Kronos

by Jeremy Robinson

  Andrea doubted the shark had ever lost track of her, but she had no other recourse.

  Upon reaching the bottommost portion of the hull, Andrea discovered something that lent her hope. A second portal, extremely large, glowed at the center of the lower hull. If it turned out to be another viewing port she’d be eaten for all to see, but if it was an open bay.

  She kicked hard and yanked at the water with her hands. As the bright light from the portal illuminated the water, she could clearly make out small waves rippling in the open space.

  Even as a massive, dark silhouette circled the light, once, then twice, she kept moving forward. The shark was taking its time, unaware of the escape route.

  As Andrea angled up toward the open hatch, she sensed the water behind her shifting, driving forward. The shark charged from behind. Andrea clawed toward the hatch, only five feet ahead.

  Overcome by fear and instinct, Andrea pulled herself upright and turned around, arms outstretched, facing her attacker. A moment later and she would have lost her legs in the shark’s jaws. And though her action saved her legs by pulling them away from the shark’s jaws, she faced the open maw of a twenty-eight-foot superpredator head-on. She kicked up, grasped the shark’s head, and took the impact in the gut. The force drew all of her breath from her and knocked the regulator from her mouth.

  With her body wrapped around the snout of the shark, her limbs were safe from being snapped up by the shark’s mouth, but she could feel the lower jaw opening and closing, snapping at her legs and scraping against her wet suit. She was about to become a frog in a blender.

  Andrea screamed, expelling the last bit of air in her lungs, filling the water with a bubbly howl before jabbing a thumb into the shark’s eye.

  With a sudden jolt, her backward motion stopped, and the shark vanished into the gloom. She saw it circling again, moving fast, agitated. It would be back…and soon. Andrea looked up and found herself directly beneath the open hatch. But unless she could fly, it did her no good. She surfaced, took a desperate drag of air, quickly shed her air tank, weight belt, and regulator, and pounded toward the edge of the thirty-foot pool.

  She swore she could feel the shark behind her again, but had no energy to turn around and face the monster. She knew it would only end in her demise, and this time she had no desire to look death in the face.

  Andrea winced as her hand struck metal. She reached the edge. She threw an arm up over the edge and found the floor surface wet and slippery. She dug in, feeling her nails scratch against the cold floor. She began pulling herself out, grunting with exertion. But her tortured muscles, burning lungs, and bruised ribs fought against her, pushing her back into the drink. As she gripped the edge of the hatch again she glanced back and saw the shark shrinking the distance between them, its jaws open wide and its white, nictitating membrane covering its black eyes, protecting them from the struggles of its prey.

  Her spirit broken, Andrea let go of the floor, prepared to meet her maker, whoever that might be. But before her hand slid beneath the water and her body into the jaws of the shark, a crushing pressure took hold of her wrist and yanked her up out of the water. She became airborne and collapsed onto the bay’s metal floor.

  Exhaustion quickly set in along with a kind of numbness that came softly over her. Her field of vision dwindled to that of a peephole, and her body fell limp. She looked toward the pool, where her rescuer stood. A tall, beefy man, whose attire suggested a jovial or comical personality.

  As her vision faded to black, she heard the man’s dull footsteps clang against the metal floor, growing closer. As he spoke, his hot breath, which smelled of popcorn, seemed oddly close to her face. “Well, well. Look at what the fish dragged in.”

  If Andrea had been conscious enough to see the man’s lust-filled eyes, the bent smile, and rough beefy hands advancing toward her hips, she would have known how wrong her assumptions about the man had been. If she’d known he had a history of violence against women, she would have been thankful for being unconscious.

  Remus slung Andrea over his shoulder and exited Ray’s Bay, whistling a happy Hawaiian tune. He knew he couldn’t do anything to the woman until Trevor questioned her, but then he’d have his way with her. The fact that she’d survived an encounter with Laurel meant she was a fighter; and he liked a woman who fought back. They reminded him of his wife.

  May she rest in peace.

  29

  The Titan—Gulf of Maine

  Atticus woke as the foot-long teeth pierced his belly and ran him through, severing his body in two. He’d had the same dream three times since retiring to bed that night. The first two times he hadn’t wakened until after he’d looked down and found his entrails unraveling into the water. Mercifully, this time he awoke just as vertebrae separated from disk.

  The nightmare left him covered in sweat and tense. He sat up in bed, controlling his breathing, attempting to move his thoughts away from the dream, away from Kronos or the impending encounter. His mind wandered to Giona, but the wound of her death was too fresh, and he felt his emotions swelling. He pushed his thoughts to Maria and found himself consumed with guilt for his actions, then sadness for having to face the loss of Giona alone. Unsure of what to focus on—it seemed every good thing had been taken from him—Atticus suddenly pictured the angry face staring at him from the Coast Guard cutter. Andrea.

  His thoughts turned to their first kiss. The gazebo. Still sixteen, they stood beneath a gazebo as a torrential downpour pelted its roof and provided them with a rare moment of privacy. They’d stood in silence, awkward at first, then comfortable. The kiss came a moment later. Mutual. Soft. It ended when the rain faded moments later and neither spoke of it for weeks after. But it had been the beginning of their romance.

  He smiled, picturing her scowling at him from the Coast Guard cutter. Why were they there? He imagined that the Coast Guard would take an interest in Trevor’s presence, but why watch him so closely? Before waking the previous morning he’d thought he heard her voice calling for him.

  No, Atticus thought, it’s just a coincidence. She’s in the Coast Guard. It’s her job. Still, he knew that she deserved an explanation, and he resigned himself to contacting her in the morning.

  Dully distracted from the nightmare, Atticus felt his eyes grow weary again, and he lay back down. Though his eyes were closed, Atticus suddenly sensed a shift in the moonlight sneaking past the shades. He listened. Feet shuffled over the floor.

  Someone was in his room.

  He could hear the person breathing, quick and labored. Nervous, Atticus thought.

  Possibilities flooded his mind. It couldn’t be Remus. The man might be excited about killing him, but he was a professional. He wouldn’t be so sloppy. Trevor would have simply turned on the lights and announced his presence. Besides, the silhouette of the man moving toward him lacked the explosion of hair atop top his head. With a smile, he realized who it was, but the cause of his late-night visit remained a mystery.

  “Atticus,” the man said. “Atticus, are you here?”

  Atticus shot up and whispered, “Boo.”

  Father O’Shea stumbled back against the wall with a thud. “Dear Lord!”

  Atticus turned on the bedside light, smiling at the panicked priest. “I thought priests didn’t take the Lord’s name in vain?” Then, before O’Shea could speak added, “Another vice perhaps?”

  O’Shea wore only loose-fitting sweatpants, revealing a cut, fit upper torso. The priest’s athletic build struck Atticus as odd. What kind of priest cursed, listened to the Stones and had a body like Bruce Lee? He thought to ask, but kept his thoughts to himself. Everything on the ship held secrets, and the good Father was only one of them.

  “Sorry for sneaking up on you,” O’Shea said. “Though I suppose it was you who got the best of it”

  Atticus looked O’Shea over. The man was wiggling his fingers about and glancing around the room, clearly nervous about something more than being caught sneaking into h
is room.

  “Why are you here?” Atticus asked.

  “You must swear to tell no one how you found out.”

  Atticus nodded and crossed his arms over his equally bare, yet more muscular chest.

  “I saw a woman today; Remus caught her trying to board the ship.” O’Shea sighed. “I just thought you would want to know.” He drew a deep breath and cracked his knuckles. It was clear he was about to share something he believed he shouldn’t.

  Atticus stood straighter. “What? Who?”

  “I don’t know who, but that woman from the cutter. Earlier in the day, when you were still sleeping, she confronted Trevor and asked to speak with you specifically.”

  He had heard her voice. Atticus squinted. “Why didn’t Trevor tell me?”

  “Why the man does anything at all is a mystery to me.”

  “And yet here you are.”

  “Here we are.”

  Atticus stood in silent thought for a moment. O’Shea continued.

  “I went for a walk to clear my head. That damned beast of yours is giving me nightmares.”

  You’re not the only one, Atticus thought.

  “I overheard Remus telling some crew members that a woman had been caught. His description of the woman matched the one I saw on the cutter. She’d almost been eaten by Laurel, but survived.”

  Images of Laurel smashing against the viewing port in the sitting room flashed through Atticus’s mind. The chomping jaws smashing an object to bits. In his mind’s eye Atticus could now see the object for what it was—a swim fin. Why hadn’t he seen it before? Was he so blinded by his own need for revenge that his senses were dulling?

  “Where’s Trevor?”

  O’Shea stepped up quickly. “Why?”

  “He’s a reasonable man. If he knows Remus is holding a member of the Coast Guard—my friend—he will let her go.”

  O’Shea headed for the door, his desire to not be found out moving him forward. “Obviously, you don’t know Trevor very well. Look, Trevor may not know about her yet. But if your friend has been captured, it is in her interest to leave the ship tonight. Under the circumstances, I thought you would be the right man for the job.”

  “Why tell me this? You’re obviously risking a lot by coming to me.”

  O’Shea smiled. “I may be a bad priest, but I’m still a good person.” With that, he exited, closing the door silently behind him as he entered the hallway.

  Atticus looked to his duffel bag of armaments, yet to be unpacked. He opened the bag and smiled. It’s been a long time, he thought.

  Ten minutes later he was fully clothed and armed. If the woman caught on board was indeed Andrea, he would heed O’Shea’s warning and get her off the Titan before she was in any danger. If the woman was a stranger and had no business being on board, he’d make damn sure Remus wasn’t mistreating her. After the treatment he’d administered to the thugs who attacked Giona, his patience for deviant men threatened to boil over.

  Atticus slid into the dark hallway, cloaked by his ebony Special Ops uniform. The only indication that he hid among the shadows came from a sparkle of light glinting off the .357 strapped to his hip. Unnecessary, perhaps, but Atticus had no doubt that Remus was a killer. Better safe than sorry.

  30

  The Titan—Gulf of Maine

  It had been a month since the Titan had visited any port of call; hence a month since Remus had experienced the pleasures of a woman. But the skip in his step as he made his way through the underbelly of the ship revealed that his need for physical gratification would soon be satisfied.

  Trevor had not been overly surprised by the woman’s appearance on board and, while he suspected there might be a connection between her and Atticus, she could not be allowed to remain. Even more, because of her status as a member of the U.S. Coast Guard, and a feisty one at that, she would have to be dealt with delicately. Why she had attempted to board the ship and what she already knew wasn’t clear, but Trevor would never risk exposing himself to the U.S. government.

  Trevor’s anchoring off the coast of the United States, while not welcome, was tolerated simply because the accusations against him could never be proved. If any evidence of the artifacts contained on board were to be discovered, even Trevor Manfred couldn’t escape the clutches of U.S. law. It would undo him.

  “Have you searched the rest of the ship?”

  Remus nodded. “I saw nothing on the monitors. The crew checked every cabin, hold and closet. She came alone.”

  Trevor grunted and twitched his mouth to the side. “Keep a close eye on her. Make certain she sees nothing, and keep her from contacting anyone.”

  “And if she tries anything?”

  “Just keep her occupied. I’m sure you can handle that, hmm?”

  Remus nodded.

  With that, their conversation ended, and Remus headed for the medical quarters. After snatching a needle and a syringe of epinephrine, or liquid adrenaline, he set out for the brig. While the woman might be exhausted and injured from her encounter with Laurel, after a shot of adrenaline, she’d be wide-awake and fighting like a champ—just the way he liked it. Keep her occupied…hell, I could do that all night.

  As Remus descended onto the lower deck and stepped onto the black-rubber-matted floor, he thought he heard a noise behind him. He spun and prepared to strangle the intruder with his beefy hands. But no one was there, and after a minute of waiting and watching the dark stairwell, he continued on.

  The idea of breaking a woman who had been so impertinent earlier in the day was arousing him even as he walked through the slate gray, moist-smelling hallway. He reached the brig door and looked through the round glass window. She was still unconscious, still dressed in her skintight wet suit, and still roasting hot. This is going to be fun.

  Remus depressed his thumb on a small LCD screen connected to the locking mechanism. After a moment, the door unlocked and swung open. Remus stepped inside, ignoring the still-open door. The room was a fifteen-foot cube— large enough to hold a small band of mutineers—with flat wooden slats attached to three of the four walls. Stark white light flooded the space, shining from eight halogen bulbs recessed into the ceiling. The ultra bright lighting made those unfortunate enough to be in the brig extremely uncomfortable, not only from the light, but also from the heat they generated.

  Wiping his forehead, Remus smiled. Time to work up a real sweat.

  He crouched next to Andrea, who was still unconscious on the back wall wooden slat. He ran a hand up her leg and over her hip, then lingered for a moment on the deep curve where her hip tapered to her slim belly. His eyes advanced and found her breasts. He imagined they would be much larger once freed from the constricting wet suit. Full of fiendish thoughts, Remus removed the shot of adrenaline from the front pocket on his Hawaiian shirt and, without a moment’s hesitation, plunged the needle into Andrea’s butt, where his hand had just lingered a moment before.

  He could have taken her clothes off while she was unconscious. It would have been amusing to see her confusion upon waking naked, but he would enjoy tearing her clothes off her struggling body even more. Still, in the moments before the drug took effect, his hand crept toward her breasts.

  As his fingers moved to cup and fondle, a flash of black moved past his eyes, to his hand. Before he could react to the sudden movement, a sharp pain burst in his pinky accompanied by a dull crack. As his broken finger was pulled up, his body reacted instantly and stood instinctively, hoping to lessen the pain. A tightness clenched around his throat. Then a sudden pressure and push from behind. He found himself careening forward and smashing headlong into the white-metal wall. The flash of white turned black.

  With a gasp Andrea awoke and launched into a sitting position, her eyes wide, and her chest heaving with each adrenaline-filled breath. The bright white light assaulted her first, then an overwhelming sense of moist constriction. She blinked rapidly as she tried to make sense of the stark white surroundings. Her mind spun furiously a
s thoughts came and went before she could process them.

  Then something moving toward her caught her attention. A slice of black on white. A figure hovering. A man bending down. A face etched with concern.

  “Are you all right?” Atticus asked.

  Andrea’s vision cleared, and she saw Atticus. His forehead was wrinkled with concern and covered in sweat. The oppressive heat of the room felt like a heavy electric blanket.

  “I’m hot,” she said as she sat up straighter. A stab of pain in her ribs caused her to wince. “Think I bruised my ribs.”

  As Atticus took her by the hand and began pulling her to her feet, her thoughts slowed enough for her memory to return. She had questions that needed to be answered before she went anywhere with him. She yanked her hand away. “Why have you been avoiding me?”

  “Now’s not the time.”

  “Now or never. I’ll take my chances with the Hawaiian.”

  Atticus sighed. “I guess…I thought you might talk me out of it.”

  That wasn’t the answer she was expecting. How could she talk a man bent on avenging his daughter’s death out of what he believed needed to be done? Her face softened as she realized he was being truthful. “How is that even possible?”

  “Remember the wallets?”

  History slammed into Andrea’s mind, replaying in flashes. During their first summer together, Atticus had stolen a case of wallets from the local church basement. They were ugly and plastic, colored maroon and blue, featuring a flowered design surely created by a ninety-year-old woman. Atticus took the wallets door to door, selling them for a dollar each, far more than the hideous wallets were worth, but doing a good job of peddling them nonetheless. At the end of the day, he had made fourteen dollars, from selling wallets he had stolen from a church.