Kronos Read online

  “What are you doing here, Father?” The voice wasn’t familiar to Atticus. It must be one of the many crew members Atticus had yet to meet.

  “Just making sure our prisoners are well cared for,” O’Shea said, doing his best to sound cool and collected.

  “Is that so?” O’Shea tumbled into the brig, shoved from behind. A tall man carrying an H&K UMP submachine gun followed him in. The man’s lanky body showed a dark tan. Patchy stubble coated his face, giving him the look of a sixteen-year-old trying to grow his first beard. But the ferocious gleam in his deep-set, hazel eyes told Atticus the man’s innocence had died a long time ago. He suspected that most every man on the Titan’s crew had either been a criminal before being hired, or at the very least, had become one since.

  The man positioned himself behind O’Shea and kept the UMP against his back. At that range, the .45mm rounds would blast straight through O’Shea and pepper the brig. The man was taking precautions.

  Smart man, Atticus thought. Some of his strength had returned since drinking the water. Atticus stood sideways to hide his right hand and hip. He let the dive knife slip down so that he was holding the razor-sharp blade between his fingers, which he suddenly realized, still shook from the effects of dehydration.

  “Let me see what’s in your hands,” the guard said. Atticus and Andrea held up their emptied water bottles.

  “They would have died in here without a drink,” O’Shea said, sounding as humanitarian as possible.

  “Maybe that was the point,” the guard said.

  “I do believe Remus wants them alive when he returns,” O’Shea said matter-of-factly.

  The man considered this, and, while he did, O’Shea took the opportunity to roll his neck, stretching the muscles that were becoming tight with anxiety. In that moment, time slowed for Atticus. It’d been a lifetime since he had taken another man’s life, but he didn’t see how he could disarm the man without O’Shea’s being shot in the process. He also knew that the guard would soon discover that O’Shea had betrayed Trevor, and the brig would become a shooting gallery with no place to hide. Atticus’s vision narrowed. He saw nothing but the guard and O’Shea.

  O’Shea’s head stretched one way, then the other. The guard spoke the words Atticus had been hoping for. “I want to see both hands.”

  Atticus raised his knife hand so that the back side faced the guard, hiding the blade behind his palm and wrist. As he turned his palm toward the guard, Atticus gave his wrist a quick snap. No one saw the knife fly through the air, but a sickening sound like scissors cutting through thick fabric followed by a wet pop confirmed its passage to the man’s brain. His body fell in a slump behind O’Shea, who’d gone rigid, in mid-stretch as the reality of what had just happened dawned on him.

  O’Shea spun quickly, looked down, and jumped back. “Wow!” he whispered.

  “Sorry,” Atticus said to O’Shea. “I didn’t have a choice.”

  O’Shea snapped out of his daze and looked to Atticus. He smiled. “You forget, I’m not a priest. And that man was a killer. He would have killed us all.”

  Atticus felt relieved by O’Shea’s assessment. He took no pleasure in taking another man’s life. That there had been no other recourse eased his guilt. But he doubted the man’s death would be the last one on his hands before they escaped the Titan. The stakes had been raised again, but he doubted Trevor would enjoy these as much as those he set himself.

  Atticus bent down to the dead guard, searching his body. He picked up the UMP and found two spare magazines. With twenty-five rounds each, the weapon improved their odds.

  With a quick yank, Atticus extracted the dive knife from the man’s eye socket. After wiping the blade clean on the dead man’s pant leg, Atticus pocketed it and turned to Andrea.

  Although she was a member of the U.S. military, she fought to save lives, not take them. She might have pulled a corpse or two from the water during her career, but she’d obviously never seen a man slain. Her eyes focused on the man’s head, where a pool of blood had collected in his deep-set eye socket.

  Atticus gripped her shoulder. “Hey.”

  She met his eyes.

  “Don’t look at him,” Atticus said. “The nightmares will fade faster if you don’t look at his face.” He’d learned that from personal experience. While taking the UMP and retrieving his knife, Atticus hadn’t once looked at the man’s face.

  Andrea gave a faint nod. Atticus handed the .357 Magnum to Andrea. The weight of it in her hand brought her fully back to reality. “It’s got a pretty severe kick to it, so take time to aim between shots. You’ve got six rounds. Make them count.”

  He felt no fear of being judged by Andrea for what he’d done. While the shock of seeing a man violently killed had taken her by surprise, she was still a member of the United States Coast Guard and no doubt recognized the need to fight and kill when necessary. She took the gun and held it firm. “I’m ready,” she said.

  “We need to get out of here,” O’Shea said. “Trevor has the Titan on high alert. Every crew member is armed, and it won’t be long before someone comes looking for him.” O’Shea nodded toward the dead man. “I rigged the security system. All the cameras are running on fifteen-minute loops, and I’ve disabled the lock systems so they work for anyone. They won’t care whose thumbprint or retina they scan. If the system is reset, everything goes back to normal; so, once they notice, we’re stuck. We’re dead.”

  Atticus moved to the door and checked both directions, leading with the UMP. The hall was empty. “We need someplace to hide. Someplace no one would ever go without Trevor.”

  A crafty grin spread as O’Shea began to speak. “I know just the place.”

  45

  The Titan

  With a watchful eye, Atticus guarded the opulent staircase that led to the collection room’s double doors. After gaping in awe at the three Gorgon statues standing guard, Andrea monitored the hallway in both directions. So far they hadn’t run into any other guards, and no alarms had been sounded. Atticus knew that Trevor was most likely concentrating his crew’s efforts on finding and killing Kronos, believing his captives were secure in the blazing hot brig. They needed time to form some kind of plan. Whether it would be an escape plan, or attack plan, Atticus had yet to decide.

  O’Shea knelt by the collection-room doors, working on the skeleton-key lock with some small metal tools. He’d come prepared.

  “You sure you know what you’re doing?” Andrea asked.

  “Before I was a con artist, I stole my money through more conventional means.” The lock clicked and unlocked. But the small click was followed by a second and a third. “Duck!”

  O’Shea hit the floor, and Andrea followed suit. Atticus learned long ago that when someone shouted, “duck!” certain death greeted those that didn’t heed the warning. As a result he reacted first and hit the floor before O’Shea. Had any of them hesitated, the spread of darts sprayed from the mouths of the Gorgon women would have cut them down. Darts coated the walls, staircase, and doors to the collection.

  Atticus stood, holding the UMP ready, wary of a follow-up assault. Their freedom might have gone unnoticed, but the killer crew of the Titan would eventually stumble upon them. “Collect the darts,” he said, “but don’t prick yourself. They’re probably laced with poison.”

  Atticus moved to the open doors of the collection room. “Is there another way out of here?”

  O’Shea’s eyes widened. “Uh, no.”

  Not good, Atticus thought. A dead end in a firefight was usually just that, a dead end.

  “But,” O’Shea said hopefully, “the men wouldn’t dare fire a shot in the collection room. Trevor would have them beheaded.”

  Good enough.

  “C’mon,” Atticus said as he followed Andrea into the expansive chamber. “Lock the door behind you.” Atticus entered the large room and deposited the darts on the floor.

  Darkness fell around them as O’Shea closed the door to the unlit co
llection room.

  “What is this place?” Andrea asked, her echoing voice betraying the room’s size. With a blazing fury, the lights snapped on. Atticus, expecting an ambush, took aim and panned the room with the UMP, looking for targets.

  “At ease, soldier,” O’Shea joked as he moved away from the light switch.

  Atticus shot O’Shea an annoyed glance.

  “Sorry,” O’Shea said. “I joke when I’m nervous.”

  Andrea missed the exchange entirely as she scoured the room with wide eyes, her mouth slowly falling open. “Okay, that’s it. I don’t care what piece of paper I signed, this guy is going down.”

  “Those waivers of his will stand up in any court,” O’Shea said. “I signed the same one a long time ago.”

  “Be quiet. Both of you. And kill the lights,” Atticus said. It was an order not to be discussed.

  As O’Shea immediately went for the lights, Andrea spun on Atticus. “You can’t just let this go. We have to find some way to…to protect all this!” Andrea waved her arms wildly in the air, gesticulating to the collection of treasures from around the world.

  “First,” Atticus said seriously, but keeping his voice down, “I never signed a waiver. And second, your nose flares when you’re angry. It’s kind of cute.”

  “Oh, dear Lord.” With that, O’Shea shut off the lights.

  “You didn’t sign a waiver?” Andrea whispered.

  “No,” Atticus said. “He never asked. Probably too distracted by the hunt.”

  “I feel like such a fool.”

  Atticus found her hand in the dark and gave it a squeeze. “You had no choice. I would have signed it too if he’d asked.” A clunk on the other side of the room perked his ears. “O’Shea,” he whispered. “Where are you?”

  The lack of reply made Atticus nervous, but O’Shea obviously knew his way around. A gentle glow from the far side of the exhibition space revealed as much. “Over here,” O’Shea said in a carrying whisper.

  Using the small amount of light provided by O’Shea, they made their way past an Egyptian obelisk, the T. rex skeleton, and an array of glass cases housing several smaller artifacts hidden in shadow. When they reached O’Shea, they found him sitting on the floor by a small bar, an open minifridge providing the light. Inside were four bottled waters and a six-pack of Sam Adams. O’Shea had already started in on one of the beers.

  “The man really does want to be American,” Andrea said, with a shake of her head.

  “I wouldn’t say he wants to be American,” O’Shea countered. “Not many people outside America want to be Americans anymore. He just appreciates American cuisine.”

  Atticus took two waters from the fridge and handed one to Andrea. The water O’Shea had given them earlier had helped, but in no way replenished the amount of fluids they’d lost in the brig. They both drank greedily, then moved on to the two remaining bottles.

  “You two better watch it, or you’re going to have to pee while you’re running for your lives later,” O’Shea said with a smile.

  “Just drink a few more beers,” Atticus said, “and I’ll refill them for Trevor before we leave.”

  O’Shea had to work hard to stifle his laughter.

  Andrea slapped Atticus on the shoulder. “Oh, that’s nasty.”

  After a moment, the laughter settled, and as though sharing a single mind, the three grew serious. “The way I see it,” Atticus started, “we have three goals.”

  “Get off the Titan,” O’Shea said anxiously.

  Atticus nodded and held up a finger, counting them down.

  “Save Giona,” Andrea said.

  Atticus held up a second finger. “And stop Trevor from killing Kronos.” He raised his third finger. “We’re going to need help. I assume the only mode of contacting the outside world is on the bridge.”

  “We’d never make it,” O’Shea said. “But, I’ve got satellite Internet access in my room. I can send e-mails and instant messages.”

  “Can I access my Coast Guard account?”

  “Sure.”

  “If I send an e-mail, it should get a response.”

  O’Shea shook his head. “We’d never make it together. I should go alone. They don’t know I’m helping you yet.”

  “Not a chance,” Andrea said. “You may have saved our lives, but I don’t trust you yet. My account would give you access to sensitive materials.”

  “Well, I wouldn’t have known that if you hadn’t told me,” O’Shea said, exasperated.

  “Andrea’s right. You two head for the room. Get a message out to the Coast Guard and anyone else who might pay attention and find a way to get us off the Titan.”Atticus didn’t want either of them with him, because no matter what course of action they decided on, he would head for the bridge and a direct confrontation. O’Shea would most likely just get in the way, and he wanted Andrea nowhere near when things got hot.

  “But, what if we run into trouble?” O’Shea asked.

  “I think the crew will be…preoccupied,” Atticus replied.

  Andrea gave him a nervous glance. She didn’t have to say anything for him to know what she was thinking.

  “I know,” he said. “But Giona is still alive. I have to stop them. I have to try.”

  Andrea nodded. There was nothing else she could do.

  Muffled voices at the door caught Atticus’s attention. He spun to the closed double doors, which could be seen between the legs of the T. rex. Shadows shifted across the line of light tracing the outside edge of the doors. He couldn’t tell how many men were there, but it didn’t matter. They’d been found out and the rest of the crew wouldn’t be far behind.

  Atticus readied his UMP and took aim between the T. rex’s legs. Andrea caught his shoulder. “You can’t fire in here. The artifacts…”

  Atticus gritted his teeth. His mind spun for solutions, then his eyes went wide. “Where are your darts?”

  “Mine are by the door, with yours” Andrea said.

  Atticus’s hope dwindled. He’d left his by the door as well.

  “Mine are on the bar,” O’Shea said.

  Yes! Atticus stood and searched the dimly lit bar. Atticus stifled a groan. “Two darts? You only picked up two darts?”

  “Hey, I’m just a phony priest, not G.I. Joe.”

  Atticus sighed. They would have to do. But if the darts weren’t poisoned, he’d only manage to make the men angry before they shot him full of holes. “Shut the fridge,” he said, before handing Andrea his UMP and heading off into the darkness. “Stay down and be ready to run when I signal.”

  Atticus moved like a wraith through the gloom that fell over the room as the fridge door closed. His feet, still bare since being interrupted in bed the night before, aided his silent advance across the cool, solid-wood floor.

  As the doors opened, a wide beam of light cut through the middle of the vast space, illuminating the battling T. rex and triceratops as though they were actors on a grand stage. Atticus flattened himself against the smooth, obsidian obelisk and peeked quickly around the corner.

  The silhouettes of three guards filled the doorway. Two were armed with UMPs, the third had a radio to his lips. “I think they’re in the collection.”

  Atticus could just make out the static-filled response from the radio. “You have permission to engage.”

  Remus.

  But why would he give permission for the men to fire in the collection? Were these men that good, or was something else, something more important happening? Atticus knew the answer when he trained his senses on the movements of the massive yacht. He’d grown so accustomed the motion of boats upon the ocean that he didn’t always notice changes in speed, pitch, or yaw. His body simply adjusted to the movements of the ship without conscious thought. It’d become as natural as breathing.

  But now that he was paying attention, he could feel the rumble of the engines and the rapid rise and fall as the Titan burrowed through the ocean. They were moving fast. The chase had begun ane
w.

  With little time to spare, Atticus spun from around the obelisk and flung the two darts, one after the other. The first was a perfect strike, hitting the man in the neck. He dropped in a heap as though he’d been shot.

  Definitely poison-tipped.

  The second dart struck the other guard in the thigh, but the poison didn’t take immediate effect. The man grunted and searched for a target, as Atticus charged him from the side. He had charged just after throwing the darts and he approached from the side of the radioman.

  The man saw him coming and ducked as Atticus launched into the air, delivering a savage kick to the side of his head. Atticus wasn’t sure if it was his heel striking the man’s temple, the crack of the man’s neck, or the dart’s poison that killed the man, but there was no question the man was dead when he hit the floor.

  Before the radioman could bring a pistol to bear, Atticus flew at him, shooting his legs around his neck, and twisted his body hard in the air to bring the man down on his head. Atticus felt the man’s neck pop between his knees as they hit the ground together. The entire battle began and ended in less than fifteen seconds.

  Atticus moved quickly, relieving the guards of their weapons, ammo, and the radio. All in all, he collected two more UMPs with four spare magazines and a fully loaded 9mm Glock. Now, they might just be enough to cause some damage. Bearing his new arms, he entered the hallway, checked every avenue of approach, and reentered the collection.

  He flicked on the lights, knowing there was no need to conceal their position, and waved Andrea and O’Shea over. When they reached him, he handed each an UMP and traded the Glock for his .357. They weren’t exactly ready to wage war, but it was a start.

  “How many crew members on board?” Atticus asked.

  “Fifty,” O’Shea answered. “Forty-six, if you subtract the four you’ve killed forty-eight, if you include Remus and Trevor.”