Gabriel Hunt - Hunt Through the Cradle of Fear

But a moment later the question was answered. A chorus of angry voices arose behind them and then gunfire followed as the Greeks poured out the window and gave chase.

He hastened to the edge of the cliff, where Tigranes and Christos were on their hands and knees, facing away from the vertiginous drop. Tigranes had his phorminx slung across his back once more and his tough, gnarled hands wrapped tightly around a brown root, similarly tough and gnarled, that trailed across the ground and over the edge. “Follow me closely,” he said. “We are only going a short distance down.”

“I certainly hope we are,” Gabriel said, looking at the long fall to the mountain’s base.

“Hold tight,” Tigranes said and, letting himself down the root hand over hand, dropped out of sight. Christos looked up at Gabriel nervously and then followed suit, holding onto a neighboring root. That left Gabriel by himself on the clifftop—but not for long, since the first of the men who’d pursued them from the tower was upon him in seconds.

It was the man with the knife, and he swung its blade before him, back and forth in wide sweeps, like a thresher looking for wheat to cut down to size.

“Where are they?” he shouted.

“Gone,” Gabriel said, stepping back to stay out of the blade’s reach. “Over the side.” With each step backwards he took, the other man took one forward, matching him stride for stride. And there wasn’t much striding room left.

“You lie,” the man said. Then, looking down at the ground, he saw one of the roots shift slightly, as though under a heavy burden. “Or…maybe you don’t,” he said. “An old man, hanging like a child from a tree limb.” His voice rose to a shout. “You should be ashamed of yourself, Tigranes!” He raised his knife overhead and brought his arm down forcefully, releasing the blade so that it plunged downward and landed, quivering, in the center of the root. It was the thinnest of the roots, and it split as the blade went in. The severed portion snaked toward the edge of the cliff. Gabriel leaped after it, skidding along the ground and grabbing hold of the root just as it plunged over the edge. But when he grabbed it, he found it weighed practically nothing—and looking down he saw there was no one holding onto the other end.

He heard a sound beside him— hsst! —and turned his head to see Christos just inches away, clinging desperately to the next root over. Tigranes was hanging onto one a few feet further down the rock face, his sandaled feet twined in its length, one hand feeling for something among the rocks beside him.

“Now you, American,” came a voice from behind him, and Gabriel felt hands at his ankles, lifting his feet high in the air and tilting him forward. “You can join them.”

Gabriel dropped the cut root and scrabbled with his hands at the rock before him, but he couldn’t get a grip as the Greek behind him tipped him over. His chest slid roughly down the stone surface till he was hanging headfirst, arms dangling toward the ground far below.

Looking to the side where Christos and Tigranes were, he saw the strangest thing then: Tigranes, who had continued feeling among the edges and protrusions of the cliff’s face, apparently found what he’d been hunting for and, reaching with one arm and one leg, he pulled himself over to it—and vanished. The root he’d been hanging on swung back toward Christos, empty.

Above him, Gabriel heard another Greek voice back on the clifftop shouting breathlessly, “Don’t do it! Don’t let him go! The Hungarian wanted them alive!”

“Not this one,” said the man holding onto Gabriel’s boots—but he kept holding on, for now. “He wanted the old man. This one he was happy to see dead.”

“Still,” the other Greek said, uncertainty creeping into his voice.

Beside him, Gabriel saw Christos nervously reach out for the root that Tigranes had vacated. Carefully, oh so carefully, he shifted his weight over to it and slid down its length to where Tigranes had been feeling around the rocks.

Meanwhile, the argument continued overhead.

“You want him? You hold him,” the man with his hands on Gabriel’s ankles said.

“ I don’t want him,” the other man said.

“You don’t want him? I don’t want him. Andras didn’t want him. No one wants him. You hear that?” the man shouted down at Gabriel. “No one wants you. Goodbye, American.” And he gave Gabriel’s ankles a heave toward the sea, letting go when they were out over the edge.

As he fell, Gabriel reached out desperately for the root Christos had been hanging from. He grabbed hold of it at the very bottom, turning end over end till he was hanging upright. His momentum carried him bruisingly into the rock, but he held on tight, his fingers clenching for all they were worth.

But the momentum had been transmitted along the length of the root and had not gone unnoticed overhead.

“Son of a bitch,” came the Greek’s voice, and Gabriel heard him walking over to where he’d left the knife. A moment later, Gabriel felt the root he was hanging from shift downward as the man started hacking at it.

Below him, he saw Christos feeling among the rocks where Tigranes had disappeared. A gnarled, clawlike hand popped out from behind one of the protrusions on the cliff’s surface, took hold of Christos’ forearm, and pulled him toward itself.

This root was thicker and wouldn’t part quite as easily as the last one—Gabriel heard the sounds of hacking overhead replaced with sawing, the knife’s serrated blade biting into the thick tendril. With each stroke, he felt the root’s purchase on the cliff’s surface become weaker.

Christos was stretching out a leg now, as Tigranes had.

Gabriel braced his feet against the cliff wall. He’d only have one shot at this—

Christos vanished behind the same outjutting stretch of rock Tigranes had, and the root he’d been hanging from swung back, liberated from his weight. At that instant the root from which Gabriel was hanging was liberated, too, from the trunk of the tree it had supported for a century or more. Gabriel kicked off with both feet and, reaching out, seized hold of the swinging root as it came toward him.

His palms were slick with sweat and raw with abrasions. He slid down the root, trying to cling, straining to hold on, finally getting a good grip only inches from the end. He was breathing heavily, rapidly, his heart hammering in his chest. Beneath his boots, he saw the hundreds of feet of empty air he’d be falling through if he slipped any further. Far, far below, he saw the root he’d been hanging from a moment earlier still plunging toward the rocks.

“Goddamn it,” came the Greek’s voice from overhead—and Gabriel knew his move to the new root had not gone unnoticed. “You’re a stubborn bastard, aren’t you?” And the man began sawing at this final root, the thickest of the three.

Gabriel looked to the side, where Christos and Tigranes had gone, and used his feet to pull himself over toward the spot. There was a prominent outcropping of rock there, blocking his view. Concealed behind it, what would he find? A space large enough for two, apparently; hopefully enough for three. A crevice or fissure in the cliff wall, perhaps, maybe even a small cave—trust an old mountain rat like Tigranes to know the location of every cranny and tunnel in the place. Of course how they’d get down from there was one hell of a question, but right now that was far from Gabriel’s biggest worry.

He could feel the root beginning to come apart. It slipped an inch, two inches—it had to be hanging by its last tough fibers now, and Gabriel knew his weight would swiftly part those even if the knife blade didn’t.

Next to him, he saw a hand appear from around the rock—a young man’s hand. He let go of the root with one of his own and swung his arm over, grabbing hold of Christos’ hand, palm to palm.