Free Peter Benchley's Creature by Peter Benchley

Man said.
    The boy picked up his shotgun and cocked it. "You get him back, or—"
    "Put that away, you little prick," said Tall Man, in a voice as flat and hard as slate, "or I'll come over there and make you eat it."
    The boy looked up at the huge dark man towering over him on the flying bridge of the much larger boat, and he lowered the shotgun.

    Chase located the line feeding down from the outboard and followed it with his eyes until he saw the shark. He took three or four deep breaths on the surface, held the final one and thrust himself downward with his flippers.
    The shark had stopped fighting, for in its initial thrashing it had rolled up into the steel leader and then into the line itself, and now it was circled with monofilament strands that pressed into its flesh. It lolled on its side; perhaps resting for a final, futile attempt to escape, perhaps already resigned to death.
    Chase swam to it, staying away from the snarls of line until he was within arm's reach of the tail of the shark.
    He had never before swum in the open with a great white shark. He had seen them from the safety of a cage, had touched their tails as they swept by the bars in pursuit of hanging baits, had marveled at their power, but he had never been alone in the sea with this ultimate predator.
    He permitted himself a moment to run his hand down the steel-smooth skin of the back, then backward against the grain of the dermal denticles, which felt like rubbing sandpaper. He found his tagging dart and its tiny transmitter, still securely set in the skin behind the dorsal fin. Then he leaned over the shark; its eye gazed at him with neither fear nor hostility, but with a blank and fathomless neutrality.
    There were six loops around the shark—one of steel, five of monofilament—starting just forward of the tail, ending just forward of the pectoral fins. Chase hovered above the shark, nearly lying upon its back, took the wire cutters from his belt and cut the loops one by one. As each muscle group in the torpedo-like body sensed freedom, it began to shudder and ripple. When the last loop was gone, the shark swung downward, suspended only by the wire in its mouth that led to the hook deep in its belly. Chase reached his hand into the mouth of the shark and snipped the wire.
    The shark was free. It began to fall, upside down, and for a moment Chase feared that it had died, that the lack of forward motion had deprived it of oxygen and it had asphyxiated. But then the tail swept once from side to side, the shark rolled over and its mouth opened as water rushed over its gills. It turned in a circle, its eye fixed on Chase, and rose toward him.
    It came slowly, relentlessly, unexcited, unafraid, its mouth half open, its tail thrusting it forward.
    Chase did not turn or flee or backpedal. He faced the shark and watched its eyes, knowing that the only warning he would have of an imminent attack would be the rotating of its eyeballs, an instinctive protection against the teeth or claws of its victim.
    He heard his temples pounding and felt arrows of adrenaline shooting through his limbs.
    The shark came on, face-to-face, until it was four feet from Chase, then suddenly rolled onto its side, presenting its snow-white belly distended with young, and angled downward, like a banking fighter plane, disappearing into the blue-green depths.
    Chase watched until the shark was gone. Then he surfaced, snatched a few gasping breaths and made his way back to the boat. He pulled himself out of the water, and as he sat on the swimstep to remove his flippers, he noticed that the pulpit of the Institute boat was hovering over the hull of the outboard. He heard Tall Man say, "So, we got a deal, right? The story is, you hooked the shark, saw that it was tagged and reported it to us. We tell the papers what fine citizens you are."
    The sullen boys stood in the stern of the outboard, and one of them said, "Yeah, okay. . . ."
    Tall Man looked down, saw that Chase was aboard,