The Judas Strain - James Rollins [155]
Devesh used his cane to thump down the last few stairs.
The Somalian guard held up a hand and headed to the door. “Stay back. Let me make sure it’s clear.” He clutched a large pistol in his other fist.
He cracked open the door, checked the hall, covering it with his pistol. He waited a breath, then opened it farther. Turning, he announced with relief, “Hall’s clear.”
Devesh took a step toward him—but movement over the man’s shoulder stopped him. One of the feathered tribesmen stepped out of hiding, sheltered within the hatchway that led down to the tender dock.
The cannibal held a drawn bow in his hands.
The large Somalian must have read something in Devesh’s expression. Even before fully turning around, the man began firing blindly.
The cannibal took three shots to the chest, falling back with a sharp cry.
But the tribesman had already let loose his bowstring.
The arrow pierced the guard’s throat, sprouting like some bloody tongue out the back of his neck. The large man stumbled, fell to his backside. Still, he kept his pistol pointed toward the door.
But the cannibal did not rise again, and the hall remained quiet.
Devesh knew he had to take the chance. He rushed to the guard.
“Help me,” the man croaked out, eyes winced with pain, slipping back to one arm to support himself. The other arm trembled to hold the pistol up.
Devesh kicked the man’s supporting arm out from under him. The Somalian fell back, startled. The arrow tip cracked against the polished wood floor. Devesh knelt on the man’s shoulder and tossed his cane aside. He needed a better weapon. He wrestled the pistol from the man’s grip.
But the large man refused to relent, fingers clenched with fury and pain.
“Let go!” Devesh shifted his knee to dig against the embedded arrow.
A loud wooden crash stopped their struggle.
The doors on the opposite side of the theater had banged open behind them. Devesh yanked the pistol free and turned. A figure flew into view, swift on tiny feet, swirling in silk, stained with swaths of blood.
“Surina!”
But she was not alone.
A roil of shapes pursued her, fueled by adrenaline and hunger. They poured in after her. Some slipped on the polished wood, down to knuckles, then up again, bestial in their hunt. But the tangled stumbling slowed them long enough for Surina to gain half the theater.
Devesh scrambled to his feet, both relieved and horrified at her arrival.
He didn’t want to be alone.
Surina flew to his side, one arm sweeping down. Her fingers collected his abandoned cane, and in a breath, wood slipped off of steel. She brandished the sword.
Devesh headed toward the open door. “This way!”
Cradling the pistol in both hands, he leaped over the Somalian, who groaned, only half conscious, blood spreading over the dark wood. At least the man’s body might distract the cannibals.
As Devesh landed, he felt two sharp bites at the backs of his knees.
He took a startled step, but suddenly his legs lacked any ability to hold him upright. He fell to a knee in the doorway, then harder to an elbow, knocking the pistol away. The pain rang up his arm to his skull. From the corner of an eye, he watched Surina rise from a low stance behind him, her sword held out to one side, blood spattered from its tip.
Devesh kicked to stand. But he had no ability to control his legs. He watched blood pouring through the knees of his pants. As Surina slipped past him, he realized what had happened. The bitch had sliced through the tendons at the back of his knees, hamstringing him.
She sailed across the hall and vanished into the darkness of the dock.
“Surina!”
Devesh tried to crawl, dragging his legs.
Toward his pistol.
But other hands fell upon him, drawn by the blood, digging into his flesh. He heard the guard’s agonized scream from the depths of the dark theater. Devesh was dragged back to join him, his palms scrabbling through the smears of his own blood, fingers dug for some purchase, some last mercy.
He found none.
5:45 A.M.
AS SCREAMS AND gunshots