Atticus picked himself up off the dead guard, readied the UMP, and charged into the bridge. There were no other guards and the five-man bridge crew, including the captain appeared genuinely surprised by his sudden entrance. The virtually soundproof bridge had blocked his advance through the ship, and while they’d probably heard the gunfire above, they had no idea their personal guard had been dispatched by an avalanche of glass. Trevor, who was sitting in the captain’s chair, nonchalantly turned toward Atticus. He was armed with nothing but an odd grin. His eyes glowed with excitement behind his thick-rimmed glasses.
“Took you long enough, old chap.” Trevor said. “You look like hell, by the way.”
Atticus ignored Trevor, confident that the unarmed bridge crew wouldn’t dare move a muscle. He quickly scanned the instrument panels and sonar display. They pursuit of Kronos had commenced, but they had yet to engage. Atticus relaxed, knowing he’d arrived in time. The sound of helicopter blades caught his attention. The large chopper, outfitted with four torpedoes, headed away from the Titan. His eyes moved lower and found the Titan ’s main gun at the ready. His gaze drifted lower still, and he saw a hedgehog depth-charge launcher shooting bright yellow canisters over the sides of the Titan.
He was not in time. He was too late.
The depth charges couldn’t be stopped, but they would simply drive Kronos to the surface, not kill him. The main assault could still be stopped. “Tell your men to stand down.”
“I’m afraid not,” Trevor said, with a twitch of his nose.
Atticus took aim at Trevor’s head.
Trevor laughed. “Oh ho! I’m afraid I know you too well to be intimidated. While you may indeed pummel me, you’re not a murderer, and whatever physical damage you may cause is a minor price to pay for a prize such as Kronos.”
Atticus sneered. “I killed at least nine men on my way here, what makes you think I won’t kill you too? You do know me. And you know I’ll take down this entire ship and everyone on it before I let you kill my daughter.”
A trace of fear flashed behind Trevor’s eyes, but then he relaxed and began cleaning his glasses on his black turtleneck. “Yes, you would, wouldn’t you? I’m afraid I’d make a dreadful father.” Trevor put the glasses back on and looked at Atticus. A second later, a popping sound burst from his glasses. Propelled by compressed nitrogen, two barbed darts, trailing thin wires bit into Atticus’s chest.
Before Atticus registered the small pain where the barbs latched on to the skin of his chest beneath his shirt, he was writhing on the floor in agony. His muscles, beyond his control, contracted tightly until he twisted into a fetal position.
“You’re tough until someone pumps fifty-thousand volts into your nervous system,” Trevor said as he stood. He took the glasses off and placed them on the chair as they continued to dole out the electric abuse. Trevor took the CB in his hand, looked at Atticus’s twisted form, and spoke into the mike. “Now hear this. As soon as the beast has cleared the surface, I want all weapons fired. Hold nothing back. I want this creature, even if I have to put it back together. I repeat, as soon as-”
A grip on Trevor’s foot made him pause and look down. Though still trembling, Atticus managed to reach out and grab hold of him. Trevor’s brow furrowed as Atticus struggled to his hands and knees. Trevor had used the taser on several men in the past, and most hadn’t regained control of their bodies for minutes, even after the charge had dissipated. But there was Atticus, a charge still assaulting his body, and he fought to stand. Trevor gave him a solid kick to the face. While not an athletic man, the steel toe in Trevor’s shoe provided plenty of punch.
Atticus sprawled back, his vision narrowing, but not diminishing completely. When he fell back on the floor, the strangest sensation came over him. Having just been kicked in the face, he expected to feel more pain, but in fact felt less, far less. He realized that the taser barbs had been torn from his chest when he fell back. The wound in his shoulder throbbed. The glass shards in his arm, leg, and side had seared his flesh as they became heated by the electricity coursing through his body. But the physical pain felt like an itch compared to the anguish he experienced over failing Giona. Though he wasn’t sure how, he knew he had to stop Trevor. The alternative was unthinkable.
With a guttural growl, Atticus launched to his feet, oblivious to the pain wracking and slowing his body. He charged Trevor, wrapping his hand around the little man’s throat. But a blow to the side of his head ended the attack almost as soon as it began. Trevor fell to the floor gasping and feeling his neck for injury.
The captain, who’d come to Trevor’s rescue, swung at Atticus a second time, but found the swing deflected. Atticus threw his elbow into the captain’s throat, connecting solidly with the man’s Adam’s apple. The captain fell to the floor, his breathing hoarse and panicked. The four remaining bridge crew charged as one, fists clenched. But they had no real training or experience, and had not been informed by their fallen comrades that, when the circumstances called for it, Atticus Young fought dirty.
The first was blinded as Atticus jabbed a thumb into his eye, which the man clutched in pain and ran into the wall, knocking himself unconscious. The second man tackled Atticus at the waist, but upon hitting the floor, Atticus drove his knee into his attacker’s groin. The man hollered in pain and rolled away. Still on the floor, Atticus delivered a devastating kick to the third man, inverting his kneecap and sending him to the floor next to the first man. The fourth stopped short, unsure of how to approach. Atticus stood and faced him, fists clenched.
Atticus knew he looked absolutely horrible. His face was bloodied and bruised. Blood dripped from his left shoulder and right side. The man took note of Atticus’s condition, his wobbly fighting stance and labored breathing, growing more confident as Atticus’s energy waned.
The man lunged forward, throwing three rapid punches. Atticus dodged the first two and blocked the third with his right arm. The punch, while deflected from his face, caused a shard of glass to slide deeper into Atticus’s forearm. He roared, reached out with his left arm, grasped the man’s shirt and yanked him forward. The man’s face met Atticus’s forehead with a crunch, crushing the man’s cheek and nose. He fell out of Atticus’s grip, joining his fellows on the floor.
Atticus spun around toward Trevor again and quickly leapt to the side. Trevor had picked up Atticus’s UMP and fired it without taking care to aim, expending the few rounds remaining in the magazine before lining up Atticus’s body.
Trevor hadn’t finished shouting, “Bloody hell!” when Atticus shot back to his feet Trevor squealed in fear as Atticus found his throat, this time lifting him into the air and slamming him against the front window of the bridge. “Tell your men to stand down.”
Trevor’s eyes widened as his airway squeezed shut. As his face turned blue, he nodded frantically.
“Put him down,” came a voice from the bridge door.
Remus.
Atticus had no intention of letting Trevor live. But Remus’s next statement caused him to look back and, in consequence, spare Trevor’s life.