KRONOS RISING: After 65 million years, the world's greatest predator is back.

by Max Hawthorne

  Jake shrugged off the mental chains that bound him and resumed struggling to break free. Von Freiling gave a throaty growl of irritation and threw his full weight on top of him, struggling to maintain his position. There was a loud, groaning sound. The combined stress of the two men’s weight and the sudden impact was too much; the overloaded crate collapsed.

  Taking advantage of the split-second drop, Jake twisted free from Von Freiling’s steely grip. He cracked him hard in the teeth with a short arm punch and then used the momentary distraction to worm his knees up past his opponent’s guard, planting them against Von Freiling’s midsection. With a Herculean effort, he heaved the surprised hunter up and over his head, depositing him headfirst onto the hard floor.

  Incensed at the unexpected shift in fortune, Von Freiling was on his feet in the blink of an eye and instantly on the offensive again.

  Jake absorbed a spitfire of knees and elbows, including an agonizing shot to his side that reopened his wound. He retaliated with a salvo of his own, snapping his adversary’s head back with a stiff jab to the nose, then catching him in the left knee with a ligament-rupturing heel strike.

  Grunting in pain, a feral-eyed Von Freiling resorted to grappling again. Springing on top of his opponent, he struggled to force Jake back against a nearby pile of boxes in order to regain the upper hand.

  For a long moment the two men stood there, locked in mortal combat like male lions fighting for control of a pride, their hate-filled eyes glaring, their chests heaving, as each sought to overpower the other.

  Frustrated at the stalemate, Von Freiling cursed and went for his knife. Reaching downward, he drew it free and, in one smooth motion, brought the black-bladed weapon down to plunge it into Jake’s chest.

  Jake spotted the knife at the last possible instant and melted to one side. There was a splintering sound as Von Freiling’s blade missed its mark, punching through the thin hardwood of the crate behind him instead.

  Jake’s gleaming eyes and bared teeth bore testimony to the cold rage that swept over him. He retaliated, striking Von Freiling’s exposed arm with his knuckles, nearly shattering it at the elbow. With a lightning fast follow-up, he knocked the offending limb away from the immobilized knife and pushed his opponent backwards and off balance.

  Von Freiling uttered an inhuman growl, shaking his injured arm out before attacking again. As he sprang forward, Jake feinted back and then dropped straight downward, whirling in a circular motion so fast the eye could hardly follow. His sweep took Von Freiling off his feet and sent him crashing to the deck.

  Before his opponent had a chance to recover, Jake lunged forward with an audible snarl, seizing Von Freiling by the windpipe with a pinch grip that could shatter a shot glass. Panting, he wrenched his defeated adversary onto his knees and held him by the throat, paralyzed and struggling to breathe.

  It was over.

  “That’ll be enough, Jake. Let him go,” a voice called out.

  Jake’s blood and sweat-streaked head whirled toward the speaker. A gore-covered Dean Harcourt entered the room through the starboard doorway. He had Diaz, Barker and Markov with him.

  “You heard what the senator said,” the latter said, an UZI held menacingly in his hands. “Let Karl go.”

  Jake watched as Amara made her way to her feet and leaned unsteadily against a nearby crate. Her left eye and cheekbone were already starting to swell, and a trickle of blood ran down her chin. He felt an overpowering adrenaline rush course through him, its intoxicating power whispering in his ear, urging him on, enticing him to do something awful. He could kill Von Freiling if he wanted to. He had the man’s trachea pinioned between iron-hard fingers. All he had to do was squeeze and he knew it. Judging from the concern on their faces, the other mercs did too.

  As if reading his thoughts, Harcourt said, “Now Jake, I don’t know what the cause of all of this was . . .” he said soothingly, simultaneously placing a staying hand atop Markov’s poised weapon. “But I insist that you obey me forthwith.”

  “Screw you, Harcourt,” Jake said. His angry eyes locked onto Von Freiling’s. “This asshole was beating up on the doc when I walked in.”

  “Perhaps with good reason. Regardless, I–”

  WHUMP!

  The Harbinger shuddered once more beneath a thunderous impact that knocked everyone present off balance.

  Jake staggered a half step to one side, but managed to continue throttling his hateful adversary.

  “Jesus, what the hell was that?” Barker asked, looking fearful.

  “It’s . . . the pliosaur,” Amara managed, her right hand braced against the wall for support. “Johnson . . . wounded it . . . but not enough. It’s . . . attacking the ship.”

  “What?” Markov’s hatred-filled eyes zeroed Jake. “Son of a bitch! Senator, with all due respect, we don’t have time for this negotiation shit.”

  “You’re right,” Harcourt said. He looked down and sighed. “Very well Jake, you leave me no choice. Either release my team leader so he can do his job or I will have Miss Takagi killed.”

  “What?” Amara’s pale face filled with alarm. “You . . . wouldn’t dare!”

  “I’m afraid you underestimate me, doctor,” Harcourt said with impressive coldness. “You see, unlike most men, I have the courage of my convictions.”

  Jake felt his adrenaline rush fade. He stalled, adjusting his grip on a wheezing Karl Von Freiling, his fierce gaze meeting Harcourt’s. He studied the politician’s face, trying hard to see if he was bluffing.

  Harcourt signaled Markov. “Kill her. But do it quietly.”

  Markov leered at Jake. He stalked Amara, effortlessly swatting the hapless marine biologist’s upraised hands aside as he seized her roughly by the hair. With horrific ease, he forced her up on her tiptoes, then reached down and drew forth his bone-handled bolo. Its notched blade made a low, rasping noise as it slid free from its sheath.

  Jake yanked his nine-millimeter free from its holster and pointed it at Harcourt’s face. “Let’s see about those convictions now, senator,” he said, cocking the Beretta’s hammer back. “Because I guarantee you, I’ll turn your head into a serving bowl, long before his blade touches her skin.”

  “Gentlemen,” Harcourt gestured for the two mercs at his side. Barker and Diaz both moved a half step forward. They raised their Uzis as one, pulling the charger handles loudly back and pointing them directly at Jake.

  “Kindly lower your weapon, sheriff,” Harcourt said solemnly. “If you’re lucky, you may kill me, but your lady friend will die at the same time, and my men will eliminate you a moment later. Of course, you can choose to shoot Markov instead . . . but then you’ll still die, after which I promise I’ll order my men to use the lovely doctor as bait to lure that thing back to the surface.”

  Jake’s frustrated eyes met Amara’s as she continued her useless struggles against Markov’s powerful grip. He could feel the terror she was enduring as her horrified eyes were drawn to the machete in the sinister-looking merc’s hand. He cursed himself as fear for her began to cloud his judgment.

  WHUMP!

  Once again, something plowed into the Harbinger’s aged hull with unbelievable power.

  Harcourt looked uneasy. “Well? What’s it going to be?”

  Jake’s eyeballs ricocheted from Amara’s frightened countenance to Markov’s leering face to the pair of automatic weapons pointed at his chest. He felt all the fight drain out of him like water. With a heavy sigh of futility, he tossed his pistol to the floor and released his death grip on Von Freiling’s windpipe.

  The half-strangled adventurer collapsed like a house of cards, his inhalations guttural gasps. Long moments passed. Finally he clambered awkwardly to his feet and stood there, his hands on his thighs, his chest heaving. He wiped at the blood streaming from his nose with the back of one scarred hand, then felt his bruised throat with the other.

  “Very impressive, sheriff,” Von Freiling rasped. He cleared his throat several times and gave Jake
what amounted to a nod of professional courtesy. His trademark grin started to return. He bent down and retrieved the lawman’s discarded Beretta. “Of course, you got lucky. Regardless, we’ll have to finish our ‘conversation’ at a later date.”

  “Anytime,” Jake replied evenly.

  “Right . . . in the meantime, tie him up, fellas.”

  On cue, Barker and Diaz lunged forward, pouncing on Jake, pinning his arms behind his back. Wordlessly they grabbed stout cord from one of the nearby crates and began wrapping it around his wrists and forearms.

  “What about the doc?” Jake grunted as he was being bound, his gaze on Amara, still helpless within Markov’s clutches.

  “Not to worry,” Von Freiling said. He nodded at his underling. “Release her, Markov.”

  “You’re the boss,” Markov replied, sheathing his weapon. He smiled coldly and yanked Amara uncomfortably close. “Too bad, I’ve never killed a Jap before.”

  “Guess today’s not your lucky day, shit-breath,” Amara muttered. She dropped down on her heels as her captor released his grip, catching her bearings and looking around the room. Her gaze lingered on her husband, and a wild look came over her. To everyone’s astonishment, she turned sideways as if leaving, then whirled back and kneed her tormentor in the groin as hard as she could.

  “You stupid, fucking whore!” Markov spat through clenched teeth, dropping to the floor and clutching his injured testicles. The other mercs exchanged stunned looks, their faces taut as they struggled to keep from laughing. “You’re going to die for that!”

  “Belay that shit!” Von Freiling said. His menacing tone caused Markov to freeze in mid-crouch, his weapon half drawn. “If anyone’s going to kill my wife it’ll be me, not you. Besides, we’ve got more important things to do.”

  With effort, Markov slowly straightened up. He nodded in frustrated acknowledgment of his employer’s orders and remained where he was, immobile and unblinking. Jake could see his hate-filled eyes never left Amara. Not for a second.

  Just then, Stubbs came running into the room with Willie hot on his heels. “We’re taking on water!” the disfigured merc roared. He paused in mid-stride as he took in the scene. “Hey . . . what the hell’s going on in here?”

  “Just a simple disagreement,” Von Freiling said, waving it off. “Now what were you saying?”

  “We ran a check below decks. The creature’s breached the hull in two places – by the bow, and amidships, below the waterline. We’re taking on water.”

  “How bad is it?” Von Freiling asked Willie.

  “Not bad yet, but da ship can’t keep taking a pounding like dis, mon,” the first mate replied. He stared at Jake with nervous eyes, then inhaled sharply as he took in the damage to Amara’s face. “Da hull can’t take it. If da ting’s not stopped he’ll sink us for sure.”

  “Well, then, do something!” Harcourt exploded, glaring irritably at Von Freiling.

  “Alright men, let’s get moving,” Von Freiling ordered. “Mr. Daniels, if you don’t mind, I’d like you to take this radio and keep an eye on the sonar for us. I’m short a man. I’d also like you to take my animal-rights-loving wife with you and keep her out of trouble.” The merc’s leader handed Willie a walkie-talkie, then turned to his remaining men. “Markov, take Johnson’s place with the senator. And please, no more mistakes. The rest of you know what to do.”

  “What about this one?” Barker asked.

  Jake’s muscles tensed. The tight cord about his wrists dug in painfully as the two mercs continued to hold onto him.

  “Take him to the bridge and tie him to the captain’s wheel,” Von Freiling replied, amusedly. “That ought to keep him from causing any more mischief.”

  Willie’s face contorted. He took a step forward, fumbling in his pants pocket. “Why don’t ya lock him in one of da storage rooms instead? It’s faster, and I got da keys right here.”

  Von Freiling gave Jake a contemplative look. “Nah. He’s gonna try to escape anyway . . . why make it easier for him?” He winked at Willie, then gestured for Markov. “Give them a hand.”

  “You got it, boss,” Markov said, walking over and drawing his Glock from its holster.

  Jake felt an agonizing blow to the back of his head and everything turned crimson. He sensed his body sag and the floor spring up to greet him. He could hear Amara and Willie’s cries of protest and struggled valiantly, but was unable to rise. His head did a spin cycle and he rolled helplessly onto his back, his arms tied beneath him.

  Von Freiling walked over and dropped down on one knee to whisper in his ear.

  “By the way, boy scout, just for the record, you were right about me using that kid as bait. You see, that old anaconda had been feeding on the local villagers for decades, snatching them as they came down to the river for drinking water, and dragging them under. Guess the bitch liked how they tasted. And you know how it is when you’re fishing; brother . . . you gotta match the hatch!”

  The last thing Jake saw before he lost consciousness was Von Freiling’s evilly smiling face.

  A thousand yards away, the pliosaur completed a huge circle as it prepared to make another pass at the ship.

  Still incensed by the pain of the machine gun rounds that tore up the skin on its face, the huge predator was further infuriated by the injuries it inflicted upon itself. Despite the Harbinger’s rusty condition, colliding with its steel hull had gifted the creature with several loosened teeth and a pulsating headache. Large patches of torn skin now graced its armored head, beneath which dark bruises were starting to form.

  Its inability to sink the invading vessel added to the pliosaur’s growing rage. It roared out loud beneath the surface, opening and closing its jaws with thunderous snaps, venting its fury upon anything within range – even the surrounding water.

  Spouting for a moment, it studied the upper portions of the ship. It could see several of the tiny mammals, scurrying across the topmost portions of the Harbinger.

  The pliosaur’s ruby eyes narrowed and its lips wrinkled back in a hideous snarl, revealing scores of ridged teeth. It emitted a hiss that could be heard for half a mile, then inhaled sharply and submerged. Its sound-imaging senses detected the slowly increasing list affecting its enormous adversary, along with the sounds of pressurized seawater rushing into its ruptured body.

  The creature sounded to a depth of five hundred feet before arcing steeply upwards. With its eyes nearly closed, it aimed its snout directly at the damaged portion of the wallowing ship’s hull, increasing its speed as it rose from the depths.

  TWENTY-FOUR

  Chaos ran rampant across the Harbinger’s decks.

  While his conservationist wife cowered within a nearby stairwell, Von Freiling watched his surviving mercenaries swarm like army ants, scrambling to launch their virgin craft.

  Von Freiling stood between the suspended Eurypterids, his powerful legs braced far apart as he bellowed orders through a megaphone. With Barker manning one of the miniature construction cranes and Stubbs the other, the merc’s leader prepared to order his two streamlined craft down into the white-capped swells.

  “Diaz, I want you over by Eurypterid II, to help guide her until she’s clear of the rails,” Von Freiling said. “With Gibson gone, you have to ride shotgun with Stitches. Hold off on boarding until Barker’s got her in position.”

  Diaz nodded, moving over to the fearsome-looking submersible as it creaked back and forth. He placed his stubby brown hands against her hull to steady her, then ducked down and moved underneath, checking the vessel’s weapons pod one last time while waiting for Barker’s signal to stand clear. As he did his inspection, Stitches clambered up the mini-sub’s other side, popping open its heavy top hatch and climbing partially inside.

  Visible from the waist up, Stitches rested his forearm against the hull and his other hand on one of the thick steel winch cables. He glanced down at the Harbinger’s slanting deck, popped a stick of gum and started chewing nervously, staring at the nea
rby crane’s booth as Barker, too, waited for further orders.

  Von Freiling directed his megaphone at his second-in-command. “Stubbs, once Stitches and Diaz are in the water, I want you to wait a full three minutes before you drop us. That should give them enough time to get into position.”

  Stubbs gave his employer a miniature salute through the crane’s open window, then reached down and turned over the diesel engine of the hydraulic powered winch, keeping it in low while he allowed the motor to warm up.

  Von Freiling lowered his megaphone and reached for his radio. He glanced over at Dean Harcourt. The senator was accompanied by Markov and remained by the intact starboard railing, observing the activity with a critical eye.

  “Willie, this is Karl, do you read me?” he said into the hand unit, his eyes still on Harcourt as the senator began gesturing for his bodyguard.

  “Yeah, mon, I read ya,” Willie radioed back.

  “We’re getting set to launch. Any sign of the guest of honor?”

  There was a moment of silence.

  “I don’t see any ting on da screen since it last rammed us,” Willie said. “But it’s hard ta tell, wit all dat stuff floatin around in da water, mon. I can’t say for sure da damn ting’s not dere!”

  Von Freiling wore an uncharacteristic frown. “I guess we’ll just have to chance it. Keep looking.”

  “No problem, mon.”

  Replacing his radio, Von Freiling ran his fingertips absentmindedly across his bruised throat. He turned toward Barnes. The one-eyed pilot was standing beside Eurypterid I, waiting for the order to board. Von Freiling was still a few booted strides away when he spotted Harcourt moving purposefully in his direction. Behind their mutual benefactor, an annoyed-looking Markov scurried to catch up.