Kronos

48

The Titan

Taking the opposite approach to Atticus’s bold charge toward the bridge, O’Shea and Andrea, hoping to avoid any kind of confrontation, snuck along carefully. They entered a long hallway leading to a staircase that would take them to the priority guest deck, where O’Shea’s and Atticus’s quarters were located. Several hand-carved, wooden statues lined both sides of the hall.

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 amp; 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.