“You didn’t answer my question,” Evan said. “Why are you doing this?”
“Because it’s my right,” the old man roared. “And God blessed man, and God said unto him, Be fruitful, and multiply, and replenish the earth, and subdue it: and have dominion over the fish of the sea, and over the fowl of the air, and over every living thing that moveth on the earth.”
“The Book of Genesis,” Rafe whispered. The Jamaican stepped forward with his friends. “Mistah Wright, I’m not sure you remember me. My name’s Rafe Maliki.”
Kelly said, “Don’t — ”
“I have to.” He turned back to Wright. “For the last two years your company’s paid me to pass along information to you.”
“Well, I’d like to extend my appreciation. Without your help, neither Thorpe nor I would be here. Remind my accountant to send you a bonus.”
The billionaire’s praise caused a wave of shame to wash over the mechanic. “I can’t accept any more money. Helping you has been the worst decision of my life.”
“That’s too bad,” Wright said. “I could’ve set you up with an enviable position at one of my engineering plants.”
The lawyer interceded on Rafe’s behalf. “I think this situation’s best solved by tact and diplomacy,” Edgar said.
Wright signaled to Thorpe, and the hunter came forward with a roll of duct tape. He ripped off a strip with his teeth, placed it over the attorney’s quivering lips. Edgar pressed on, his entreaties now muffled as Thorpe prodded him toward the gigayacht.
“I want everyone onto my ship. Follow Mister Thorpe,” the billionaire said. The interns filed across the gangplank to the Naglfar. Kelly, Evan and Rafe went with the group, mingling with the others.
However Captain Bart stood his ground, meaty arms folded. “I’m not going anywhere. This is my ship, and she doesn’t go anywhere without her captain.” While the Siesta Key Research Institute owned the vessel, Bartholomew Michaels had devoted his adult life to tending it. “This is my home,” he said.
“I figured as much from an old tar like yourself,” Wright said —
— and shot the Aurora’s captain once in the stomach.
Bart gasped as the bullet ripped through his innards, liquefying part of his small intestine. The round punctured a kidney and left a small exit wound on his lower back. The captain doubled over and dropped to his knees, vomiting on deck. Blood and half-digested food spewed from his lips.
Oscar Wright looked at his gun like it was a foreign object, an item excavated from an archeological site where no one knew its true purpose. His fingers were numb from the vibration of the discharge, and he used his other hand to hurl the firearm far over the bulwark. It landed ten yards away with a mute splash and sank to the bottom of the Atlantic.
Evan tackled Wright and pummeled the old man until Thorpe dragged him off. Wright’s lower lip was busted, blood trailing down his mouth into a mad scarlet grin. “Everyone on the yacht,” Thorpe yelled.
“But Bart,” Rafe said. The Jamaican and Evan carefully lifted the injured captain and carried him to the Naglfar.
Kelly Andrews wasn’t about to leave the Aurora. She squeezed in beside Evan and whispered, “I have to make this right.” Then she ducked out, using the distraction to peel away from the mass exodus. The ranger watched her sneak behind the forecastle before he turned away.
Wright wiped his face with a handkerchief and nursed the split lip. He called to the yacht’s captain, “Set course for Florida.”
“Yessir,” Jenkins said as something occurred to him. “How are you gonna get back?”
“I spent time in the Navy. I know my way around a ship.”
“Of course, sir.”
“We’ll call the Coast Guard,” Evan shouted to the old man. “They’ll stop you in the water.”
“By then I’ll be done with everything here,” Wright said over the gangplank. “Even if they left now, it’d take over an hour to get here by chopper, three times that by cutter.”
Thorpe stayed on the Aurora and sent the gangway tumbling into the sea. Soon the Naglfar pulled away from the research vessel and motored west. The yacht was headed toward land, this time for real.
When they left the first time, Wright had instructed Captain Jenkins to steer clear of the Aurora’s radar for at least twenty-four hours, giving the researchers ample time to secure their valuable cargo. After Wright surveyed the ship by telescope to ensure the Leviathan had been captured, he implemented his plan to confiscate the beast.
Kelly crouched behind a barrel of engine fuel and crawled to a safe spot behind the decompression chamber. The freestanding hypobaric room was bolted to the weather deck, a confined space that could fit three people comfortably. She used it to shield herself from view as she spied on Thorpe and the billionaire.
The hunter accosted Wright, the rage on his countenance clear even behind the aviator sunglasses. “You didn’t have to do that,” he told the old man.
“I couldn’t have all those folks hanging around. You don’t think they would’ve stopped us? I needed to level the playing field, make them realize I’m not fucking around.”
“There was no need to shoot the captain.”
“It kept the others in line, didn’t it?”
“I won’t be an accessory to murder.”
“Like you’ve never killed a man before,” Wright said.
“Not an innocent one. He did nothing wrong.”
“I meant to shoot him in the leg anyway,” the old man admitted. “My finger slipped. And he’s alive, so it isn’t murder. More importantly it’ll keep the Coast Guard off our asses a little longer while they treat him.”
The hunter towered over Wright, glowering down at the wealthy entrepreneur. It wasn’t wise to piss off Thorpe. Accidents happen after all, and Ian Thorpe was a master at orchestrating them.
With the other two at odds, Kelly saw her chance to make a move. She scrambled inside the superstructure before either of the men noticed. There was no one left on the Aurora except the three of them, two against one. She didn’t like those odds and needed something to level the playing field.
Removing her shoes to keep any footsteps from echoing in the empty metal corridors, she crept to the wheelhouse. Once in the bridge, she locked the door behind her. Kelly peered over the main console; from this viewpoint she overlooked the observation deck. Both Thorpe and the old man stood by the Leviathan, accusing one another with wild gesticulations.
On the shelf next to her was the marine radio. She switched it on, dialed various channels until she came across one free of static. “Hello? Mayday, mayday. This is Kelly Andrews aboard the research vessel Aurora. We’ve been overtaken and my crew’s been abducted. Does anyone copy?” Overtaken? That must sound ludicrous to an outsider; overtaking other vessels hadn’t been in vogue since pirates sailed the seas. “Repeat, this is the Aurora requesting assistance from the Coast Guard.” She checked Bart’s nautical charts. “Our coordinates are twenty-six degrees north by seventy-six degrees west. My crew has been forced onto a yacht, the Naglfar.” She went to spell the name and realized she couldn’t. “It’s the ship owned by Oscar Wright. Copy? Copy? Does anyone fucking copy?” She slammed down the mike, fought back an urge to scream. No help there.
With no one else readily available, Kelly had to take matters into her own hands. She left the pilothouse, traversing the hallways down to the sleeping quarters on the lowest level.
Her berth was the size of a jail cell, a bunkbed on one side and barely enough space to change clothes. Thankfully she didn’t share the room with anyone. She used the top bed for sleeping and saved the bottom bunk for storage. Two backpacks, books and various toiletries were haphazardly strewn atop the mattress. But what she wanted was under it.
Tucked beneath was a Luger handgun. She’d purchased it the year before, after an ex-boyfriend began stalking her. The same terror she felt then gripped her now, yet somehow the sidearm quelled those unchecked emotions. After buying the gun,
she took safety courses from the local police department where her instructor stressed the importance of keeping the weapon and bullets separate to limit the risk of accidents.
She kept a box of ammunition in her backpack. Once Kelly loaded the rounds into the revolver, she snapped shut the chamber. Now properly armed, Kelly Andrews was ready to wrong a Wright.
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
“STAY WITH ME. Bart, stay with me.”
Evan had the captain cradled in his arms, lying on the Naglfar’s deck. It was too risky to transport the injured man elsewhere on the yacht; moreover, the Coast Guard would need him in the open to airlift anyway. Rafe knelt next to the old salt with a blank expression. The Jamaican was in denial about what was happening. Surely it must be a nightmare, a bad dream conjured from —
“Get me a first-aid kit.” Evan’s voice sliced through Rafe’s thoughts like a cutlass. The mechanic nodded and left with First Mate Hatfield to acquire medical supplies.
Oscar Wright’s crewmen were horrified by their employer’s actions. When someone started shouting that the billionaire had shot a man, none of them believed it. While it was true Mister Wright wasn’t the most lawful citizen, attempted homicide seemed beyond even the old man’s limits.
Evan slapped Bart’s face to keep the captain awake. It was imperative Bart stayed conscious until help arrived. Every time the captain blinked, Evan thought those eyelids wouldn’t flutter open again. And every time they had. So far. “Can you hear me? Say something. Form the words in your head and say them out loud. Can you hear me?”
Bart nodded weakly and coughed — a throaty hack that shook his solid frame — then he vomited on himself. This was the third time, and by now the only thing left in his stomach was blood and bile. His snowy beard was sprinkled with red flecks.
Evan sniffed the air and smelled . . . what was that odor? It wasn’t pleasant. In fact it reminded him of a fresh carcass rotting on a hot summer day: sweet around the edges yet decayed at the core. Only when the captain dry-heaved again did the ranger realize what it was. The bullet had punctured Bart’s intestines, and now the contents of his bowels were seeping into the rest of his internal cavities. This was not a positive development. Bart regurgitated a repugnant brown sludge onto the deck. The aroma of diarrhea and puke assaulted Evan’s nostrils, and he turned away to gag.
Kelly had abandoned him with a dying man, stowed away on the Aurora to berate the billionaire. In that instant Evan hated her for making such an imprudent, selfish decision.
After a couple false starts, the captain was able to speak. “I’m burning . . . up. Why do I . . . feel so . . . dirty?” He was delirious, running a high fever as his immune system worked overtime. Infection would set in soon, if not already.
“Save your energy. Help is on the way. Just stay with me.”
Rafe returned with the first-aid kit and a cold compress he applied to the captain’s forehead. Evan rifled through the gear, searching for anything that could be useful. There were limited provisions here, without taking Bart’s extensive injuries into account. This was a pack better suited for a Boy Scout campout: bandages, Aspirin, burn ointment . . . nothing helpful to the ranger. He took a white bandage, dabbed the blood around the gunshot to get a better view of the wound. It didn’t appear too bad, but looks could be deceptive. “Here, I’m gonna sit you up. What’s your name?”
When he moved the captain, Evan noticed the crimson pool in his lap. The gash was much worse here. He inspected the area, resisting the urge to probe the hole with his finger. Evan guessed the bullet had passed clean through, which was at least some good news. He put stiff pressure on the lesion, and the captain winced in pain. “Sorry, it has to be done. What’s your name?”
“Not this way . . . Not this way . . . ”
This became the captain’s mantra, a way to will himself to stay alive.
“Not this way . . . Not this way . . . ”
“You’re right,” Evan said. “Not this way. Someday maybe, years from now, but not this way.”
The captain sat up suddenly, alarmed. His voice was lucid, his mind unclouded. “The Aurora,” he said.
“The Aurora’s fine, I promise. She’s waiting for you to get back.”
Rafe rushed into the yacht and ran to the bridge where he found Captain Jenkins. “Call the Coast Guard,” the Jamaican said.
“What’s all the commotion?”
“Someone’s been shot.”
“Who?” Jenkins asked, then: “By whom?”
“Your boss tried to kill our captain.”
“I’m on it.” He tuned the marine radio to channel sixteen and spoke into the microphone. “Mayday, mayday, mayday. Does anyone copy? This is the Naglfar, N-A-G-L-F-A-R.” He gave their present coordinates. “Requesting immediate medical evac. Copy?”
There was only silence.
Then finally a voice answered. “Copy. This is the U.S. Coast Guard. Do you require a chopper?”
“Affirmative. We have a man who’s seriously injured. Time is essential.”
“Copy that. Stand by for airlift rescue. ETA seventy-five minutes.”
“Roger. Thank you very much. Over and out.”
Seventy-five minutes? That sounded like an eternity to Rafe. “What about using your chopper?” he asked. “The one on the helipad. It’d save half the time if we airlifted the captain straight from here.”
“Do you know how to fly it?” Jenkins asked. “Because I don’t. Nobody but Mister Thorpe could possibly get that helicopter in the air.” And he was on the Aurora.
The Jamaican didn’t have a pilot’s license; neither did anyone else aboard the gigayacht. It seemed as though fate conspired against them. Rafe left the wheelhouse and raced back to the deck.
In the short span he’d been gone Bart appeared to have worsened. The captain no longer shook with a slight tremor, and his eyes had a glazed look to them. “How long?” Evan asked.
“Coast Guard’s more than an hour out.”
“Shit.”
“Not this way,” Bart muttered. Evan saw a void in the dying man’s eyes, the same one he’d perceived in the Leviathan’s indifferent gaze.
“Bart, stay with me. Please, I need you to do this. Stay with me.” Evan rubbed his knuckles along the captain’s bony sternum, a trick that sometimes brought coma patients back to reality because of the sheer pain it caused. Bart didn’t respond.
The captain’s lips barely moved as he spoke his final words. “Not . . . this . . . ”
After Captain Bartholomew Michaels died, Evan’s thoughts turned to revenge.
* * * * *
“I’m glad we finally found that creature, if only so I can be rid of you,” Ian Thorpe told the billionaire.
“Is that so?” Wright said.
“I heard the stories about you. Everyone told me you’re a miserable, vindictive prick. And now I know they were right.”
“Word of advice, you should hold you tongue ‘til after you’ve been paid in full.”
“I did my job,” the hunter said. “I found that thing, your dragon or alligator or whatever it is. I’m tired of your stupid, risky behavior.”
“I was the one who designed a plan to let those eager scientists do the hard work.”
“And it would’ve been nice had you shared that scheme with me. Now pay up and let’s go home.”
“In good time,” the old man said. He looked at the animal lying on deck. “Rewards come to those who wait.”
The two men were dwarfed by the Leviathan’s mass. The hunter had never seen a beast so inspiring as the SuperCroc, a creature of grace and beauty trapped in the body of a monster. “One helluva reptile,” he said.
“Quite the opposite,” Wright rebuffed, “more like an animal from above. Sent from heaven and mad as hell.”
Wright started coughing, something the hunter was now used to hearing. The old man tried keeping it in his throat, eventually failing and bending over to wait out the attack. The latest fit lasted almost a
full minute, after which Wright spat a bloody wad of phlegm over the bulwark.
“You okay?” Thorpe asked.
“Yes, yes, yes.” The billionaire reached into his jacket to retrieve his medication. “Leave me in peace.”
“I’ll be in the pilothouse if you need anything.”
The billionaire waved him off without a word. Wright stared at the bottle of painkillers, an item he’d kept on his person for the last six months. The thought of needing drugs to stay alive infuriated him, especially in the presence of the mighty Leviathan. “Thought you could best me?” he said to the beast. “You almost did, I’ll give you that. You took everything that made me a happy, productive man. Hollowed me out like a jack-o-lantern and filled me with hatred and cynicism. Did it never occur I would focus that energy on you?”
A flash of anger struck Oscar Wright like a lightning bolt, and he hurled his medication at the creature. “I’ll be made a fool by no one, man or God.” The bottle hit the Leviathan’s head, bounced off the osteoderms and landed in the ocean. The billionaire raised his gaze to the sky, a canvas of seared orange and shifting pink. “Do you hear me? I control my own destiny.”
Wright slowly walked the entire length of the Leviathan, inspecting every inch and marveling at its scales, appendages and tail. On closer scrutiny he found the creature riddled with scars and broken scutes from past confrontations. The old man couldn’t comprehend what kind of foolish being would pick a fight with the giant crocodile.
He examined the sutures on the SuperCroc’s side. The incision was clearly manmade, no doubt one of the scientists’ experiments. Wright finished by analyzing its skull, which was as long as a full-sized human. The bulging proboscis was impressive, its teeth fearsome. But the eyes held Wright’s rapt attention. They were set high atop the head; the pupils were vertical slits like those of a cat, and they had the yellow hue of a jaundice patient.
There were no discernable ears on the beast. Wright assumed it didn’t need hearing to hunt, relied heavily on its other senses. Or perhaps it listened by interpreting vibrations in the water. He crouched next to the Leviathan, drawn unafraid to it.
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