Uncharted The Fourth Labyrinth - By Christopher Golden Page 0,75

gun Sully had been carrying, and Drake stared at it. Whoever had come for him had been stealthy enough that he hadn’t had enough warning even to go for his gun.

She handed the gun to Drake and then sat down on the bed. Her face looked drawn and pale, her eyes hollow.

“Uncle Vic,” she whispered, hanging her head, the gun dangling from both hands, down between her knees.

Just as she said it, Drake frowned. The cigar smoke hadn’t dissipated. If anything, the odor had grown stronger.

“Wait a—” he started to say.

“Who’s there?” asked a voice from the balcony.

“Sully?” Drake called.

“Out on the terrace, making friends,” Sully replied.

Drake and Jada both exhaled, chuckling softly at their panic and the grief that had come and gone in half a minute. She rolled her eyes at him, mocking them both, but Drake knew he had not been wrong in chiding himself. They had gotten careless. Paranoia had to be their ruling emotion if they wanted to stay alive.

Jada hurried to the door, putting her gun in the rear of her waistband. Drake didn’t even do that, holding on to Sully’s gun but keeping it out of sight as he followed her to the balcony. He stood half inside and half out. The noises of Santorini were dim and distant enough not to intrude on the breathtaking vista of the caldera and the rest of the islands that ringed it.

Sully stood at the balcony to the left, leaning with his back to them. On the next balcony, separated from theirs by a gap of barely a foot, a thirtysomething black woman with flawless skin and copper-penny eyes smiled as Jada and Drake emerged.

“These must be your mates,” the woman said in a bright British accent. She held Sully’s cigar in one hand and a wineglass in the other. “Nice to meet you both.”

“Jada and Nate, meet Gwen,” Sully said, barely looking at them, clearly enchanted. As he half turned to make the introduction, Drake saw the wineglass in his hand. “Gwen, say hello to Jada and Nate.”

Gwen raised her nearly drained wineglass in a salute. “Cheers.”

“Hi,” Jada said.

“Hello,” Drake added.

They had come onto the balcony—Drake only halfway, still hiding the gun—carrying an air of urgency that Gwen must have seen. Her eyes narrowed, and she gave a small, reluctant smile.

“Looks like you have business to attend to,” Gwen said. She puffed on the cigar, coughing a little before handing it back to Sully. “There, I’ve tried it. And it sort of tastes sweet and like crap at the same time. I hope you’re happy.”

Sully smiled at her. “Very.”

Gwen glanced at Jada and Drake. Sully did as well, though he had an irritated smile on his face, as if wondering why they weren’t going away. It was obvious he had been doing some serious flirting with the woman, and it seemed like he might have been making some progress. Now she handed him back the second wineglass.

“I’ll only be a few minutes,” Sully promised her. “It’s a sin to leave a bottle of wine this good half full.”

“Sorry. It’s getting late, and I have to meet some friends,” Gwen said. “Maybe tomorrow night?”

Sully smiled. “I’ll be here.”

“It’s a date.”

Gwen turned to go back inside, and Sully shot Drake and Jada an unforgiving look. They retreated to the suite together, and Sully closed the French doors before turning toward them.

“This better be good,” he grumbled.

“You won’t be here tomorrow night,” Drake said. “Well, probably not.”

“Thanks, genius,” Sully muttered, one eyebrow raised. “As if I didn’t know that.”

“But you just told her—”

“Hey, a guy can hope. It’s about all I can do if you two are going to barge in on me any time I’ve made a new friend.”

Drake lifted the gun, drawing Sully’s attention to it. “We barged in because we thought the spooky ninjas were about to cut your throat and chuck you over the cliff. Then we got here, and hello, no sign of Sully. The doors are open, and we’re thinking ‘intruder.’ ”

“It was so hard to imagine I might be smoking a cigar and relaxing with my thoughts?”

“We didn’t see you,” Jada said, obviously irritated with his truculence. “Not until we smelled your stinky cigar.”

Sully actually looked wounded. He brandished the smoldering cigar. “This is a Cuban. They’re harder to smuggle into the States than guns, drugs, or antiquities.”

“Oh, well, in that case, good job, Uncle Vic,” Jada said, her voice dripping with sarcasm.

“We were worried about you, dumbass,” Drake said. “Or