Kronos Rising_Kraken vol.1

by Max Hawthorne

  Dirk moved to the heavy bag and dropped his gym pack on the floor. He had just put on his bag gloves and was starting to warm up his jab when the trouble started.

  “Dr. Braddock! I see you got gloves on. You wanna spar a few rounds?”

  Dirk looked up to see Angus Dwyer gazing down at him from the nearby ring. The overgrown security chief had his anthropoid-like forearms resting on the top rope and a hungry look on his flattish face.

  Dirk tried to contain the incredulity that crept across his countenance. Dwyer must be out of his mind. Even ignoring the fact that Dirk was effectively his boss, or that he could go to Dr. Grayson and have the ex-con fired and sent back to prison in a heartbeat, the brute was six inches taller and outweighed him by a hundred pounds. He either had an overinflated opinion of the young scientist’s pugilistic prowess or he was looking to hurt someone.

  Although Dirk hadn’t been able to find anything on Dwyer, given his fellow “Last Chancers” less-than-illustrious rap sheets, he was betting on the latter.

  “Thanks, but I’ve only got my bag gloves,” he diverted, turning back to the nearby punching bag.

  “That’s okay,” Dwyer said. “You can borrow Jamal’s. He won’t mind. Right, Jamal?”

  “Whatever you say, boss,” the sweat-soaked ex-cop replied with a toothy grin, his strong white teeth standing out against his ebony skin.

  “That’s okay, I’ll pass. But thanks, chief.”

  A frustrated look came over Dwyer and he hoisted the top rope high with one hairy arm, before climbing down from the ring. Dirk saw an “uh-oh” look come over Oleg Smirnov, as his superior started forward.

  Dirk stood his ground as Dwyer approached. Using his peripherals, he could see all the nearby gym-goers stop and tune in. Jayla Morgan shook her head and walked out, whereas Dragunova remained where she was, resting her hands on her racked barbell and watching in the mirror. She had a disinterested look on her face, like a well-fed lioness watching a Cape buffalo intimidate a passing leopard.

  “Chief, eh?” Dwyer mimicked. “Yo, this ain’t about rank, pal. Just two dudes in the gym, engaging in a friendly sporting match. So, how about it?”

  “I’m not interested,” Dirk said. Despite the head guard’s formidable size, for some insane reason, he wasn’t afraid of him.

  Maybe insane was the appropriate word.

  “What’s the matter? You afraid I’ll kick your ass?”

  Dirk faked a bewildered look. “Wait . . . did you say ‘kick’ or ‘lick’?”

  Dwyer’s face contorted angrily as his cohorts’ chuckles echoed throughout the gym. He moved closer, incensed by Dirk’s defiant expression and his inability to intimidate him.

  “That’s very funny, nerd. I bet you’d like that, wouldn’t you? I think--”

  “Why don’t you leave heem alone?”

  Dirk’s eyes popped as Dragunova wandered over and placed herself between them. To say he was shocked would have been an understatement. He opened his mouth to say something, but froze as the tall sub commander held up a cautionary finger.

  “I theenk you have some problem weeth Doctor Derek, da?” Dragunova announced. Her eyes shone like carbon-steel blades as she stared up at Dwyer. At six-foot-five, he was three inches taller and substantially heavier, but she was unafraid. To Dirk, she looked like a big she-panther, protecting her cub.

  “This is none of your business, butch,” Dwyer snarled. His jaw muscles twitched; a combination of ill-contained fury and surprise at the woman’s unexpected and unwelcome interference.

  Dragunova raised an eyebrow. “You call me ‘butch?’”

  “Or bitch. Either way, butt out. This is a conversation between men.”

  “Then, I theenk you are one short.”

  Dirk stood there, stunned, watching as Dwyer’s face turned tomato-red. As the ranking officer, he should have interfered. In fact, protocol stated he had to. But he was so bemused and, admittedly, strangely keyed-up by the unexpected turn of events, that he found himself staring, transfixed, as the bizarre stare-down continued.

  “That’s very funny,” Dwyer remarked. He threw Dirk a nasty look. “You got big, bad mama bear protecting you now, eh?” He turned back to Dragunova, his red-rimmed eyes boring into hers as he tried to gauge both her fortitude and level of commitment. “You know, I read somewhere that women blink twice as often as men.”

  “I doubt that.”

  “No, they do.”

  “I meant that you can read,” Dragunova retorted. Her eyes danced with merriment as Dwyer’s fury continued to build.

  From inside the ring, Jamal White decided to chime in. “Hey, chief. Is it just me, or do you smell pussy?”

  Dwyer smirked, then leaned in and made a show of sniffing. “Matter of fact, yeah, I do. Hey, I guess you really are what you eat!”

  Dirk started angrily forward, but Dragunova restrained him with a palm pressed tightly against his chest. Her storm cloud eyes continued to zero Dwyer’s.

  “Then I guess that would make you and your girlfriend beeg deeks, now wouldn’t it?” she said smugly.

  Dwyer looked like he was going to explode. His eyes grew as big as teacups, bulging from their sockets. Suddenly, his gaze shifted past Dragunova. His enraged expression changed to one of hesitancy and he gave ground.

  Over her shoulder, Garm Braddock came into focus.

  Dirk hadn’t said a word as his brother approached. Although the big submariner wore a look of vengeful fury, for the moment he appeared contained, like a racecar, approaching the starting line with its superchargers rumbling, waiting for the flag to drop.

  Wordlessly, Dragunova stepped back, allowing him to take her place.

  “Mr. Dwyer, I am shocked,” Garm said humorlessly. His elevated chin swiveled as he took in both White and Smirnov, in the background. “You guys threw a Tupperware party and I wasn’t invited?”

  “Whoa, count me out,” Smirnov announced. He backed away, his big hands extended, palms out. “I am not part of thees.”

  Garm gave his old sparring partner a polite nod as he turned and departed the gym, then looked Dwyer in the eye.

  “And then there were two . . .”

  “This ain’t your concern, Brad--”

  “Oh, but it is,” Garm said. His eyes shone like dry ice as he moved closer. “And when you’re picking on my little brother, I am very concerned.”

  As Dwyer licked his lips, Garm studied the structure of his face, pinpointing its weak spots. “That’s an interesting scar you’ve got on your upper lip,” he said. His eyes intensified as he looked closer. “Oval-shaped, kind of like a human bite mark. But it’s too small. A child’s bite, perhaps?”

  Dirk and Dragunova exchanged uncertain looks. Judging from her semi-relaxed body posture, at this point, he figured Antrodemus’s captain was content to let Garm handle things, with her getting involved only if it became necessary. Or, perhaps she had simply been playing for time all along, figuring he’d show up.

  Dwyer’s nostrils flared at the unwelcome scrutiny. Then his upper lip contracted into an ugly sneer. “You know, ‘Gate,’ I’ve always wanted to try you.”

  “Try would be the operative word.”

  “We’ll see about that.” Dwyer snapped his finger. “Jamal, get down here.”

  “You got it, boss.”

  Dirk watched as Jamal White hopped down from the ring, his sparring gloves still on. At six-foot-three, he was an inch shorter than Garm and twenty pounds lighter. He slipped forward, an unfriendly smile creasing his face.

  “You want me to teach this cracker a lesson?”

  “Go for it,” Dwyer said, steeping a few paces back.

  White sniggered. “Yo, Braddock. You in serious trouble.” He made a show of dancing in place while firing a series of punches in the air. “You don’t know who you messin with.”

  “Oh, really,” Garm chuckled. “What are you going to do, change your tampon in front of me?”

  “What? I’m about to kick your a
ss, white man!”

  Garm’s amused expression evaporated, replaced by a blend of boredom and disdain. “As you and your fellow racists are so fond of saying behind my back, I am not a ‘white man.’ Nor am I, technically, an ‘Asian man.’” He shrugged. “I’m just a man. Something you should try sometime.”

  “Why y-you . . . you a dead man, mother-fucker!”

  Dirk inhaled sharply as White flew at his brother, firing punches. Garm waited patiently, then twisted at the waist as he bobbed from side-to-side, weathering the anticipated assault. Suddenly, he weaved to the left and, as his foe’s next jab missed its mark, slipped the follow-up and grabbed the ex-cop by the face with one big hand.

  White’s startled cry was muffled as Garm torqued his huge body and extended his arm, tossing his off-balance opponent ten feet, right on his ass. His wolf’s eyes were already on Dwyer, absorbing his telltale shocked expression and giving him a ‘come hither’ look.

  “Get up!” Dwyer snarled at his subordinate.

  White shook his head and dusted himself off as he regained his feet. As he did, he latched onto one of his gloves with his teeth and tore it off, followed by the other one. In seconds, he was back on the offensive.

  “No, man!” he brayed through an erratic headshake. “I ain’t going down like wet biscuits!”

  As White rushed in like an angry bull, Dirk saw the set of Garm’s jaw and took a quick step back. He extended one arm between his brother’s broad back and Dragunova, instinctively trying to shield her. He’d seen too many of Garm’s fights, both in and out of the ring, to not know what came next. That initial smush had been a playful, “You’re too little to play in my sandbox,” kind of thing. But now, the former heavyweight contender was all business.

  Garm’s eyes narrowed as he took a half-step forward. As he moved, his muscles flexed like titanium-steel bands, transforming his 245-pound body into the fighting machine that, years earlier, wreaked havoc on the heavyweight division.

  Dirk watched his brother’s feet with interest. Garm had taught him ages ago how, even when backpedaling and throwing a jab, he could incorporate his body’s full power. He just dug his toes into the ground like a raptor’s talons and did an instant reverse, pushing himself – and all his weight – forward. Just two inches did the trick. The lesson was never as apparent as it was today.

  Garm smiled as White came right at him. The former drug czar was fast and furious. And predictable.

  Instead of slipping his jab or slapping it aside, Garm timed it perfectly and met it – with his own. With both of them bare-knuckled, it was a risky move. But a calculated one. Unlike most fighters who, for sparring or bagwork, wrapped their hands religiously to avoid injury, he eschewed such measures. He felt it set him up for injury and used wraps only when mandated. As a result, his carpal bones and knuckles were as hard as iron.

  Garm’s left fist was an interceptor missile, targeting his adversary’s. There was a thud as they collided, punctuated by a cracking sound and White’s high-pitched shriek. The Last Chancer stared in disbelief at his shattered hand. A split-second later, Garm’s overhand right caught him smack on the left cheekbone, practically knocking his head from his shoulders. He dropped as if he’d been poleaxed.

  Dwyer wasted no time. Mouthing vile curses, he launched himself at Gryphon’s commander, catching him with a cheap shot to the temple, followed by an uppercut to the groin. Not wanting to give Garm a chance to recover, the infuriated ex-con kept up his assault, grabbing his opponent and hurling him against a nearby column, before unleashing a brutal barrage of power punches.

  Dirk felt panic spike up his spine as he saw his brother cover up against the unrelenting fusillade. Things looked bad; Garm’s adversary was bigger and heavier. Out of the corner of his eye, Dirk saw a dark-colored officer’s uniform come into view and realized it was Admiral Callahan, accompanying Oleg Smirnov.

  A moment later, Dwyer’s flurry started to wind down. He was running out of steam and the two antagonists ended up in a clinch. There was a few seconds of struggle, like two brown bears grappling, then Dirk saw his brother’s lips move. He couldn’t make it out, but Garm muttered something.

  Then he smiled.

  A moment later, Angus Dwyer uttered a bellow of pain as an uppercut of unbelievable power lifted him clean off the floor. A gasp of astonishment escaped the lips of everyone watching. Before he touched down, a looping left hand followed, catching him on the bridge of the nose and driving him to his knees. He stayed there, his pale face a bloodied mess.

  Teeth bared, Garm hauled back to finish off his disabled opponent. Dirk saw his expression and cold fear filled his lungs. His brother wasn’t fighting by the rules this time. There would be no standing eight-count, no throwing in the towel. He planned on putting Dwyer down, once and for all.

  “Stop this madness!”

  Eric Grayson’s shrill cry of fury resounded through the fitness center like the shriek of a wounded baboon. Everyone froze, even Garm, as the old man came charging over with Admiral Callahan and Oleg Smirnov in tow.

  Dwyer was still on his knees, dazed and gasping for air and wobbling like an axed tree, the moment before it falls.

  “What the hell is going on here?” Grayson yelled furiously as he took in the scene.

  Garm said nothing. His anvil-like jaw was set, his eyes teeming with uncharacteristic loathing as he glared at his downed foe. Nearby, an unconscious Jamal White remained where he had fallen.

  “It was the guards, sir,” Dirk began. “Dwyer was trying to bully me into boxing with him and then--”

  “WHAT?” Grayson’s face turned beet red as he tried and failed to contain himself. He stalked toward his incapacitated guards, gesturing for Smirnov’s help, then latched onto Dwyer’s blood-spattered t-shirt with a trembling hand. “You stupid, ungrateful, insolent--”

  The semi-conscious security chief tried talking as the beefy Ukrainian guard grabbed him under one arm and started hoisting him to his feet. “W-we, uh . . .”

  “Just shut up, mister,” Grayson spat as he jammed a finger in his face. “Not one word. Do you hear me?”

  As Dwyer turned the color of cream and meekly nodded, Dirk’s jaw dropped. He’d never seen Grayson furious before. He was far removed from the fragile sexagenarian he’d grown accustomed to.

  “Derek, are you alright?” Grayson asked, his dark eyes softening as he turned and studied his protégé. “Were you injured?”

  “Uh, no . . . I’m fine, sir,” Dirk said. “Actually, I wasn’t even involved. The two captains intervened on my behalf.”

  Grayson’s silver-coifed head bobbed up and down as his eyes shifted from Dragunova’s cool countenance to Garm’s bloodied face. The big pugilist was breathing hard and had crimson trailing from his mouth and one nostril.

  “How are you, Captain Braddock?”

  “Better than those two idiots,” Garm remarked, wiping at his mouth with the back of one hand. He gave Ward Callahan a look as the heavyset naval man came over to stand beside him, a huge smile on his mustached face.

  “What’s the story?” Grayson asked Oleg Smirnov, as he dropped down on one knee and examined Jamal White.

  “Thees one is steel out,” Smirnov said, flipping White onto his side and gripping his chin in one hand. “Left cheekbone might be broken . . .” He shifted the ex-cop’s head from side to side, studying his badly swollen face. “Da, entire orbit ees crushed like beet.” He glanced up at Garm and gave him an admiring nod.

  Grayson exhaled hard through his nostrils and walked up to a still-shaky Angus Dwyer. Reaching up, he yanked the big man’s face downward, then pulled his eyelids open, one by one, and scrutinized his reddish eyes in intense detail.

  “Your nose is broken, Mr. Dwyer,” Grayson muttered. He gripped his chin and twisted his head hard, left and right, eliciting a gasp of pain and causing him to stagger to one side. If Smirnov hadn’t lunged forward to grab him, he’d have toppled. “And, you’ve got a well-deserved concussion,”
he added.

  “I’ll . . . I’ll be fine,” Dwyer mumbled, leaning on his underling for support.

  “I’ll be the judge of that,” Grayson said, turning his back and wiping the blood and spittle from his hands. “You and Lieutenant White are suspended, effective immediately.”

  “Suspended? Are you serious?”

  “I am, indeed. Officer Smirnov?”

  “Yes, Dr. Grayson?”

  “Kindly escort these two men to the infirmary,” Grayson said. He glanced down at White and shook his head. “Have them send up a gurney for this one.”

  Dwyer shook off Smirnov’s support and forced himself erect. “How long is this ‘suspension’ going to last?”

  “For as long as I deem necessary,” Grayson replied, turning back to face him. “We’ll start with three weeks. Your pay will be docked retroactively and it goes in your file. In addition, I want you off the island, pending reinstatement.”

  “Three weeks? What the--”

  “Pray I don’t make it permanent, mister,” Grayson warned. The unspoken threat was apparent.

  “Yes, sir . . .”

  “Officer Smirnov, you are to complete the necessary paperwork. You’re also promoted to Acting Security Chief, until otherwise notified.”

  “Da, sir,” Smirnov replied sharply. “Thank you, sir.”

  Grayson turned back to Dirk and Garm and the small crowd of onlookers gathered about. He looked weary as he raised his hands. “Okay, people. The excitement is over. Please accept my apologies for the disruption and go on about your duties. I assure you, this type of thing will not happen again.”

  The remaining witnesses to the impromptu brawl turned away, a few resuming their workouts, but the majority heading for the locker rooms. A gym porter knelt down next to Jamal White, cradling his head and checking his vitals, while a second one spoke into his radio. Dirk saw his brother casting baleful eyes at Dwyer as the disoriented ex-chief made his way outside, with Smirnov accompanying him and talking into his walkie talkie.