Gabriel Hunt - Hunt at World's End

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 have 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.