Piranha

He zoomed into the op center. There was Juan Cabrillo, sitting smugly in his Kirk Chair. He waved at the map on the screen in front of him and said, “Bye-bye.”

Kensit initially thought it was another spooky direct address to him, but then he noticed what was on the map. The Quail 3 drone hadn’t crashed.

It was headed right for his yacht.

Kensit jumped out of his chair, sending it careening into Washburn.

“Get out of my way!” Kensit shrieked, and sprinted for the deck.

—

Maurice glided into the op center with a silver tray carrying a fresh Cuban Cohiba from Juan’s private stock. Juan had no idea how the veteran steward knew the endgame was coming, but he thanked him and stuck the cigar in his mouth to watch the finale play out.

The white yacht grew exponentially on the screen as the drone dived toward the water at five hundred miles an hour, a speed low enough to maintain a precise lock as it converged on its target’s constantly changing position.

Juan saw two Caucasian men burst out onto the deck as it filled the screen. Both stared up in disbelief at the diving jet, and Juan recognized Kensit’s astonished and agonized face an instant before the screen went dark.

Murph threw both his hands straight up in the air and whooped “Touchdown!”

“You realize we just lost any chance of finding out how Sentinel actually works,” Max said. “Lutzen’s journal is now atomized.”

Juan shrugged. “It’s better than Kensit getting away and selling it to the highest bidder. Speaking of which . . . Hali, there’s two minutes left on Sentinel’s self-destruct. Tell Eric to get out of the Oz cave.”

“He told me that he’s taking photos of the machinery,” Hali said.

“I don’t care. He’s had enough time. I don’t want him anywhere close to it when it blows up. Tell Eddie and Linc to drag Stoney out of there if they have to.”

Hali smiled. “Maybe I’ll tell them to do that anyway.”

As Hali made the call, Juan flicked open the silver lighter that Maurice had placed on his armrest and lit his well-deserved cigar.

—

Hector Bazin was shaken awake by a rumble that rattled his whole body. When it subsided, he sat up and rubbed his aching head, wondering how long he’d been unconscious. His hands and face were crusted with dried blood, meaning he’d been out for a while. He opened his eyes and saw nothing but darkness.

At first, he thought the concussion was so severe that it had caused him to go blind. He madly rummaged around in his pocket until he found the book of matches inside. Only two left.

He struck one and saw that his vision was still sharp. He was stuck in a cave, and the memory of how he got here came flooding back. The RPG rocketing toward him. The blast. The avalanche of rock. Then nothing.

He staggered to his feet and saw that the entire cave opening had been sealed by slabs of rock that would take half a dozen men days to move.

Terror gripped him when he realized the tremor that woke him was Sentinel self-destructing. The time on his watch confirmed it. Even if he could dig his way out in that direction, he’d be bathed with a lethal dose of radiation the moment he stepped into the chamber.

He stumbled back from the pile of rocks. The match burned down to his finger and he dropped it in pain. In his panic he stupidly lit the final one, then realizing his mistake, set fire to the matchbook itself for a few more seconds of precious light.

He was in his worst nightmare. The maze of passageways could go on for miles. Even with a light, it could take him days to find the entrance Juan Cabrillo had used to get in.

He turned and staggered in the opposite direction, desperate to find a path or markings. Before he went twenty feet, he tripped on a stalagmite and fell face-first to the floor. The matchbook went skittering across the cave and was snuffed out.

The darkness was so total that it was only seconds before Bazin could feel tendrils of insanity creeping into his mind. He would spend the last few days of his life trapped in his own tomb with no hope of rescue or escape.

Left with nothing but his own voice to keep him company, Bazin did the only thing he could think of.

He screamed.

EPILOGUE

One week later

Mexico

Juan swam leisurely through the submerged cavern that he and Max had entered through a cenote, a sinkhole that had filled with water. The state of Quintana Roo on the Yucatán Peninsula was so pitted with these sinkholes that there was an online database cataloging them. However, the cenote they’d dived into wasn’t listed anywhere. As far as Juan knew, he and Max were the first to explore it.

According to Juan’s inertial guidance computer that he carried with him, they didn’t have far to go. He looked back and saw Max swimming along with wide eyes taking in the cave’s blind albino fish, obviously out of his comfort zone. Or maybe it was the wetsuit stretched to the limit over his bulging stomach. Either way, it took some talking to convince him to join Juan on the dive.

Max would have rather stayed behind on the Oregon to complete the repairs to the weapons systems. The damage to the hull, the Gatling gun’s radar, and the Metal Storm gun, were not as bad as they initially seemed, so Juan convinced Max that the rest of the crew could spare him while they finished up the job before taking their long-awaited shore leave.

Nonetheless, Max had to find something to complain about, so on the chopper ride to the cenote site he worried again about Maria Sandoval talking about the Oregon’s secrets. Juan, however, wasn’t concerned. She was a ship captain who’d already been promised her command would be reinstated by the shipping company when the Ciudad Bolívar got out of dry dock, she owed Juan for saving her life, and she’d told him herself that she didn’t think anyone would believe her story anyway.

Max certainly couldn’t complain about their payment for the mission. In addition to their portion of the insurance company payout on the salvage recovery of Maria’s ship, they made a tidy profit on the mission to track down Kensit. Once the entire operation report went to Langston Overholt and it was clear that the crew of the Oregon had prevented the destruction of Air Force Two, nobody balked at paying their fee, which took care of all their repairs and then some.

The fact that Kensit, Bazin, and Ruiz had been tied together had been a shock to the U.S. military and intelligence communities. But what had surprised Juan was when they discovered who the other man on the yacht with Kensit was. A single frame of the recorded drone video had been enough to ID Brian Washburn, former governor of Florida and logical choice to have been appointed vice president in the event Air Force Two had been shot down. A subsequent forensic search of his office computer files turned up a deleted video of him killing a blackmailer, likely courtesy of Sentinel’s all-seeing eye.

Of course, no one would be re-creating Sentinel’s power anytime soon, particularly inside a cave that was now saturated with deadly radioactivity. There had been some concern that radiation would leak into Lake Péligre, but so far they’d detected no contamination.

Even if the cave had been intact, rebuilding Sentinel would be impossible without Lutzen and Kensit’s research and designs. But Juan was under no illusions that the U.S. government would give up. He was sure that simply knowing the technology was feasible had spurred top secret research already.

The computer readout said they’d reached the proper coordinates. Juan shined his flashlight up and saw the silvery shimmer indicating there was air. He gave the thumbs-up to Max and surfaced.