Hunt Through the Cradle of Fear by Gabriel Hunt, Charles Ardai

cards. “You see what you started, Christos?”
    “I didn’t start it, Papa, Niko did.”
    The old man shrugged. “Nobody ever starts it. But who’s left to clean up when it’s finished? Eh?”
    “I’ll clean up, Papa.”
    “You! That’ll be the day. Go on. Get your American out of here before they take him to pieces.”
    Gabriel reached into his pocket, took out a few of the hundred-dollar bills he had left, laid them down beside the king and queen of spades. “I apologize for the trouble.”
    “Feh,” the bartender said, and spat on the ground, but he kept the money.
    They came up into a rear courtyard behind the tavern building. Christos had a green-and-white papakia—a souped-up moped—leaning against the wall. The long, narrow padded seat had room for two and Gabriel climbed on behind him, holding onto the young man’s waist. He saw a purple knot swelling up on Christos’ neck where one of the bar’s other patrons had landed a blow. It was ugly and looked painful—but things could’ve gotten a lot worse, Gabriel told himself. They were lucky to be leaving when they were.
    Christos revved the engine and they zoomed off. Two sharp right turns brought them to a steeply rising road through the mountains. Christos seemed to know where he was headed, and Gabriel left him alone to concentrate on driving—until he heard the sound of engines coming up behind them.
    “Can this thing go any faster?” he asked. In front of him, Christos shook his head.
    Had they been spotted leaving the tavern? There’d been several more of the mopeds leaning against the wall, and certainly some of the brawlers they’d left behind might have been mad enough to follow if they’d seen their prey getting away. Maybe even the man he’d left standing in his socks.
    But looking back over his shoulder, Gabriel saw not more papakias come into view but a trio of Ducati Multistrada motorcycles, low to the ground and Corvette red. And their helmeted, black-jacketed drivers were a far cry from the rustics who’d bloodied each other for sport back in the bar.
    One of them drew the long barrel of a rifle from a side-mounted holster on his bike’s chassis and fired two shots in their direction.
    Christos swerved across the opposite lane and back again, tilting the papakia at a precarious angle.
    “Don’t worry,” he shouted back, and then, switching to English, “I drive good—like your Steve McQueen!”
    “Great,” Gabriel said, pulling his gun. Steve McQueen. He twisted in his seat, aimed carefully at the lead driver behind them and pulled the trigger just as Christos swerved wildly again. The shot went wide.
    “Damn it, kid, I’ve only got three bullets left,” Gabriel said.
    The bikes were gaining on them, their engines growling as they accelerated. The driver with the rifle was raising his gun again. Gabriel did the same.
    “Keep steady this time,” Gabriel said, “or I’ll save the last one for you.”
    “But there’s a turn coming up!” Christos said.
    “Fine,” Gabriel said and squeezed the trigger. The driver went off his bike backwards, the faceplate of his helmet shattered. His rifle spun end over end into the brush on the side of the road.
    Christos leaned into the turn, an almost 180-degree switchback zigzagging up the mountainous terrain. Gabriel had to strain to hold on.
    The two remaining cycles stayed with them through the turn. Neither of the drivers had rifles, but asGabriel watched, they both pulled out semiautomatic pistols.
    “We’ve got to lose these guys,” Gabriel shouted.
    “Hold on,” Christos said and, turning off the road, plowed through a field of scrub. The spiny undergrowth tore at Gabriel’s ankles and every few feet a rock under their tires threatened to overturn them.
    The other bikes were still on their tail.
    A bullet flew past just inches away.
    The field angled upward before them, a sloping incline, hilly but empty, not a boulder to hide behind, not a tree.
    “How’s this