Free Gabriel's Sacrifice (The Scrapman Trilogy Book 2) by Noah Fregger Page B

there was nothing—just the empty click of a misfire.
    “Lucky bastard,” someone huffed behind him.
    Mohammad opened his eyes again, the hunter placing the butt of his rifle down as he knelt before him, lifting his chin.
    “You must have an angel watching over you, Rifleman,” he said. “And who am I to interfere with the divine?”
    He dropped Mohammad’s face back to the floor. “You seem to be a man of sentiment, and I respect that.” He rose and took a few steps away, turning to face the dreary horizon. “Throw him over.”
    The three men surrounding Mohammad grabbed at his limbs and lifted him from the roof’s surface; and despite his struggles, the building’s edge began to approach at a painfully steady pace.
    “You can meet your hybrid in Hell.”
    Then he was weightless, the ground beneath coming quick to shatter his body–nothing he could do. Even the option of prayer escaped him, for no miracle had ever come of it. Death was the only truth, real and concrete, eager to claim a life of regret, Radia’s remains lingering there to welcome him.
    And then there was nothing, simple blackness, although Mohammad did have the consciousness to regard it as such.
    Is this death?
    The stillness formed itself into a gentle breeze as Mohammad opened his eyes, discovering a beach beneath a gray and stormy sky. Coconut trees swayed in the distance, as the crackle of thunder brought forth a new gust of wind. Mohammad stood, feeling the sand between his toes, and the tide as it came to dampen his clothes.
    He turned to find a figure awaiting him there. It stood patient, allowing Mohammad the time to behold it properly.
    “I am dead,” Mohammad stated aloud, for how else could he be witnessing this?
    But the figure, smiling softly, disagreed. “Not quite yet, Mohammad.”
    It was his brother, Shorab, presenting himself at the age of twelve, the time in their lives that Mohammad reflected upon the most, the time that brought him the fondest of memories.
    They were standing at Suva Point, in Fiji, their favorite place to fish as children; only the storm surrounding them was growing thicker, the rain picking up. Another child then walked past Mohammad, going to stand beside Shorab, where they reached out to take each other’s hands.
    The child was Mohammad, at nine years old.
    They smiled thoughtfully back at him, before turning to walk away.
    “Wait!” Mohammad shouted. “I don’t understand!” But his feet were sinking into the sand and he couldn’t move, couldn’t follow them as they disappeared beyond the darkening shoreline. The rain became violent as he sank deeper still, the water continuing to rise as it washed over him.
    Thrashing for the surface, his hand met an object and he grabbed hold. Water receding, Mohammad found the face of a man looming over him–his eyes wide, mouth agape–as the Fijian had taken hold of his neck, squeezing hard. They locked eyes as Mohammad bared his teeth and screamed.
    The man tried to pry himself free, but it was of no use. Mohammad was going to wring out his life, wouldn’t release until the struggling was over. But something came in a flash of brown and silver, latching onto his arm. The man freed himself in that instant, only to collapse as he gasped for air.
    The thing anchored to Mohammad’s arm was resonating, deeply guttural, penetrating his skin as it held strong. Mohammad screamed again, wrapping his free hand around it as he tried to wrench it off.
    It was the head of a German Shepherd.
    The man rolled over to shout something, the dog releasing Mohammad and returning to its master’s side.
    “I was trying to help you!” the man yelled between coughs. “Shoulda let him rip your arm off, Fucking asshole!”
    Mohammad rose to his feet, the German Shepherd raising its haunches at him as he surveyed the surroundings. He was not at the plant, which was his final memory before the vision of Shorab. He appeared to be in some inner-city back alley, the brick