Hunt at World's End (18 page)

“What’s that?” Joyce shouted, pointing.

A few dozen yards away, the sand had begun to undulate, bulging upward in the shape of an enormous dome. A massive stone broke through the surface and kept rising, the sand pouring off its sides. Initially it looked like it was only a dome, a smaller version of
Uluru in Australia, perhaps, an extrusion resulting from plate tectonics. But after a moment it became apparent that this was no mere dome. Because the next thing that came into view as the stone continued rising was a pair of roughly carved eyes. The eyes were followed by an enormous carved nose. It was a giant stone head—then a giant
bearded
head—then a head and neck—then head, neck, and shoulders—and still it came, this giant figure, displacing tons of sand as it emerged into the night air. The figure’s wide shoulders appeared, then its chest, its torso. Its arms; its hips and thighs; its knees. Gabriel watched as the titanic figure emerged, until finally the statue towered seventy feet above them, silhouetted against the moonlit sky.

Daniel stepped forward, staring with awe. “Teshub.”

The statue of Teshub stood silently before them, one hand at its side, the other held out, palm up, as if offering something to his followers. But the hand was empty. The Spearhead wasn’t there.

“Look at the eyes,” Daniel said, craning his neck to do so.

The statue’s eyes were wide, blank ovals of stone, and where the iris of each eye should have been was a dark, empty socket, that looked just about deep enough for one of the gemstones to fit inside.

“Fascinating,” Daniel said. “The storm god risen from the desert sand, awaiting the return of his eyes, and ready to give his gift to the world. Have you ever seen anything so magnificent?”

Before Gabriel could answer, they all heard the roar of engines behind them. Turning, Gabriel saw a half dozen jeeps speeding toward them across the desert, clouds of sand billowing in their wake. Gabriel cursed under his breath and drew his Colt. Even before he saw the man’s face through the grimy windshield of
the lead jeep, he knew it was Grissom. And Grissom had brought an army with him. With five or six men in each jeep, they were hopelessly outnumbered.

The jeeps pulled to a stop a few yards in front of them. Grissom and his men climbed out of the vehicles and raised a variety of shotguns and automatic handguns into view.

Grissom stepped forward. “Well, well. Here we are again.” He reached out his free hand for the gemstone. “Hand it over.”

Gabriel cocked the hammer of his Colt.

“Come now, Mr. Hunt. I know you’re an excellent shot. And I know,” Grissom said, his face clouding over for a moment, a twitch pounding on his temple, “that you have no qualms about taking a life. But I don’t think of you as suicidal. And how long do you think you’d live after you pulled that trigger? How long would your friends live? It would be a foolish gesture.”

Gabriel surveyed the crowd around them. Six jeeps, some three dozen men, all of them armed and all of them looking well trained in the use of arms. He ground his teeth. He wasn’t confident they’d live a whole lot longer if he lowered his gun, but in cases like this, every minute was worth something. He tossed the Colt onto the sand.

“Now the gemstones.”

Gabriel looked at the ruby in his hand. Its energy buzzed along his arm, a thousand feathers tickling on his skin.

Grissom held out his hand. “My men aren’t used to having to restrain themselves, Mr. Hunt. I will not ask again.”

Gabriel handed the ruby to Grissom, who slipped it into one of the large side pockets of his cargo vest. He turned to the gunman beside him, a man with a
pockmarked face and an eyepatch over his right eye. He wore a bandolier filled with shells across his chest and was carrying a pump-action shotgun. “Bring me the other one, DeVoe,” Grissom said. The mercenary went to the jeep, retrieved a black velvet sack and brought it back. Grissom took the sack from him, opened it, and let the emerald from Borneo slide onto his palm. He slid it into another pocket of his vest.

Grissom turned back to Gabriel. “Now, the last one. The gemstone from Turkey.”

“Sorry, but I can’t give you that one,” Gabriel said. “We don’t have it anymore.”

Grissom’s stare darkened. “What are you talking about?”

“It was stolen on the way over here,” Gabriel said. “By the Cult of Ulikummis.”

“Oh, that’s rich,” Grissom said, and he laughed. “It was stolen, was it? By the, what is it, by the cult of…?” He turned to his men. “It was
stolen
from them!” His men didn’t move. Grissom spun, his fist connecting with Gabriel’s face. Unprepared for the blow, Gabriel fell backward, landing hard on the sand. Joyce launched herself toward Grissom, her hands balled into fists, but Daniel grabbed her and held her back. Gabriel got to his feet again, wiping blood from his nose on the back of his hand.

“Enough games, Hunt,” Grissom said. “Give me the other gemstone.”

Gabriel spat on the sand. “I can’t. It’s gone. You can search us if you don’t believe me.”

Grissom spoke to DeVoe: “Do it. Search their jeep, and search them.”

DeVoe gave instructions to several of the other men and within minutes a thorough search had been completed. DeVoe took responsibility himself for patting
them down, taking rather longer in Joyce’s case than would have been necessary just to confirm she didn’t have a softball-sized emerald on her person. Gabriel saw her gritting her teeth as the eyepatched mercenary worked his way up and down her person.

“Nothing,” DeVoe reported.

“All right, Hunt,” Grissom said, stepping forward and whipping out the ivory-handled dagger. In a flash its three blades were open and glinting in the moonlight. “Where is it?”

“I told you,” Gabriel said. “The Cult of Ulikummis took it.”

“And where, exactly,” Grissom said, raising the dagger to Gabriel’s throat, “did they take it?”

Gabriel stared over Grissom’s shoulder. “Apparently,” he said, “right here.”

Grissom turned, and his men turned with him. Several yards behind them, standing silent in the darkness, was an army of skull-masked men in white robes, at least one hundred of them, their bows loaded with arrows and ready to be fired. At the head of the army stood the high priest. The stolen emerald was lashed with rope to the top of his staff. They heard him shout a single word to his men.

The cultists released their bowstrings, and a wave of arrows sailed across the sky toward them.

“Take cover!” Grissom shouted. He and his men scattered, crouching behind the jeeps as the arrows bore down. Gabriel snatched his gun off the ground and, together with Joyce and Daniel, ran toward the statue, the only other source of cover in sight. Behind them, the arrows came down, landing in the sand or bouncing loudly off the hoods and frames of the jeeps. Gabriel heard several of Grissom’s men cry out, but he didn’t turn around or stop running until he reached the statue. Ducking behind one of its massive stone legs, he grabbed Joyce’s arm and pulled her down next to him. Daniel dropped to the sand behind her.

Grissom’s men frantically signaled each other and shifted position behind the jeeps. The cult let loose another volley of arrows and, under cover of the assault, ran forward, exchanging their bows for swords. Grissom’s men opened fire as they came, the chatter of automatic weapons erupting loudly in the night. The smell of gunsmoke drifted over to where Gabriel was, that and the smell of blood.

Gabriel turned away from the battlefield. Daniel was still watching the battle, an expression of horror on his face. “The three armies,” he murmured.

“I only see two,” Joyce said.

Daniel turned to her. “No, there are three. The cult, Grissom’s men…and us.”

Gabriel raised his gun. He had six bullets. “Some army.”

Cult members dropped under the avalanche of gunfire, their white-robed bodies littering the sand, but more kept coming, flooding into Grissom’s men like a tidal wave, transforming the battle into hand-to-hand combat, where they had the advantage. Swords clashed against shotguns raised to block them.

Scanning across the carnage, Gabriel realized he didn’t see Grissom in the thick of things—or the high priest, for that matter.

A figure suddenly rounded the statue’s leg: DeVoe. “Hold it!” he said, leveling his shotgun at Gabriel.

Gabriel swung his leg out, sweeping it across DeVoe’s feet and knocking the mercenary backward onto the ground. He jumped on top of him, wrestled the shotgun out of his hands, and butted DeVoe in the face with the stock. DeVoe groaned briefly and fell back, unconscious. Gabriel pocketed a handful of DeVoe’s extra shells, then stood up and inspected the shotgun. Their army had just doubled its arms. He tossed his Colt to Joyce. “Here, take this. And keep an eye on this guy—if he’s some sort of second in command, Grissom might actually value him, which would give us a bargaining chip.”

“I don’t think that man values anyone,” Joyce said. But she knelt beside the unconscious mercenary and aimed the gun at him. “What are you going to do?”

Gabriel opened the shotgun, inspected it quickly, and snapped it closed again. “I’m going to get the gemstones.”

“I guess Grissom was wrong,” Daniel said. “You
are
suicidal.”

Joyce leaned forward and kissed him. “Don’t go getting yourself killed,” she said quietly. “Not now. Not after all this.”

“I’ll do my best,” Gabriel said, and darted out from behind the statue’s leg.

As he went, skirting the edge of the fray, Gabriel looked for Grissom in the chaos and darkness. He finally spotted him at the far end. Grissom had picked up a fallen sword and was using it to block someone’s attack. At first Gabriel couldn’t make out who Grissom was fighting, but then another figure stepped out of the way and he saw the flash of a long metal staff swinging down to batter Grissom’s sword. The high priest. Grissom had gone straight for the missing gemstone himself.

Gabriel pumped a shell into the shotgun’s chamber and dove into the battle. He weaved around the first jeep in his path, butting a cult member in the head with the shotgun, then pulled the trigger and blew another off his feet. He shouldered past one of Grissom’s mercenaries, who spun on him with his handgun, and Gabriel blasted him aside. No favorites in this fight. Gunshots rang out all around him, the clash of swords, the cries of the wounded. He shoved his way past men locked in battle, ducked blades as they swung at him, and reloaded the shotgun as he went.

The fighting lessened as he broke through the crowd and made it to the spot where Grissom and the high priest were facing each other. The high priest whirled his staff, knocking the sword out of Grissom’s hand. Grissom backed away, out of reach of the staff’s bronze blade, and drew his ivory-handled dagger again—his weapon of last resort, it seemed. The two extra blades slid into view as he thumbed the hidden button. The cult leader didn’t look impressed.

Gabriel sprang forward, slamming the butt of the shotgun into Grissom’s back. Grissom dropped to his hands and knees, coughing hard. The cult leader looked startled for a moment, then lunged at Gabriel, who sidestepped the blade, knocking the staff aside with his shotgun. Something wrapped around his shins, tripping him, and as he fell he saw Grissom’s arms around his legs. Gabriel hit the sand hard. He swung the shotgun down toward Grissom, but the other man scrambled away, and suddenly Gabriel saw the high priest looming over him, the staff raised high over Gabriel’s chest. Gabriel rolled aside, and the blade sank into the sand. He got to his feet, leveling the shotgun at Grissom and the cult leader both, moving the barrel back and forth between them.

The three of them circled, Grissom with his dagger, the cult leader with his staff, and Gabriel with the shotgun. His finger twitched on the trigger. He was tempted to try to blast them both, but buckshot was hardly a precision projectile. If he shot at either of them, there was a good chance he’d hit the gemstones. He didn’t know what would happen if they shattered, but with the amount of energy they seemed barely to be containing he suspected it wouldn’t be good.

“We are at impasse,” the cult leader said, his words thick with a Russian accent. The emerald glowed at the top of his staff. “But not much longer. All Teshub’s Eyes are to me soon. And world will burn in Ulikummis hand.”

“Oh, just shoot this man already,” Grissom said to Gabriel. “If I have to listen to one more minute of his gibbering…”

“Quiet, both of you,” Gabriel said. “Now: give me the gemstones.”

“Give you the sacred eye?” the high priest spat. “Never.”

Grissom shrugged. “I’m certainly not going to give you anything. I suppose we are, as the man said, ‘at impasse.’”

Gabriel heard a sound then overhead, a sound loud enough to cut through the clamor of battle and bloodshed. It sounded like…a helicopter? He risked a glance up, but could only make out a blur high above him, something dark moving across the sky. What would a helicopter be doing out in the middle of the Kalahari Desert at night? Had it been drawn by the sound of gunfire, or had someone reported the sudden twilight appearance of a colossus half the height of the Statue of Liberty?

But the shape—copter or otherwise—sped out of sight before he could properly make it out and Gabriel returned his gaze to the scene before him. It had changed meaningfully even in the fraction of a second he’d looked away. At first, he had the impression that Grissom and the high priest were wrestling, standing so close together they seemed to be grappling with each other. It was only when the staff fell to the ground that Gabriel realized Grissom had stabbed his dagger into the high priest’s chest. Grissom shoved, driving the dagger deeper. The high priest dropped to his knees as Grissom tore the dagger out, then he fell forward onto the ground. Grissom grabbed the staff from where it lay in the sand and cut the emerald free from its lashings with a single swipe of the dagger’s razor-sharp blades.

Gabriel swung the shotgun toward Grissom and stepped forward so the barrel was just inches from his face.

“What are you going to do, Hunt, shoot me?” Grissom said calmly. “And risk destroying three priceless historical artifacts in the process? I don’t think so. I don’t think you’re the kind of man who—”

Gabriel jabbed the muzzle toward Grissom’s forehead. “You don’t know what kind of man I am.”

Grissom’s self-confident smile faded.

“I don’t want to kill you,” Gabriel said, “but I will if you don’t hand over the jewels.”

“Well, then, Hunt, you’ll have to shoot, because I’m not handing over a damn thing. But,” he said, “before you do, you might want to consider what will happen if you accidentally hit one of the jewels. Ah—I see you
have
been thinking about this. Good. You are wise not to pull the trigger. It could be like a nuclear explosion if it went wrong.” Grissom slid the third jewel—the emerald liberated from the high priest’s staff—into yet another pocket on his vest. The thing was bulging around him now like a life jacket.

“You have to make a choice, Hunt. There are only two options. Shoot me—and risk blowing us all up, and the statue, too—or let me go.”

“You’re wrong,” Gabriel told him. “There’s another choice.”

“Oh?”

Gabriel clubbed Grissom across the face with the shotgun’s stock. Grissom fell backward, dropping unconscious to the sand, a streak of blood across his mouth.

“There’s always another choice,” Gabriel said.

Hanging the shotgun over his shoulder by its strap, Gabriel knelt beside Grissom to pull the vest off him. He felt the jewels inside, knocking gently against one another through the padded fabric. The Three Eyes of Teshub. Together again, for the first time in millennia. Even through the fabric, the energy passing from one to the others made his palms tremble.

He hung the vest over his other shoulder. The Cult of Ulikummis and Grissom’s men, unaware that their
leaders were out of commission, were continuing to struggle across the patch of desert standing between Gabriel and the statue. Which meant he had to go around. Cradling the vest under one arm, he started running, keeping to the outskirts and sprinting as fast as he could. Stray bullets zipped past him and puffed clouds out of the sand where they hit. He kept his head down. The statue loomed up ahead.

He glanced behind him as he skidded to a stop and in the distance saw Grissom climbing unsteadily back onto his feet. They wouldn’t have long. He turned to Joyce, who was standing beside Daniel with her arms by her sides. His Colt, he noticed, was nowhere to be seen—and neither was DeVoe. “What hap—” Gabriel began, but the question answered itself: Joyce shook her head sadly, apologetically, as DeVoe stepped into view, training Gabriel’s own weapon on him.

Gabriel ducked away, dashing around the statue’s leg. He heard a gunshot and saw a chip of stone fly off the statue where DeVoe’s bullet had hit.

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 be
gan 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.