned toward the red-jacketed man and said, “I didn’t drop anything—”

But what the waiter was extending toward her was a pistol, aimed directly between her ample breasts. He reached out with his other hand to snatch the bundle she was carrying.

Mariella jerked back and said, “No!”

Incredulous and instantly tensed for trouble, Gabriel stepped between Mariella and the waiter. “Hey, buddy, put that thing down. This is a museum, not a firing range.”

“This is not your concern,” the waiter said, and swung the pistol at Gabriel’s head.

Instinct brought Gabriel’s left arm up to block the blow. His right fist shot up and out in a short, sharp punch that rocked the waiter’s head back and bloodied his nose.

With his now crimson-smeared face contorted with anger, the waiter swung again. This time he slashed at Gabriel’s throat. Gabriel leaped backward and collided with the young woman.

Such a collision might have been pleasurable under other circumstances, but not now. Not with a madman of a waiter swinging a gun that he could just as easily start firing at any moment.

Gabriel felt Mariella push him away, then say, “Señor Hunt, you must take this!” But she wasn’t talking to him. He heard Michael, behind him, saying, “What is it?” She was probably trying to give Michael the cloth-wrapped bundle, whatever it was. Gabriel didn’t have the time to check whether the hand-off had been successful. Instead, he lowered his head and tackled the waiter around the waist, driving the man off his feet. The gun went off as they fell, the bullet shattering a pane of glass in the ceiling twenty feet overhead.

Commotion filled the Great Hall as shards of glass rained down. Some men yelled and pushed forward, demanding to know what was going on. Others scurried out of the way, trampling on the trailing edges of their dates’ expensive gowns in their rush to steer clear of the fray. Security guards ran toward the scene of the struggle.

Gabriel knocked the gun out of the waiter’s hand, but the waiter darted in under Gabriel’s guard, wrapped his fists around Gabriel’s throat, and squeezed with a grip like a dockworker’s. Gabriel heaved himself off the marble-tiled floor and rolled over in an attempt to break the man’s hold. The waiter hung on stubbornly.

Rolling over and then over again, the two men crashed into a pedestal—the same pedestal, in fact, where Gabriel had placed his empty champagne glass a few minutes earlier. It fell to the ground and shattered, spraying shrapnel.

The Egyptian vase that stood on the pedestal was heavier and didn’t fall immediately—but Gabriel noted with a surge of concern as it started to topple.

It wasn’t fabulously rare or valuable—otherwise it would have been safely behind glass or at least velvet ropes. But it was old, and Gabriel watched its growing tilt with alarm.

As the vase tipped over, he let go of the waiter’s forearms and shot out a hand to catch it. It landed in his palm, just an inch above the stone floor. One more inch and it would have been a pile of worthless shards, like the shattered window overhead. He lowered it gently.

Meanwhile, though, the waiter had gone on with his attempt to squeeze what little air still remained in Gabriel’s lungs out of his body. A red haze was starting to form over Gabriel’s vision and rockets were exploding behind his eyes from lack of oxygen. There were people all around them, but no one was reaching in to help—they seemed to be distracted by something else that was going on. Gabriel tried to call out to them, but found himself unable to get a sound out through his constricted throat.

If he hadn’t been wearing a goddamn tuxedo, he’d have had his Colt on him and maybe could have gotten to it. Or at least a knife—he’d have had something . As it is, he had nothing, except a cummerbund, a bow tie, and maybe a half minute of consciousness left.

Ah, hell , Gabriel thought. Dust to dust .

With a heave, he smashed the vase over the head of the man trying to kill him.

The waiter slumped sideways, and his fingers slipped off Gabriel’s throat at last. Compared to their grip, the hated tuxedo collar suddenly felt luxurious. Gasping lungfuls of air, Gabriel sat up. He yanked his bow tie off and ripped his collar stud out, panting.

Then he took stock of the chaos all around him.

The waiter who’d attacked him wasn’t the only member of the service staff that seemed to have been overtaken by violent impulses. Several more red-jacketed men had pulled guns from under their jackets and now menaced the crowd, alternating between simply brandishing the weapons and firing them over everyone’s head. Smoke from their gunfire hung in the air, stinking of gunpowder and flame. Women screamed, men shouted curses, and vice versa. Everybody was scrambling to get out of the line of fire, though no two people seemed to agree on which direction was safest. As Gabriel leaped to his feet, he saw one man dive into an open stone sarcophagus. Then one of the waiters spotted a security guard leveling a gun at him and without hesitating shot the guard in the chest. Blood sprayed and the crowd screamed.

The gunman swung his automatic toward another guard. Racing up behind him, Gabriel ripped the cummerbund from around his own waist and, holding both ends, dropped it over the gunman’s head from behind. He jerked back hard just as the man squeezed the trigger. The shot slammed upward toward the vaulted ceiling and another window high above them splintered.

With the cummerbund forming a makeshift lasso around the gunman’s neck, Gabriel swung him face-first into one of the pillars. The crunching impact made the man go limp. Gabriel let go of one end of the cummerbund and allowed the unconscious man to fall to the floor.

Gabriel spun around to look for Michael. He caught a glimpse of his brother and Mariella at the far end of the room, fear-stricken guests dashing back and forth between him and them. Michael had the cloth-wrapped bundle tucked under one arm now, and with his other hand he held the woman’s wrist, trying to guide her through the chaos.