“Ah, hell,” he muttered, then raised the Colt so its barrel was aimed directly at the knife thrower’s forehead. He called out: “Put the knives down and let her go.”
With stunning speed, the man spun and let the blade fly in Gabriel’s direction. Gabriel’s reflexes were barely quick enough for him to bring the head of the shovel up into the knife’s path. The blade rang loudly against the metal of the shovel, then ricocheted off, burying itself to the hilt in the dirt between two slabs of stone at the foot of the stairs.
Gabriel charged down the remaining steps as the man readied for another throw. Gabriel felt level ground beneath his feet and saw a second knife spinning toward him, end over end. He swung the shovel, deflecting it. He saw Djordji duck as the knife passed by him. The Gypsy flattened himself against the nearest wall, then darted away into the safety of the shadows.
The knife thrower stepped back to Fiona’s side, one of the remaining knives clutched in each hand. He held one up in throwing position and swung the other to a point directly below her chin. “You come,” he said, “I carve.”
Gabriel drew to a halt, gun raised. “You move, I shoot.”
“This close,” the man said softly, “blade is faster.” And to demonstrate he took a nick out of Fiona’s throat with a minute twitch of his wrist. A drop of blood formed, then a trail, a line of red reaching down toward her collarbone. Fiona didn’t make a sound, but Gabriel could see the pain and fear in her eyes.
Was a blade faster than a bullet? It depended on circumstances and was a question tacticians could debate. But a real blade was definitely faster than a nonex is tent bullet.
Gabriel lowered his gun. “All right,” he said. “You win. I’ll tell you where the kindjal is.”
“You?” the man said, his eyes narrowing with disbelief.
“Me,” Gabriel said. “She passed it to me in the bar. I hid it in the alleyway.”
The man considered this for a moment, then shook his head. “You lie. You lie to save woman.” He leered. “Because you like, no?”
“No,” Gabriel said. “I don’t like. I did once, very much. But that was a long time ago.” He saw the change in Fiona’s expression. The look of pain in her eyes was due to more now than just the blade at her throat.
“Then why,” the man said, “do you try to save her?”
“Because,” Gabriel said, “that’s what I do.”
The knife thrower turned then, at a sound beside him, but not before Djordji, who had crept along the shadows of the wall and circled around behind him, was able to lunge forward and seize the man in a crushing bear hug. They grappled, the knife thrower straining mightily to free his arms, which Djordji held pinned to his sides. Gabriel ran forward, the shovel swinging in a wide arc. The rust-stained metal caught the knife thrower full in the face, sending the fur hat flying. The man went limp in Djordji’s grip. The Gypsy let him go, and he slid to the floor.
“Thank you,” Gabriel said. “That was—”
“Gabriel!” Fiona cried. “Look out!”
The bone-jarring roar of a high caliber gunshot made Gabriel leap backward. Djordji uttered a whispered Romany oath and, to Gabriel’s horror, collapsed first to his knees and then onto his side, a dark stain spreading across the shoulder of his bright red shirt.
Gabriel dropped to the ground beside him. Djordji was still conscious, but his breaths were suddenly rapid and shallow and his face was pale and wet with cold sweat. Blood pooled on the stone beneath him.
A reedy voice issued from the shadows at the far side of the room. “You…must be the famous Gabriel Hunt.”
Chapter 4
Gabriel looked up. He saw a small, dapper man in an immaculate suit come forward. The man had an expressionless, oddly doll-like face and he was holding an enormous, showy chrome Desert Eagle, his finger tight on the trigger.
“Permit me to introduce myself,” the dapper man said. His accent sounded Ukrainian. “I am Vladislav Shevchenko. I, too, have an interest in…” He paused, as if searching for the right English word. “Antiquities. Do not get me wrong, it is not my primary trade. My primary trade is the one you saw upstairs, the trade in modern weapons. But there is no…elegance to a modern weapon. You press a button, a man dies, a car explodes—there is no grace there, no beauty. The money, however, it is good. This…lucrative trade in inelegant modern armaments allows me to collect rarer, dare I say unique, items such as the one we have both been searching for.”
He stepped forward, the gun not wavering by so much as an inch.
“Imagine my sense of betrayal and disappointment when I heard that Dr. Rush here was planning to sell the object of our common interest to one of my most bitter rivals. I suspect it was not very different from your emotions when you discovered she had betrayed you.”
He took another step closer, flat black shark eyes absorbing the crimson firelight and reflecting nothing. “I hope we can understand each other, Mr. Hunt. Maybe you will be more reasonable than our mutual lady-friend. I daresay you owe me something in any event, given the…damage you’ve done to my other transaction.” He gestured toward the ceiling with his head. “I feel that it is the least you can do to make amends.”
“He doesn’t know where the kindjal is, you bastard,” Fiona said, twisting viciously against her bonds. “He was lying. I’m the only one who knows.”
“I like a brave woman,” Shevchenko said, stretching the edges of his mouth upward in an expression that had little in common with a smile. “Don’t you, Mr. Hunt?” He shot a look in Fiona’s direction. “I promise, my dear, you will have an opportunity to show your bravery soon enough, for what is braver than facing pain with—”
Gabriel didn’t give Shevchenko time to finish his sentence. He threw the shovel as hard as he could at the dapper Ukrainian and dove to the cold stone floor, rolling swiftly behind one of the wooden pillars. He heard the shovel connect with its target, followed by another throaty exclamation from the Desert Eagle. Sharp chips of stone flew upward from the ancient floor to pepper Gabriel’s shins.
“Really, Mr. Hunt,” Shevchenko said, “hiding like a child. You should face your fate like a man.” There was a pause, followed by a yelp of pain and a curse from Fiona. “But if you prefer to listen to the torture of Dr. Rush first, please be my guest. You may come out whenever you are ready.”
From his vantage point behind the pillar, Gabriel swiftly scanned the room. The stone stairs. The other pillars. Bare floors. The sputtering flames from the bone-tallow candles in stone bowls, supplemented by a few torches clamped into rusted metal holders. Nothing within reach that would make an adequate weapon. Djordji was bleeding out, Fiona was about to be tortured, and there didn’t seem to be a damn thing Gabriel could do about it. Then he looked back at the stairs and spotted the first knife the man in the fur hat had thrown at him. It stuck out of the ground at a 45-degree angle. But it was too far away—if he went for it, he’d be shot before he made it halfway there.
“Please stop,” Fiona said, her voice ragged and out of breath. “Please. I’ll tell you anything.” Her voice fell to a whisper Gabriel could barely hear. “Anything. Just stop.”
“I will be glad to, Fiona,” Shevchenko said, “provided that you tell me what I want to know.”
She said something Gabriel couldn’t make out.
“Speak up,” Shevchenko said.
“I can’t,” Fiona said, a trace louder, but then her voice fell again. “I can’t. But come here, I’ll…I’ll tell you where it is. It’s in…”
There was a beat of silence and Gabriel risked a glance around the pillar just in time to see Shevchenko lean close to hear what she was saying. Fiona leaned in, caught Shevchenko’s earlobe in her teeth and bit deeply. The Ukrainian let out a furious, almost feminine scream.