Kronos Page 25

  Andrea couldn’t help but stare at the frightening, yet ornately carved statues, many of which were brightly painted. She recognized several as totem poles, but others were bears standing upright, stylized mountain lions, wolves, and birds. All had been carved by Native Americans, but only the totems looked familiar to her.

  O’Shea noticed her attention on the statues. “They’re Native American,” he said.

  “Obviously, but they’re unlike anything I’ve ever seen.”

  “That’s because no one has seen them in many centuries,” O’Shea said, a hint of guilt in his voice. “They came from an excavation…I don’t know where exactly, but they were found inside a cave. The archaeologist said he believed they were the work of the first recorded Native American master artist.”

  Andrea looked into the dark eyes of a supremely carved Kodiak bear, whose bared teeth looked real enough to sever a man’s head from his shoulders. “What happened to the archaeologist? How come no one knows about this?”

  O’Shea looked back with a frown. “Sometimes people working in remote areas…get lost.” His eyes focused forward, as he knew that even a momentary glance might cause him to crash into one of the sculptures that made the hallway more of a slalom course than a walkway. “But more often than not, if archaeologists find something unique, somehow they meet Trevor. And if his offer of money in exchange for silence isn’t accepted, he can—”

  “Father.”

  The voice was a simple greeting, yet it threw O’Shea into a panic. He looked up with a gasp. Two men who he knew were kitchen workers, Reggie and James, walked toward him, each carrying a Glock 18C machine pistol. O’Shea held his breath as he was sure the guns would soon be raised and fired.

  But nothing happened. When O’Shea failed to return the greeting, the men stopped. “You okay, Father?”

  How were they not seeing Andrea? he wondered. But they hadn’t, and he didn’t want to risk looking back for her. He clutched his chest and let out a deep breath, adding a little drama to the motion. “Good Lord, Reggie, you scared the dickens out of me. I thought for sure you were the escaped prisoners.” O’Shea widened his eyes, stretching them in mock relief. “That will teach me to pray while walking the ship.”

  “You need an escort back to your quarters, or can you handle that?” Reggie asked, pointing to the UMP O’Shea had forgotten he was carrying.

  “I’d be damned to hell for firing this at a human being, but it does provide some measure of comfort, doesn’t it? I’m sure I can make it to my quarters without incident though, thank you.” O’Shea smiled and stepped aside, allowing the men to walk past. “Keep safe.”

  O’Shea let out a silent sigh of relief as the two continued on their way. His eyes began searching the hallway for some sign of Andrea. He found her as she stood up, moving silently, from behind the great bear carving. The men had walked right past her.

  As O’Shea motioned for Andrea to hurry up, Reggie turned around. “Oh, Father, I meant to ask y—”

  In that moment, that small slice of time, Reggie could plainly see Andrea and his mind made the quick mental connection that she and O’Shea were in league. He raised his Glock, but he was too slow. O’Shea had already taken aim with his UMP. The stream of bullets that issued from the UMP shot wildly through the hall. He’d never fired a handgun, let alone a submachine gun, and his aim was dismal. Of course, with a submachine gun pumping out seven hundred rounds per minute, perfect aim wasn’t a requirement. In seconds, the weapon jettisoned all twenty-five rounds. Of the twenty-five, four connected.

  Reggie took three in his torso as the bullets strafed diagonally upward. The fourth hit, following the same diagonal path, struck the other man in the side of the head as he spun to bring his own weapon to bear. In the silence that followed, O’Shea could hear a distinct ringing in his ears, coupled with his heartbeat. Then the sound of distant gunfire caught his attention. Atticus was somewhere else on the ship, waging his own personal war.

  Andrea grasped his shoulders. He spun to her, his eyes wide, his breathing quick and shallow.

  “You did the right thing,” she said.

  “How can killing be the right thing?” O’Shea asked.

  “Because,” Andrea took O’Shea’s UMP, ejected the spent magazine, and slammed a fresh one home, “we’re the good guys.”

  With that, Andrea ran down the hallway, making for the stairway. Andrea’s support did little to assuage O’Shea’s guilt, but it did feel good to be on the side of right for the first time in his life. He followed her down the hallway, hoping that, somehow, the gunfire had gone unnoticed.

  Without meeting further resistance, Andrea and O’Shea reached his quarters. They entered quickly, locked the door, and headed for the laptops. They each took one, connected to the Internet, and accessed their individual e-mail accounts. Andrea wasn’t sure her message would be seen in time. While e-mail was certainly convenient, there was no guarantee that the addressee would see it soon enough to be of any assistance. As she typed her message, she hoped her commanding officer checked his e-mail like an addict.

  O’Shea typed furiously, catching Andrea’s attention. “Who are you sending to?” she asked.

  “I’m transferring my funds into a secure bank account.”

  Andrea paused, incredulous. “What?”

  “Just kidding,” he said. “I’m e-mailing everyone.”

  Andrea signed her name, rank, and serial number to the e-mail, so there would be no doubt about its authenticity, and moved the cursor to the send button. As she depressed the button, the screen exploded. O’Shea’s computer was hit next. Both jumped back, bumping into each other. Andrea and O’Shea had put down their UMPs when they’d started using the laptops. She still had the Glock tucked into the back of her pants, but whoever had shot up the computers would have no trouble adjusting his aim to take her out before she’d freed the gun from her waistband.

  They turned toward the door and found a lopsided grin on the scarred face of Remus. As usual, he wore shorts and a Hawaiian shirt, but the joyful clothing stood in stark contrast to the Heckler & Koch MP5 submachine gun he held. “Got this from your boyfriend,” he said to Andrea, motioning to the weapon. “He kept it up nice for me.”

  Sweeping the weapon back and forth between them, Remus entered the room. “It’s funny,” he said, “all the locks on the ship seem to open for anyone.” He smiled. “Too bad for you.”

  Remus took aim at O’Shea. “Can’t say I’m too surprised about you. I told Trevor not to trust a priest.”

  Like a striking cobra, Remus swept his aim back to Andrea. “And you…I’m going to have some fun with you.” Remus paused for a moment. He squinted his eyes. “Your gun. Wherever it is, lose it now.”

  Andrea complied, knowing there was no other choice. She had a feeling that Remus wasn’t going to shoot them yet, and that meant they still had a chance, however small, of escape. O’Shea wasn’t much bigger than she was, but they were two to his one, and most definitely smarter. As a child she’d once defended another girl from two bullies. Both stood taller and had more muscles than she did, but she outclassed them mentally. She avoided a full-on brawl by throwing sand in their eyes. Of course sand in Remus’s eyes would only enrage him, not send him away in tears. More than that, the only sand to be found was hundreds of feet beneath the hull of the Titan.

  Andrea turned her back to Remus so he could see her take out the Glock and drop it to the floor.

  “Kick it to me,” he said. Again, she complied.

  Keeping the MP5 trained on them, he circled the U-shaped table holding the destroyed laptops, collected the two UMPs, and moved back to the door. He kicked the Glock out of the room and dropped the rest of the weapons to the floor. He turned with a fiendish grin, closed the door behind him, and hummed a Hawaiian tune.

  49

  The Titan

  Atticus landed amid a shower of glass after falling ten feet. He grunted as the blunt impact knocked the wind out of him and se
nt shards of the broken window into his right arm, torso, and upper thigh. Though the cuts burned, he managed to hang on to his weapon and his wits, though the .357 fell over the side, disappearing on the deck below. He rolled onto his back and fired a spray of bullets across the shattered window. He didn’t see anyone, but a scream of pain confirmed a hit.

  He fired a second burst as he pushed himself to the side of the five-foot panel. He wasn’t sure what room lay beneath him, only that he needed to get off the open roof and back inside. Atticus slid over the glass. It scratched at his back and stabbed his bare feet with every shove, all the while keeping the UMP aimed at the window above.

  A shadow slid across the window, triggering a quick burst of gunfire from Atticus. There was no scream this time. Just a dull thud as a body hit the floor. He doubted anyone would be stupid enough to stick his head out again and double-timed it to the edge of the platform. Upon reaching it, he glanced over the edge. He was two stories above the next platform. But it wasn’t the height that held his attention. It was the entryway below; it led to the bridge.

  The bridge door opened, and an armed guard stepped out. Another one of the Cerberus crew. The man seemed even bigger than the other three, and his weapon of choice was an AK-47, the conventional weapon that had claimed more lives worldwide than any other. Atticus used his arm to sweep a pile of large glass shards to the edge. All at once, he pushed the glass over. Deadly glass rain poured down toward the security guard.

  Atticus didn’t watch the glass fall, just in case the guard got off a lucky shot, but the wailing scream from below told him that his target had been on the receiving end of a shard or two. Atticus peeked over the edge and saw the guard, flat on his back with a six-inch slice of window embedded in his face. Atticus cringed. He’d seen the dead man’s eyes staring up at him.

  After wrapping the UMP’s strap around his neck, he swung his body over the edge, sending down more glass. His wounded shoulder and arm protested at the strain, but he managed to hang on. Two feet below his toes was a pipe, painted white to match the rest of the Titan’s hull. He lowered himself as far as he could go and released his grip. His toes hit the pipe and momentarily stopped his downward motion. Prepared for the jolt, Atticus stayed upright and fell straight down again. He grabbed the pipe with his hands as he passed, but the jolt strained his injured arm beyond the point of endurance. His fingers slipped away, but his descent had been slowed enough to prevent too hard a landing. As he fell, Atticus twisted his body so he’d land on his left side to avoid burying the glass deeper into his arm. He hit with a thud, but a thick, soft object broke his fall.

  Atticus picked himself up off the dead guard, readied the UMP, and charged into the bridge. There were no other guards and the five-man bridge crew, including the captain appeared genuinely surprised by his sudden entrance. The virtually soundproof bridge had blocked his advance through the ship, and while they’d probably heard the gunfire above, they had no idea their personal guard had been dispatched by an avalanche of glass. Trevor, who was sitting in the captain’s chair, nonchalantly turned toward Atticus. He was armed with nothing but an odd grin. His eyes glowed with excitement behind his thick-rimmed glasses.

  “Took you long enough, old chap.” Trevor said. “You look like hell, by the way.”

  Atticus ignored Trevor, confident that the unarmed bridge crew wouldn’t dare move a muscle. He quickly scanned the instrument panels and sonar display. They pursuit of Kronos had commenced, but they had yet to engage. Atticus relaxed, knowing he’d arrived in time. The sound of helicopter blades caught his attention. The large chopper, outfitted with four torpedoes, headed away from the Titan. His eyes moved lower and found the Titan’s main gun at the ready. His gaze drifted lower still, and he saw a hedgehog depth-charge launcher shooting bright yellow canisters over the sides of the Titan.

  He was not in time. He was too late.

  The depth charges couldn’t be stopped, but they would simply drive Kronos to the surface, not kill him. The main assault could still be stopped. “Tell your men to stand down.”

  “I’m afraid not,” Trevor said, with a twitch of his nose.

  Atticus took aim at Trevor’s head.

  Trevor laughed. “Oh ho! I’m afraid I know you too well to be intimidated. While you may indeed pummel me, you’re not a murderer, and whatever physical damage you may cause is a minor price to pay for a prize such as Kronos.”

  Atticus sneered. “I killed at least nine men on my way here, what makes you think I won’t kill you too? You do know me. And you know I’ll take down this entire ship and everyone on it before I let you kill my daughter.”

  A trace of fear flashed behind Trevor’s eyes, but then he relaxed and began cleaning his glasses on his black turtleneck. “Yes, you would, wouldn’t you? I’m afraid I’d make a dreadful father.” Trevor put the glasses back on and looked at Atticus. A second later, a popping sound burst from his glasses. Propelled by compressed nitrogen, two barbed darts, trailing thin wires bit into Atticus’s chest.

  Before Atticus registered the small pain where the barbs latched on to the skin of his chest beneath his shirt, he was writhing on the floor in agony. His muscles, beyond his control, contracted tightly until he twisted into a fetal position.

  “You’re tough until someone pumps fifty-thousand volts into your nervous system,” Trevor said as he stood. He took the glasses off and placed them on the chair as they continued to dole out the electric abuse. Trevor took the CB in his hand, looked at Atticus’s twisted form, and spoke into the mike. “Now hear this. As soon as the beast has cleared the surface, I want all weapons fired. Hold nothing back. I want this creature, even if I have to put it back together. I repeat, as soon as—”

  A grip on Trevor’s foot made him pause and look down. Though still trembling, Atticus managed to reach out and grab hold of him. Trevor’s brow furrowed as Atticus struggled to his hands and knees. Trevor had used the taser on several men in the past, and most hadn’t regained control of their bodies for minutes, even after the charge had dissipated. But there was Atticus, a charge still assaulting his body, and he fought to stand. Trevor gave him a solid kick to the face. While not an athletic man, the steel toe in Trevor’s shoe provided plenty of punch.

  Atticus sprawled back, his vision narrowing, but not diminishing completely. When he fell back on the floor, the strangest sensation came over him. Having just been kicked in the face, he expected to feel more pain, but in fact felt less, far less. He realized that the taser barbs had been torn from his chest when he fell back. The wound in his shoulder throbbed. The glass shards in his arm, leg, and side had seared his flesh as they became heated by the electricity coursing through his body. But the physical pain felt like an itch compared to the anguish he experienced over failing Giona. Though he wasn’t sure how, he knew he had to stop Trevor. The alternative was unthinkable.

  With a guttural growl, Atticus launched to his feet, oblivious to the pain wracking and slowing his body. He charged Trevor, wrapping his hand around the little man’s throat. But a blow to the side of his head ended the attack almost as soon as it began. Trevor fell to the floor gasping and feeling his neck for injury.

  The captain, who’d come to Trevor’s rescue, swung at Atticus a second time, but found the swing deflected. Atticus threw his elbow into the captain’s throat, connecting solidly with the man’s Adam’s apple. The captain fell to the floor, his breathing hoarse and panicked. The four remaining bridge crew charged as one, fists clenched. But they had no real training or experience, and had not been informed by their fallen comrades that, when the circumstances called for it, Atticus Young fought dirty.

  The first was blinded as Atticus jabbed a thumb into his eye, which the man clutched in pain and ran into the wall, knocking himself unconscious. The second man tackled Atticus at the waist, but upon hitting the floor, Atticus drove his knee into his attacker’s groin. The man hollered in pain and rolled away. Still on the floor, Atticus delivered a devastating kick
to the third man, inverting his kneecap and sending him to the floor next to the first man. The fourth stopped short, unsure of how to approach. Atticus stood and faced him, fists clenched.

  Atticus knew he looked absolutely horrible. His face was bloodied and bruised. Blood dripped from his left shoulder and right side. The man took note of Atticus’s condition, his wobbly fighting stance and labored breathing, growing more confident as Atticus’s energy waned.

  The man lunged forward, throwing three rapid punches. Atticus dodged the first two and blocked the third with his right arm. The punch, while deflected from his face, caused a shard of glass to slide deeper into Atticus’s forearm. He roared, reached out with his left arm, grasped the man’s shirt and yanked him forward. The man’s face met Atticus’s forehead with a crunch, crushing the man’s cheek and nose. He fell out of Atticus’s grip, joining his fellows on the floor.

  Atticus spun around toward Trevor again and quickly leapt to the side. Trevor had picked up Atticus’s UMP and fired it without taking care to aim, expending the few rounds remaining in the magazine before lining up Atticus’s body.

  Trevor hadn’t finished shouting, “Bloody hell!” when Atticus shot back to his feet Trevor squealed in fear as Atticus found his throat, this time lifting him into the air and slamming him against the front window of the bridge. “Tell your men to stand down.”

  Trevor’s eyes widened as his airway squeezed shut. As his face turned blue, he nodded frantically.

  “Put him down,” came a voice from the bridge door.

  Remus.

  Atticus had no intention of letting Trevor live. But Remus’s next statement caused him to look back and, in consequence, spare Trevor’s life.