The Devil Colony (51 page)

It was the last of these before which Hank was standing. Steam rose from the top of the largest cone, a minivolcano amid its more stalklike neighbors. Water ran down its sides and flowed in rivulets across the chalk-stone ground.

Painter headed toward the professor as Kawtch splashed in the shallows of the neighboring creek. Jordan stood at Hank’s side, though his gaze shifted often to Kai. Rafael’s party gathered in a clutch on the far side of the geothermal field’s expanse.

Sweeping his cane high, Rafael ordered Bern and his men to begin a systematic search, concentrating on the cliffs.
Smart
. If there were an entrance to a subterranean city, it would most likely be found there.

“Major Ryan,” Painter called out. “Take your men and check the cliffs on this side of the valley. Chin, you’re with me. I want your assessment about this steaming hot spot here.”

Kowalski followed them, eyeballing the French team across the way with suspicion. “I trust that guy as much as I trust a snake in a boot.”

Painter thought this was a fair assessment, but for now, they had to work together.

“Hank, what did you find?” he asked as he reached the professor’s side.

The professor pointed to the rippled sides of the Pitcher’s Mound cone. Its name clearly derived from the fat fingerlike projections along the rim, making it look like an open pitcher’s mitt.

“Look at this,” Hank said, crouching down and pointing. “Over the centuries, the slow aggregation of minerals must have remodeled this cone somewhat, but the resemblance is still uncanny. Study the silhouette.”

“Resemblance to what?”

“To one of the most revered Jewish landmarks, from out of the Book of Exodus, the mountain Moses came down bearing the Ten Commandments.”

“Are you talking about Mount Sinai?” Painter asked. He bent at the waist and stared at the hill, trying to picture it as a miniature model of that famous mountain.

I guess so,
he thought, but he remained unsure. It was like staring at clouds and seeing what you wanted to see. To Painter, the big cone appeared as much like Mount Sinai as those other bent-backed gray towers looked like gnomes.

Kowalski shook his head, plainly not buying it either. He searched around at the field of stalklike gray rocks. “They all look like penises to me.”

“What difference does it make,” Painter asked, “whether it looks like Mount Sinai or not?”

“Because if the
Tawtsee’untsaw Pootseev
were descendants of a lost tribe of Israel, then the discovery of a cone shaped like Sinai would be a providential sign to them. This valley would be important, sacred enough to make it their secret home.”

“I hope you’re right,” Painter said.

Chin had another opinion. He knelt atop the thick field of dried minerals and rocks called sinter, from which most of the cones arose. “Well, from a geologist’s standpoint, this is the
worst
place for them to choose.”

“Why is that?” Painter asked. “Besides the fact we’re standing on top of a supervolcano?”

“That’s deeper underground.” The geologist patted the surface of sinter. “Feel this.”

Painter reached down and pressed his palm against the chalky stone.

“What are you doing?” Rafael asked, joining them, along with Ashanda and Kai.

“It’s vibrating,” Painter said.

Chin explained. “This geothermal zone sits atop a plugged-up hydrothermal vent, known as a hydrothermal boil, a hot teapot that continually cycles the water seeping through the porous rock, then back up again as steam. The vibration is from the pressure underground, the pulse of the steam engine beneath us.”

Before anyone could comment on this, Hank’s phone rang. He checked the number and lifted his face. “It’s my colleague from BYU, the one helping us decipher the lost language.”

“Answer it,” Painter urged, hoping the man had some good news.

Hank stepped away, pressed the phone to one ear, and placed a palm over the other. As the professor conversed, Painter watched his face go from hope to dismay to confusion. He finally snapped his phone closed and returned to them. He seemed momentarily unable to speak.

“Professor?” Painter urged.

“My colleague deciphered some bits of the writing on the wolf-totem jar. He found a smattering of words and phrases that spoke of death and destruction. Nothing more.”

“So basically a warning label,” Painter said.

Kowalski frowned. “Why didn’t they just slap it with a skull and crossbones to begin with? It would’ve saved everyone a bunch of trouble.”

“I think maybe they did,” Hank said. “The early
Tawtsee’untsaw Pootseev
stored their elixir in containers that were meant to hold the organs of the dead. Egyptian canopic jars, modified for their purpose. But once they integrated here, they chose another totem of my early ancestors, the bones of animals long extinct. Perhaps it was to caution against tampering with this compound lest it destroy the human race, a symbolic warning against our own extinction.”

Painter read some hesitancy in the professor’s eyes, as if he wanted to say more. He noted the slightest glance in Rafael’s direction. But the Frenchman had survived long in an organization that did not reward a lack of attention to detail.

“What aren’t you telling us,
monsieur le
professeur
?” Rafael asked.

Painter gave Hank a small nod. They were all long past secrets, at least most secrets. “Tell him.”

Hank looked dismayed. “My friend was also able to translate the passage your colleague sent to you. The writing found on the margins of the gold map.”

Rafael turned to Painter. “Why is this the first I’ve heard of this? You explained how the mark on the map revealed Yellowstone, but not this clue?”

“Because it was meaningless information until now.”

“It may still be,” Hank added. “My colleague could translate only a small section. It reads
‘where the wolf and eagle stare
.
’
”

“What does that mean?” Rafael asked.

Hank shrugged and shook his head.

Another dead end.

Painter checked his watch and stared across the valley. Gray had sent them this clue. According to Kat, he was searching for another, something to do with a buffalo hide. Hopefully they’d all have more luck with that one.

But with the way their luck was running . . .

Chapter 38

June 1, 7:06
A.M.
Hohenwald, Tennessee

This will have to do . . .

Gray lifted his shovel, the only weapon he had at hand.

“Going primitive on their asses?” Monk asked with a wince, pushing up enough to lean on the wall of the freshly uncovered grave. He looked down to the spreading pool of blood through his blue coveralls. “Bullet went through and through. But I won’t be getting my cleaning deposit back on these clothes.”

“Can you walk?” Gray asked.

“Hobble, sure. Run, no way.”

“Then you stay here.”

“I wasn’t really planning on going anywhere.”

Seichan lowered herself from where she was watching a team move in from the parking lot. “I counted eight to ten. They’ve moved behind the cabin across the lawn for cover.”

“Must think we have weapons,” Gray said. “Or they’d have swarmed us by now.”

“What’s the plan?” Seichan asked.

Both she and Monk looked to him.

“We keep them thinking we have guns—at least long enough for us to get to our rifles. The backhoe is only a few yards away. Its bulk will offer some cover if we can reach it. But we’ll be vulnerable climbing out of this hole.”

Gray handed Monk his shovel, then twisted around and grabbed the other. “We need some sound effects. Our attackers are edgy, wary, moving in cautiously. So let’s spook them some more. Crack the shovels together . . . loudly and rapidly.”

Monk got it. “Make them think we’re firing at them.”

“It’ll only work for a couple of seconds. Hopefully long enough for us to reach the backhoe’s cab and our rifles.”

“Got it.”

“Then on my mark.”

Gray crouched beside Seichan. Her eyes shone in the shadows of the grave. Her pulse beat at her throat as she stared up at the edge, ready to pounce.

“Go!”

With one shovel propped against the side of the grave, Monk banged the other spade against it with all of his might. The noise was so loud and sudden, it
did
sound like gunfire. Gray leaped to the lip, shoved hard with his arms against the edge, and rolled cleanly out of the grave and to his feet. He sprinted low for the cover of the backhoe.

Seichan kept next to him.

Reaching the momentary safety under the boom arm at the back of the earthmover, Gray checked on her. Her face was flushed, her lips slightly parted. She lifted an eyebrow toward him.

Good enough . . .

Without needing to say a word to each other, they split to opposite sides of the backhoe. Shots were fired at them, but they went wild, hitting the dirt yards away. The assailants were momentarily confused as Monk continued to bang his shovels.

Gray ducked into the cab. He’d left the backhoe idling when he went to check the grave. He slid into the seat, popped the parking brake, and raised the hydraulic stabilizers to free the earthmover.

Seichan grabbed both rifles, leaving the driving to him. She pointed, and he understood. This was not a vehicle to attempt to flee in. Besides, they couldn’t leave Monk behind.

Gray raised the large front loader, using it as a shield across the windshield. He’d be driving blind, but at the moment he wasn’t worried about sideswiping a car. He trundled out into the lawn. Rounds banged into the loader. He slowly angled toward the rear of the log home while Seichan leaned low out the door and fired under the raised bucket, keeping the men pinned down behind the cabin.

Once they reached the shadow of the cabin, Seichan rolled out.

That was the easy part.

7:07
A.M.

Monk sat in the grave, holding his shovel.

After he’d heard the
real
rifle fire, it was clear that his job here was done. He used the spade as a crutch to help him gain his feet. He wanted to see what was happening. With some effort, he stood up and peeked his head out of the grave—only to have it almost sheered off by a set of giant metal teeth.

Gray had returned with the backhoe, coming in low and fast with the front loader. The noise of the ongoing firefight had covered his approach.

Monk fell back as the scoop dug into the opposite wall of the grave, caving in a good section.

“Climb up!” Gray hollered.

Understanding dawned.

Monk hauled over, climbing through the dirt, and shoulder-rolled into the front loader. Hydraulics whined and raised the arm high while Gray twisted the hoe around. Monk slid inside the bucket, keeping hidden as shots were fired, pinging against the front loader.

Something bumped his shoulder.

He reached over and found an assault rifle.

And it’s not even my birthday.

7:08
P.M.

After tossing the rifle into the bucket for Monk, Seichan had fled away from the backhoe and toward the cabin, keeping the stout log home between her and her assailants. But she couldn’t count on such protection for long. The team would eventually come at her from both sides, outflanking her.

That must not happen.

Besides, she had to keep the commando team’s attention on her while Gray freed Monk. So she sprinted toward the window on this side of the cabin. She raised her rifle and fired three rounds at the panes, striking the glass in a perfect triangle pattern. With the glass weakened, she leaped up, kicked out with her boot, and hurdled through the window. The rest of her body followed. She landed smoothly inside, sliding and skating atop the broken glass, keeping on her feet.

She raised her rifle while still moving.

She had burst into the cabin’s main room and had a clear view to the window on the far side. A soldier stared at her, momentarily frozen. She fired—
pop, pop, pop—
and down he went.

She dove to the side, seeking the shelter of a cast-iron stove.

A rifle barrel shoved through the broken window and blindly strafed inside. Seichan ignored it, merely waited, centering her aim. A head poked into view, checking for damage. She fired only once this time. A body tumbled past the window.

With her back to the wall and the stove for shelter, she readied to make a stand. Hopefully she’d bought Gray the time he needed.

Then a grenade flew into the room and bounced across the floor.

It looked like she’d overstayed her welcome.

7:09
A.M.

Bent to peer under the raised front bucket, Gray rode past the cabin as an explosion blew out its windows and tore the door off its hinges. Smoke rolled out. He fumbled with his gears in surprise and worry.

Seichan . . .

Silence fell over the battlefield for a heartbeat—then the noise resumed. Two men popped around the cabin’s corner. Monk strafed from his advantage atop his steel castle tower, balancing the front of his rifle between two teeth of the front loader. A third assailant threw a grenade from where the commandos were hiding, lobbing it over the roof toward the backhoe.

But they didn’t know that Monk was an expert sharpshooter—or how pissed he was about getting tagged in the gut. Monk swiveled his weapon and pinged the grenade as if he were shooting skeet. It fell back behind the cabin. Another explosion blew back there, casting up dirt and smoke. A helmet rolled into view. It wasn’t empty. Screams followed.

Then gunfire.

It sounded like a brief firefight—a one-sided firefight.

After a moment, through the smoke, a figure appeared.

Seichan, covered in blood and with her clothes still smoldering, crossed into view. She must have dived out a back window as the grenade inside the cabin blew. She pointed toward the parking lot. She wasn’t indicating that it was time to go. A single figure remained, standing next to a Humvee.