Before he could fully comprehend his mistake, a force struck him from behind. The solid blow sent him sprawling to the floor. The UMP fell from his hands and skittered across the smooth floor, coming to a stop underneath the heavy executive desk, which sat directly in front of the viewscreen-covered wall.
Atticus’s head cleared a moment before his forward momentum stopped. He turned the slide into a roll and ended in a crouch, ready to pounce or dive away. He did neither. Standing before him were three gargantuan men. They wore all black and sported military crew cuts. Their black T-shirts displayed a logo that read, Cerberus Security. Great, Atticus thought, security specialists. But while they were probably very good at their job, they’d already made two mistakes.
Their hands were free of any weapons. Instead, they were clenched at their sides. It was obvious the men had either seen him in action or had at least heard of the Navy SEAL on board. The ferocity in their eyes made it clear they intended to pummel him to death: mistake number one. Mistake number two was their assumption that Atticus would consent to fighting all three of them in hand-to-hand combat. He had no intention of doing such a thing. If the throbbing pain at the back of his skull was any indication of what was to come, he’d prefer to avoid a fistfight at all costs, even if he had to fight dirty, which a fight to the death often required.
The men stood their ground, waiting for Atticus to attack first, putting himself at a disadvantage. He decided to see if they would respond to a verbal attack. Thick-bodied men like them were often thick-skulled as well. “Cerberus Security, huh?” Atticus showed a lopsided grin. “Cerberus is the three-headed guardian dog of the underworld, right?” He didn’t wait for a reply. “You must have borrowed the shirts because all I see are three cute puppies.”
That did it. All three men lost their tempers, and, feeling supremely confident that their three-on-one bulk would win the day, charged. Only two steps into his charge the first man fell. The second jumped over him just as Atticus rolled over the broad desk. When he came out of his roll, his hand came up with a snap. The second man fell as well, hitting his head on the desk in the process.
The third man ignored his clumsy partners and leapt like a linebacker about to sack the quarterback. The man’s forward momentum was impressive, but as a massive explosion rang out, the man snapped back in midflight, almost as if his foot had been tied to a rope. What had actually happened was much more messy.
Atticus stood, breathing hard, knowing that if anyone of the three had got in a good shot, he’d have been finished. As he scanned the floor where the men lay in a bloody line, he knew none of them would threaten anyone ever again. The first to fall had Atticus’s dive knife lodged in his throat. The second had a scimitar-shaped letter opener in his heart. And the third had a fist-sized hole in his back, where Atticus’s. 357 magnum had punched through.
Ignoring the gore and the men’s faces, Atticus looked for some way to shut off the wall of surveillance monitors. The monitors behind him suddenly exploded as thunder rumbled through the office. A burning pain ripped through his body as a bullet pierced his flesh. Atticus doubled over in pain, but the motion spared him from being cut in half by the ensuing barrage.
As bullets wrecked the back side of the hardwood desk and punched holes through the monitors, Atticus took a moment to inspect his body. He found his left shoulder soaked with blood. The pain had dulled as endorphins kicked in, but he knew it would hurt like hell once his body’s natural painkillers wore off. He still had full movement of the arm, though not without pain; but at least that meant the bullet hadn’t severed too much muscle or hit the bone. While his fresh wound wouldn’t kill him, it made him realize just how out of practice he’d become. When the bullets stopped flying, the wall of security monitors smoked and smoldered, devoid of images and pocked with holes.
Well, he thought, took care of that.
The sound of clacking metal sounded as whoever had fired at him struggled to reload. The sounds revealed that his attacker lacked experience in conflict situations and didn’t truly understand the weapon-possibly a waiter or cook who’d been armed. And while Atticus might be out of practice, he’d be damned before letting a submachine-gun-toting maitre d’ get the best of him twice.
Grabbing his UMP from under the desk, Atticus stood and let loose a three-round burst toward the office door. His attacker dropped from sight, his weapon clattering to the floor. Atticus rose and contemplated his most recent kill, still twitching, before heading for the door.
But the sight that greeted him sent him running. Five men, all packing UMPs, took aim and unleashed hell. The floor at Atticus’s feet exploded as the five opened fire. The walls burst apart as bullets pushed through, searching for Atticus.
Knowing there was little chance of surviving a close-quarters gun battle with five men, Atticus fired his UMP at the long window. As it lost its structural integrity, the window disintegrated and fell to pieces. But before the shards of glass could fall away, Atticus threw himself through the wall of descending daggers.
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.”