Free MEG: Nightstalkers by Steve Alten

the area like a caged tiger, then abruptly darted into the curtain of kelp and disappeared.
    Lucas remained beneath the ledge, his heart pounding in his chest, each breath panted. He checked his air gauge … twenty-two minutes.
    He searched the surface for the boat and located its keel a good fifty yards away. The seventy-seven-foot ascent added precious minutes; he’d have to pause at least once to avoid ending up with the bends.
    Lucas removed the diving knife that was strapped to his right ankle, but found it too cumbersome to wield while holding the bulky sack.
    He considered leaving the abalone behind, but realized he could use it as a shield in case the shark attacked. Get back to the crate as fast as you can, then ascend nice and easy. If the shark attacks … stab the fucker right in its gray eye!
    Adding just enough air to his vest to compensate for the sack’s weight he set off, the burlap bag pressed to his chest. Keeping his head on a swivel, he cut north across the coral bed, his eyes continuously checking the position of the boat’s keel.
    That’s when he spotted the great white. It was circling the kelp forest high overhead like a bird of prey, its silhouette lead-gray against the ceiling of shimmering daylight.
    As he watched, a second shark joined the first.
    Before Lucas could think, a third shark made its presence known. Unlike the others this predator was stalking him through the dense kelp forest on his left, its white albino head partially concealed behind fluid strands of vegetation, its lead-gray flank revealing a bizarre two-tone pigment.
    Lucas’s eyes caught movement and he turned—confronted by the shark’s identical twin—which was now bull-rushing him! A pink band of gums opened into an expanse of needle-sharp teeth a split second before the diver raised the burlap sack in self-defense—
    Whomp!
    The concussive impact stole Lucas’s breath, causing his regulator to pop out of his mouth as the burlap sack exploded into a gray oily cloud of shattered shells and raw abalone.
    The shark shook its head like a pit bull in a game of tug-o-war, its head caught in the emptying sack, the burlap blinding the panicked creature.
    Lucas fled, kicking and paddling across the sea bed until he ran out of air and was forced to shove the dangling regulator back inside his mouth. Kneeling by the open crate, he forgot to purge and sucked in a mouthful of seawater … puked it out, and gasped a breath of air.
    He saw a flash of white and instinctively dove inside the crate, twisting around on his back into a fetal position in order to shut the heavy container’s lid. He closed his eyes to the terror, then felt the impact of wood crushing against his right shoulder. He moaned into his regulator and waited for the insanity of the predator’s fangs puncturing his flesh—only it never came.
    Opening his eyes, he peered through a three inch slit separating the wooden slats. A swarm of moving bodies surrounded the crate, no less than four great whites positioning themselves for the anticipated feeding frenzy. Lucas saw a white-headed, gray-backed shark chase off one of the albinos—his body trembling in terror as another ghostly predator methodically moved through the chaos until its sea-snorting nostrils pushed between two wooden slats, homing in on Lucas’s pounding pulse.
    Unable to reach the protruding snout with his fist, the diver slammed it with his elbow, the impact unleashing a wave of pain down his arm.
    The shark twisted its head sideways and swam off.
    Lucas knew he was hyperventilating, the fear of being eaten unleashing waves of anxiety. He checked his air and was actually relieved. I’ll suffocate before the bitches can sink their teeth into me …
    And then, miraculously, the crate began to rise.
    *   *   *
    Attached to the Lebofilm ’s keel was an underwater camera. While Donna Johnston remained out on deck working on her tan, Steven Lebowitz had been watching Lucas Heitman’s