Atticus hung up the phone, feeling some of his burden lifted. Having his actions supported, especially by a person he cared about, made all of the indecisiveness wracking his mind, disappear. His resolve returned, and with it, action.
He made his way up the stairs, heading straight for his bedroom. He entered the room and felt nothing. It was the one room he’d redone after Maria died. Her picture was still there, but the decor was much more masculine, and the hints of Maria, her perfumes, her clothes, her jewelry, had all been removed. He hadn’t slept until they were.
He quickly dressed in blue jeans and a formfitting navy blue T-shirt. He pocketed his reflective sunglasses and keys and slipped on his sneakers.
He moved to the closet next. It was filled entirely with men’s clothing. There wasn’t a hint of the fact that he’d shared the closet with a woman just two years ago. He reached up for a duffel bag on the top shelf and pulled it down. He opened the bag and double-checked the equipment he knew was there. Black Special Ops uniforms, a grappling hook and rope, night-vision goggles, flares, SEAL Pup dive knife, black concealment makeup and a high- tech diving suit that put his everyday one to shame. He didn’t know what he’d need, so he left everything as it was and took it all.
Next, he knelt inside the closet and slid the hanging clothes aside. He punched the wall in two spots, loosening a panel. He pulled it free and moved it aside. Inside the alcove were two padlocked cases. He pulled both out and unlocked them with a key on his key chain. He opened the smaller of the two and pulled out a Smith amp; Wesson Model 60. 357 Magnum. Its rust-resistant stainless-steel body made it perfect for water-bound missions.
Otherwise known as pocket artillery, the six-round revolver would drop an assailant with a single shot to any part of the body-guaranteed. While many younger SEALs were adopting the SIG SAUER 9226, a fifteen-round, compact handgun, as their weapon of choice, SEALs with experience knew a. 357 could not be beat. After attaching the. 357’s holster to his belt, he loaded six rounds and slid the weapon home. Its weight on his hip made him feel a little more secure. He tossed a box of rounds in the open duffel bag.
He opened the second case to reveal a Heckler amp; Koch MP5, a sinister-looking compact submachine gun capable of firing 9mm projectiles at eight hundred rounds per minute. It could fire single shots; three-shot bursts, or unleash hell on full automatic. It was light, easy to conceal, and ideal for close quarters combat. He checked the six magazines, making sure they were full, and closed the case, putting the whole thing in the bag.
After adding a few changes of clothing, Atticus had everything he could think to take. He had no idea if the weapons would do any good against the creature he’d seen; 9mm rounds might simply feel like pinpricks to the beast. But he was heading into unknown waters with men he didn’t trust. It never hurt to have backup…just in case. He slung the bag over his shoulder and left the room-ready for war.
But he was not prepared for her room. He glanced into Giona’s room, papered from floor to ceiling with posters of bands and a large periodic table. She had been a melding of two worlds, so opposite; but in her, they merged in perfect harmony. He missed her purple hair…or blue…or whatever color it might have been next week. He dropped the bag and entered the room.
The smell of orange and patchouli was strong…her favorite scent. Her black clothes were draped over the bed, the dresser, still a mess, but not chaotic. Her desk was covered in summer reading: textbooks and scientific journals. At the top of the pile he saw a familiar cover and title: Oceans in Peril by Dr. Atticus Young. He didn’t remember giving her a copy. It had been published five years ago, long before her interest in science emerged. He opened the book and was surprised to see it highlighted throughout with little notes gracing the margins, including one that said, “Dad is so smart!”
Atticus could feel the emotions swelling. If he broke down it would be permanent. He could feel it. He was about to crack. He took a deep breath, held it and let it out slowly, remembering how he would calm his mind before a firefight.
As his body relaxed, the rising sun streaming through the bedroom window drew his eyes. But it was the aberration approaching beneath the sun that held his attention. His ride was coming. Chopping through the air toward the house was a massive black helicopter. O’Shea and Remus hadn’t said anything about a helicopter, but he knew it was for them. Only a very rich man could afford such a thing.
Two minutes later, Atticus left the ground in the helicopter, looking down at his house, wondering if he’d ever see it again. Then he saw her, standing in his driveway. Andrea was there, hands on hips, watching him fly away. She’d just missed him again. He wondered why she still cared at all, after so much time, but for a moment he was just glad that she did.
Andrea cursed so loudly she was sure that the noise would have rattled Atticus’s neighbors had the sound of the helicopter not done so already. She had missed him by seconds, pulling her blue Volvo into his driveway as the unmarked, spectacularly large helicopter lifted off from his near-acre-sized backyard.
If she hadn’t had to stop five times to ask directions after getting his address out of the phone book, she would have arrived in time. She would have tried to stop him, of course, but if she couldn’t have, she would have gone with him.
She couldn’t forget the eight years they spent together. She’d always wondered what life would have been like if they hadn’t grown apart. Marriage seemed likely. Kids, too. She’d never really stopped loving him, just held different values, different goals. They both did, and being stubborn, neither had given them up for the other. When she’d looked into his eyes at the hospital, the long-buried feelings reemerged and twisted her stomach into knots. Could feelings that old be rekindled? She had no idea. What she did know was that Atticus had been her friend once. One of her closest. The bond forged from childhood to young adult still remained.
And, serendipity, or fate, had brought them back together. She wouldn’t abandon him again, not when he needed help the most. She wanted to give him that much, even if it meant setting aside her personal goals for a time. She realized now, far too late, that it’s what one of them should have done so long ago.
She watched the helicopter fly out to sea and knew she’d find him. The ocean was her territory, and she had resources to track him down. For starters, anyone out there with a ship big enough to accommodate such a gigantic chopper wouldn’t be too hard to locate.
When she could no longer see the helicopter, she headed to the front door and found it unlocked. If she was going to understand who Atticus had become and what he might be thinking, she had to do some digging first. They’d been comfortable entering each other’s homes before, even shared keys with each other, but she couldn’t help wondering what might happen if someone found her in his house. Breaking and entering wouldn’t look good for a member of the Coast Guard. But it was a risk she was willing to take.
She entered the house and closed the door behind her, not fully prepared for what she’d find.
14
Gulf of Maine
Atticus looked down at the ocean, seventy-five feet below. The shadow of the Sikorsky VH-3D helicopter rose and fell with the waves…waves that concealed a great creature, which he was sure could pluck them out of the air even then. He’d been part of several airborne insertions in his SEAL days, but none felt nearly as dangerous as the particular mission he found himself on the verge of undertaking. None had held as much personal meaning either.
The two men seated across from him, O’Shea the priest and Remus the thug, did little to ease his nerves. They were a dichotomy. The priest clearly had brains, but lacked any kind of physical prowess that might suggest he was accustomed to action. He was a priest, after all…but not every priest was a stick-in-the-mud. Then there was Remus. He was a brooding man, whose chiseled smile appeared more like a jackal’s snarl than an honest man’s grin. His pockmarked face didn’t help his grim appearance, and the jagged scar across his forehead was simply a nightcap after drinking in his ugly mug. The bright-colored Hawaiian shirt he wore seemed like a pitiful attempt to pull attention away from his face, but his nonstop chatter about the fiftieth state to join the union revealed a true passion for the culture there.
“Why the obsession with Hawaii?” O’Shea asked, interrupting Remus’s minilecture about how slow-moving
