Gabriel Hunt - Hunt Through the Cradle of Fear

He could hear his pursuers’ shoes pounding against the paving stones close behind him. That they hadn’t pulled pistols and started shooting at him yet Gabriel attributed entirely to the late hour: they wouldn’t want to wake the entire neighborhood with the sound of gunfire. But if they managed to get their hands on him, Gabriel knew, Molnar wouldn’t need bullets to exact revenge for his brother’s death.

Gabriel skidded to a stop beside a shuttered store. There was a narrow alleyway between it and the next building over and he darted into it, leaping up at the far end to catch hold of the curlicue grillwork at the base of a second-story balcony. He pulled himself up, his arms complaining at the strain. From the balcony he was able to climb onto a bit of ornamental stonework that decorated the building’s wall, testing it first with one foot to make sure it was secure. Then from there he grabbed hold of the edge of the roof and hauled himself up.

Down below, he could hear the three men pouring into the alley. The footsteps stopped and the cursing resumed. They wouldn’t be stymied for long: it was a dead end and the only direction Gabriel could have gone was up. But every second counted, and Gabriel used the next few to sprint to the edge of the building and leap across a narrow airshaft onto the neighboring roof.

He landed badly, twisting his ankle.

Damn it—the law of averages hadn’t had to choose this moment to kick in, had it? He hobbled away from the edge of the roof, putting weight on his left foot only gingerly, twinges of pain shooting up his shin each time he did so.

He was close to Sheba’s hostel (the Sultan—but then every other building in this city was called “the Sultan”). On one hand, he didn’t want to bring Molnar and the other two to her doorstep—that could put her and Tigranes and Christos all in danger. On the other hand, they might be in danger already, if DeGroet had sent a separate team after them, and if so they might need him there to help. There was no way to know what the right decision was. Except that standing still wasn’t it. He limped on, telling himself that the pain in his ankle was already lessening a bit, even though it wasn’t.

At the edge of the building he reached a gap too large for him to jump even if his leg had been fine; so, looking around, he yanked open the only door he could see on the roof and clambered down the stairs he found inside. Behind him, as the metal door slowly swung shut, he heard the running footsteps of his pursuers, coming closer. By the time he reached the bottom of the stairs, he could hear them at the top. Then the explosion of a gunshot rang out and a bullet chewed bits of metal, plaster, and paint from the doorframe beside his head. Apparently they didn’t mind waking the people here.

Gabriel ran out into the street. The Sultan Hostel was just two buildings away and he made for it at what passed in his current condition for top speed, his gait a loping, uneven thing. Sweat beaded on his forehead. His ankle wasn’t broken, he was fairly sure of that, but it felt like a knife blade was jabbing into it at every step, and the pounding he was giving it surely wasn’t helping speed the healing process.

A ten-hour flight to Sri Lanka, he kept telling himself, plenty of time to rest it, get a bag of ice from the stewardess for the swelling…

But first he had to make it to the airport and onto a plane alive.

He ducked inside the front door of the hostel just as Molnar burst out into the street. Gabriel saw him looking left and right and hid behind one of the columns in the entryway. A heavy potted plant provided a bit of extra cover—but only a bit.

Behind him, the lights in the hostel’s lobby went on. A sleepy-eyed attendant shuffled up beside him, a saucer with a flickering candle on it in one hand. “Can I help you?” he said, blowing out the candle.

“Some friends of mine are staying here,” Gabriel said, through clenched teeth. “I’ve come to see them.”

“Rather late to be dropping by,” the attendant said. “I will have to see if they—”

A hammering came at the door then, and peeking around the column Gabriel saw through the glass of the door that it was Molnar, flanked on either side by his henchmen. “Don’t open the door,” Gabriel whispered.

“What do you mean?” the attendant said, turning the knob. “Of course I’ll open the—”

A moment later, the saucer slipped from his fingers and smashed against the tile floor. The man backed up, his hands in the air, his jowls trembling. Molnar followed, the barrel of his revolver planted squarely in the middle of the man’s face. Together, Molnar and the attendant walked past the corner where Gabriel was hiding and the other two men followed, drawing their guns as they went. If any of them had looked to the side they’d have seen Gabriel—but they didn’t. He shot a glance at the still open door. He could dash out, maybe make it to the next street before they noticed…

But he couldn’t leave this guy with a gun in his face and a homicidal Hungarian itching to pull the trigger. Not to mention Sheba just a few flights up with only an eighty-year-old man and an eighteen-year-old kid for protection.

Grimacing silently, Gabriel lifted the potted plant in both hands.

The attendant looked over at him, his eyes widening at the sight as Gabriel swung the heavy stone pot up in the air. It provided enough warning for Molnar to turn and swing his gun around, but not enough for him to pull the trigger. Gabriel launched the pot at him and it caught him in the face, knocking him to the ground with its momentum. The attendant jumped out of the way as the pot landed, cracking the tiles beneath it.

The two other gunmen spun around now, too, but Gabriel was upon them, throwing a powerful right cross at the first man’s jaw and getting the second in the throat with his elbow on the backswing. Neither man was incapacitated by the blow and both brought their guns into play, one firing wildly and missing, his shots tearing up the wood of the reception desk and shattering a lamp as Gabriel ran ahead of them, the other swinging his gun like a metal extension to his fist and catching Gabriel on the side of the head with it. Gabriel reeled, fell back. He dropped into a crouch and pistoned outward with one fist, sinking it deep into the man’s gut. He could hear the forceful expulsion of breath, feel the spray of spittle from the man’s lips. Gabriel followed up with a second punch, and a third, and then the man fell before a fourth could land.

Gabriel made to stand up, but was driven forward as the second man jumped on his back. The extra weight hit his ankle just right, and he collapsed to one knee.

Before him, the other gunman lay prone, his arm outstretched on the floor. Gabriel grabbed the gun from his hand, reversed it in his own, and aimed it back over his shoulder. When he felt the barrel press against something soft that wasn’t part of his own body, he pulled the trigger with his thumb. The weight vanished from his shoulders and a low moaning began behind him.

Standing up, Gabriel limped over to the wounded man. He was leaking blood from a nasty wound in his upper chest. He still held his gun, loosely, in a trembling hand, and Gabriel bent to take it away from him. He broke it open: no bullets left. Every one of them spent on the desk and lamp. He tossed the useless gun into a corner of the room, held onto the other one.

“Who…who are these men?” the attendant said, his voice rising sirenlike as he surveyed the damage. “What did they want?”

“I don’t know,” Gabriel said. “They started following me a few blocks away.” He limped over to the bulletscarred desk, leaned his weight against it. On the stairs winding up to the second floor he saw a man creep cautiously into view, a corpulent ex-military type in a gray bathrobe. He had a white moustache, fittingly enough. “Go back to bed,” Gabriel told him. “It’s all over.”