Briggs rolled to his left and then lunged forward. The knife blade in his right hand glinted briefly in reflected firelight just before it sliced deeply inside Belial's upper left thigh. If Belial had been human, it would have severed his femoral artery, ending the battle and without an immediate tourniquet, his life as well. As it was, Briggs had to pull away quickly, ducking just under a downward swinging cut that came so close to decapitating him that it left Hawke momentarily frozen in horror.
A sword, Hawke thought frantically. How the hell do you block a sword with a seven-inch KA-BAR blade?
A piece of one of main rotor blades still rested across the nose of the chopper, one edge resting on the ground to Hawke's right and the other, jagged from where it had fractured, was almost directly in front of him. He leaned through the broken windshield, knocking the remaining glass fragments out with the pistol and laid a hand on the blade. The animal growled, as if it knew what he intended, and Hawke knelt on the seat to get a better angle for leverage.
Each rotor blade, when intact, was about fifteen feet long and weighed over ninety pounds. This one was broken nearly in half, but at approximately seven feet long and forty-five pounds, it was going to be too heavy to be really maneuverable. The aluminum-alloy honeycomb core covered by aluminum was by no means a sharpened steel blade, but at least it was metal and Briggs could use it as a shield.
The animal growled again. Hawke's shoulders strained as he tugged on the blade at its broken end, forcing the right edge up out of the weeds. A quick shove pushed the far end into the threatening beast, which yelped and snarled. He slammed the edge against the animal again and then pulled the blade to the left, up and over the nose, angling it downward.
He opened his mouth to call out, to tell Briggs to use the rotor blade to block those dangerous thrusts, but was only able to make a harsh creak from his vocal chords. It was starting to truly piss him off. He'd have to trust that Briggs could figure out how to use it.
Belial was limping after Briggs who'd ducked behind a stand of trees. Hawke grimaced as he watched Briggs keep his right shoulder angled toward Belial as he moved, protecting against an attack to his blind side.
It was a violent shove that sent the fragment of rotor blade sliding off the chopper's nose, falling and crashing to the ground. The sound distracted both combatants but only momentarily; Briggs needed more time than that to reach the blade, pick it up and get back into a defensive position. Hawke picked up the pistol - 6 bullets left – and as he raised it, he saw something moving in his peripheral vision, just not in time.
The animal slammed into the helicopter again and Hawke fell hard against the copilot's door, pistol flying from his hand as he tried to catch himself. The jury-rigged splint for his broken ankle caught against the avionics console and he teetered on the edge of blacking out, pain flaring to such a level that everything hurt, even breathing.
The helicopter rocked again and this time, it didn't roll back to the right. With a shudder and a screech of tearing metal, it slid from where it had been pinned by tree trunks and stumps on an angle, crashing on to its left side against the packed earth and rocky ground. Hawke lay on top of the door, stunned and winded. His legs were above him on the seat and console. Everything loose in the cockpit - the flashlight, water bottle, open briefcase with satellite phone, and the tools - had rained down upon him. He reached out blindly to his left, groping in the dark for where he'd thought he'd seen the gun and after a frustrated minute, grabbed the flashlight.
The gun had slid behind the left rudder pedal and Hawke stretched to dislodge it. With the sounds that the animal was making, now sniffing at the undercarriage, he couldn't hear what was happening with Briggs and Belial but he knew he was running out of time.
A bullet wound to the arm and a knife wound that should have been fatal had barely slowed Belial. If Briggs was going to have a chance, Hawke needed to even the playing field. He wondered if the demon would still be able to swing that sword in the right direction without an eye or two.
He slid backwards on the door, gradually lowering his right leg, and pushing himself along with his left until he could get his left leg underneath him and pull himself into a standing position. With the door and window now resting on the ground, he had to lean through the battered windshield to take aim. Then his plan went to hell.
There was no way he was going to be able to put a bullet in Belial's eye, or eyes, if he couldn't find him. His night vision was about as good as it ever had been, the fire was dying and there was little contribution from the moon. He should have at least been able to detect movement.
Frustrated he reached down and fumbled with his left hand until he found the flashlight. Clicking it on, he swept the beam in a steady searching arc until he found them. He sagged at the knowledge of what his delay had cost.
Briggs was down. The demon was standing over him, prodding him with the tip of the sword and from what Hawke could see, Briggs wasn't moving.
Hawke swore, and felt a surge of bitterness that he could make a sound now, when it didn't matter.
He took aim and fired, watching in satisfaction as Belial's head jerked from the force of the bullet. It staggered back and Hawke fired again, dropping the demon to its knees holding its head. The animal bellowed in outrage and Hawke braced himself in the windshield frame for another attack on the helicopter, perfectly ready to turn the gun on the oversized dog or whatever it was.
Briggs was still alive - that he could see with Belial no longer blocking his view - gasping for breath and coughing blood. Hawke's chin dropped to his chest for a second, granting himself a moment of desolation after he got a clear view of the damage the sword had done. He reached for the first aid kit, knowing that there was nothing in there that was going to make a difference, and hoisting himself through the windshield screen anyway.
He crawled awkwardly, keeping his right ankle in the air, the pistol and flashlight stuck into his belt, dragging the first aid kit in his left hand. In the minutes it took him to cross the twenty feet of ground, Briggs vomited blood twice, each an agonized grating sound, a violent effort, dreadful to witness.
Hawke reached Briggs, lifting him by the shoulders, ignoring the terrible groan it caused, and rested Briggs' head and shoulders against his own thighs, hoping the elevation would keep him from choking on his own blood.
"Michael, lie still. I got you."
As Hawke ripped open the largest gauze bandage in the kit, hopelessly inadequate, Belial climbed to his feet, one hand pressed against his head and took an unsteady step forward. Hawke pulled the pistol from his belt and aimed it.
"Angels cannot not die," Belial said. His face was expressionless but his voice was slightly puzzled.
"You're not an angel," Hawke said and he pulled the trigger. That was five, he reminded himself. Three bullets left. "And I can damn sure hurt you."
From his position lying on the ground again, Belial scowled and then he said quietly, "I was. Once."
Hawke pressed the bandage down on the largest area of bleeding at the base of Briggs' sternum. Before he reached for the next bandage, it was saturated with blood. He gave a harsh exhale and ripped the next bandage from its package, dropping it on top of the first.
"Angels cannot die," Belial insisted. He was only a foot or two away, startling Hawke. "An Archangel can be defeated, but cannot be destroyed by my sword. He cannot be dying."
Hawke glanced down. Briggs' eye was glazed and unfocused, each breath a harsh rattle, a desperate gasp.
"Yeah," he said pressing down on the bandage with one hand and searching through the kit for something, anything that might help. "But he's not an angel."