Storming Heaven

by Kyle Mills

  Beamon suddenly noticed that the dull roar of the FBI’s Phoenix office had gone dead, replaced by the quiet hush of intermittent whispers. When he turned around, all motion had stopped. It looked like he was viewing the office on a VCR with a stuck Pause button.

  “Uh, I hear that the director’s here talking about me,” he said, turning back to her. “Where?”

  “I’ll tell them you’re here.”

  “Don’t bother,” he said. “Just point.”

  “They’re in Conference Room Two.”

  He stepped back and motioned to Jennifer and the increasingly nervous-looking man who had accused him of child molestation. They started down the hall ahead of him.

  “Gentlemen,” Beamon said as he walked through the conference room door without knocking. “And Chet.”

  “Beamon!” Layman said, standing abruptly and almost upsetting the coffee mug on the table. Chet Michaels pumped a fist in the air and silently mouthed, “Yes!” The director just stared.

  “Don’t look so surprised, Jake. I told you I’d come in when I tied up a few loose ends.” He looked out the open door. “Don’t be shy.”

  When Jennifer self-consciously shuffled in, Layman fell back into his chair.

  “The first of my loose ends. Jennifer, I’d like you to meet Jake Layman and William Calahan. You probably remember Chet Michaels.”

  She smiled politely.

  His other guest hovered outside the door, forcing Beamon to reach out and haul him into the room. “Sit,” he ordered. The man complied silently.

  “That’s my other loose end, but I’ll explain later.” Beamon patted the chair next to him. Jennifer sat down and placed the computer disks she’d been carrying on the table in front of her. Beamon nodded toward them, and she slid them across the table.

  “What are these?” Layman said quietly.

  “Audio from an interesting little setup the Church of the Evolution had going. I figure it’s enough to keep your whole office busy for about five years.”

  “The Kneissians?” Calahan said, speaking for the first time. “What the hell’s going on here? And where did she come from?”

  “Director Calahan, I—” Layman started.

  “Shut up, Jake. I didn’t ask you. Beamon’s talking now.”

  AFTERWORD

  In writing this novel I had the arduous but fascinating task of creating my own religion. To accomplish this, I borrowed snippets from many faiths and added a healthy dose of my own imagination and the spirit of George Orwell.

  Because all faiths have certain common threads, it might be possible to see parallels to any number of present-day belief systems. Let me assure you that if these parallels do indeed exist, they were completely unintentional.

  Acknowledgments

  In no particular order, I’d like to thank Elaine Mills for her increasingly professional editing work and for keeping an eye on the competition for me. Darrell Mills, for lending me his technical expertise and in anticipation of his continued marketing effort. My wife, Kim, for all her insight and effort, but mostly for tolerating the occasional panic attacks that I think grip all novelists on their second try. Laura Liner, for providing the soundtrack. Robert Gottlieb and Matt Bialer at William Morris, for their enthusiasm and hard work. And finally, John Silbersack, Caitlin Blasdell, and the rest of the gang at HarperCollins, for all the amazing things they’ve done for me.

  About the Author

  KYLE MILLS lives in Jackson Hole, Wyoming, where he spends his time skiing, rock climbing, and writing books. He is also the author of Rising Phoenix, Free Fail and Burn Factor.

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  Praise

  “If you haven’t read Kyle Mills yet, you should—I do.”

  Tom Clancy

  “One of today’s master storytellers … Mills keeps readers breathless, transfixed, and turning pages.”

  Tulsa World

  STORMING

  HEAVEN

  “Gripping.”

  —Boston Globe

  “Compelling adventure … takes readers on a staccato-paced race to the wire.”

  —Newport News (VA) Daily Press

  RAVES FOR KYLE MILLS’S

  STORMING HEAVEN

  “Kyle Mills makes Beamon not only believable but has you rooting for him as he takes on bureaucrats in the bureau and a religious cult with millions of fanatical followers, unlimited capital, government connects and unparalelled information-gathering capabilities.”

  —Newport News (VA) Daily Press

  “Mills couples great creativity and thoughtfulness in crafting this plot …. Fast-paced mystery …. A fine craftsman, he’s also a fine writer, with a talent for hitting the right pace and finding a good balance between serious action and dark humor.”

  —jackson Hole News

  RISING PHOENIX

  “An explosive thriller that launches a new genius for taut, compulsive adventure writing …. I urge you to pick up Rising Phoenix.”

  —Tom Clancy

  “In a world of political thrillers, I have the feeling that young Kyle Mills will soon be a very big player.”

  —Frederick Forsyth

  “A phenomenal concept …. Fascinating … - Good conspiracy theory, absolutely!”

  —Rush Limbaugh

  “Absorbing …. A fine thriller with memorable characters and enough twists to keep readers turning pages …. Mills is definitely someone to watch.”

  —Publishers Weekly

  Look for KYLE MILLS’ thriller

  FREE FALL

  Available now wherever books are sold

  The sun had long since passed over the bright red fin of the rock Darby Moore was lying on, but its heat still radiated into her chest and stomach. She couldn’t bring herself to move. Somehow that fading warmth softened the image of Tristan’s lifeless foot hanging from the open door of her van and drained some of the color from the pool of blood in Maryland where she’d left that man lying.

  The thirty-hour drive to Utah had been agonizing. Near panic had hit her every time she passed a police car. She’d been too scared to stop anywhere familiar, thinking that someone would be waiting for her. As the little truck had turned into a self-imposed prison, she’d become more and more certain that the file Tristan mentioned was the answer—the only answer. She had to get to it first, then she could use it. How, exactly, she didn’t know. To expose the men who’d killed her friend? To bargain for her life? To clear her name? It didn’t matter—what was important now is that she get it. Then she’d have time to think. The one thing she was certain of was that without some leverage, those men would kill her without any more thought or remorse than they’d give to swatting a fly.

  Darby tried to relax and let the knots in her back loosen as she surveyed the landscape below her. From where she lay, she could see the brown/green of the canyon floor some three hundred feet below, the reddish-orange rock surrounding it, and the distant sandstone arches that leaked the sunset through them. She scooted forward a few feet and hung her head fully over the cliff, examining the way it fell away to the canyon below.

  They were getting closer.

  There were three of them—she was sure of that now. It was a long way down, but she could make out that two were rather heavyset, with short, dark hair and wearing bright blue jackets, jeans, and what looked like hiking boots or heavy trail shoes. Both seemed to be having a difficult time negotiating the broken rock, deep sand, and jagged plants typical to this part of Utah. They may not have been the same men who had kidnapped her and murdered Tristan, but they certainly looked like they were cut from the same generic cloth.

  The third man was more of a mystery. He was wearing shorts, sandals, and a light jacket with a patch across the shoulder that reflected with the familiar color and intensity of duct
tape. Unlike his more conservative companions, his hair was a colorless blond and tied back in a ponytail. More interestingly, though, his gait seemed effortless and natural as he hopped from boulder to boulder, diverting gracefully up a sandstone ramp or ledge every few minutes to get a fresh perspective on the terrain.

  The small cave where Tristan had hidden the file he’d stolen was about two hundred and fifty feet below her and some fifty feet above the canyon floor. He’d obviously told them where the file was before he’d died. She tried not to think what they had done to coerce him.

  Fortunately for her, the men below were discovering something she’d learned long ago—everything looks the same in this part of the world. She’d been watching them for almost two hours now as they moved methodically along the desert floor, agonizing over what she should do and hoping that they would abandon their search as the setting sun threw the canyon into shadow. No such luck.

  Darby propped herself up on her elbows and looked down at herself. She’d tracked down a sweatshirt at a Goodwill store somewhere in Kansas, but now regretted the green color, which would stand out against the dusty red of the cliff face. At the same Goodwill she’d purchased, for $1.50, the threadbare pack that was strapped to her back.

  The climbing shoes she so desperately needed to get down to the cave had been impossible to obtain. The chance of her walking into a climbing shop without being recognized was about zero, and that left her with nothing but her sandals.

  Though better than tennis shoes, climbing in sandals was roughly the athletic equivalent of running hurdles in heels—though the penalty wasn’t a twisted ankle. It was, in the colorful slang of climbing, decking. She tried not to, but couldn’t help speculating as to the size and shape of the stain she’d likely leave if she cratered from this height. The image of her body spread-eagled on the desert floor in the middle of a red spiderweb pattern of her own blood was actually vivid enough to briefly supplant everything else cluttering her mind. She’d been left with no alternative that she could see, though. No use in whining about it now.

  Darby looked over the edge of the cliff again and decided that the timing was as good as it was going to get. The sheer sandstone wall was shadowed enough that she wouldn’t stand out too much, but not so dark that she wouldn’t be able to find handholds. Unless, of course, therewere none.

  Darby took a deep breath, did her best to empty her mind, and swung around so that her legs hung over the precipice. After a few more unintentionally short breaths, she slowly let her body slide off the edge, leaving her dangling straight-armed from the overhanging tongue of rock she’d been laying on top of moments before.

  The wind buffeted her gently as she looked down past the brown of her legs and the bloodstains still clinging to her sandals, through three hundred feet of empty air, to the green juniper trees that looked like tiny bushes on the canyon floor. She could feel the blood starting to flow into her forearms and the sweat that would soon become slick, leaking from her palms. She focused all her concentration on a six-inch ledge a few feet in front of her, trying to stay completely focused. Fear was a very real danger in climbing—it wreaked havoc on judgment and balance, and caused premature exhaustion.

  She swung her legs at the ledge, feeling her hands slip slightly when she missed by a solid inch. The adrenaline that she was trying so hard to keep under control surged wildly as her forward momentum petered out and her body weight started to carry her into a backward swing that had the very real potential to pull her off and send her into space. She curled her knees to her chest to try to deaden the motion and strained with her fingers to hold the sloping edge of the cliff. Her hands started to slide back, out of control, but at the last moment found a tiny indentation in the rock. It turned out to be just enough to save her.

  The blood pulsing through her forearms was starring to give her the familiar feeling of her skin being too tight. She knew from experience that she had only a few more seconds before the lactic acid started building up in her muscles and she began to lose her contact strength.

  She kicked out again, harder this time, knowing that if she missed, she wouldn’t be able to control the increased force of her back swing. At the last possible moment, she pulled in hard with her stomach muscles and felt the edge of her sandal catch on the ledge. She used it to pull herself in a little and let her leg take as much weight off her hands as possible—but there was no way to know if it would be enough. She closed her eyes for a moment and then let go with her left hand, bringing it slowly down in front of her as her right hand started to slip again. She managed to lodge it in a fist-sized crack at chest level just as her right hand cut loose.

  It held.

  She quickly swung her entire body to the right and wedged herself into a wide groove in the rock, her breath coming way too fast. Fear again, she told herself—but knew it was something more. She felt strangely at odds with nature—something she’d never experienced before. The rock was too sharp under her hands and the wind was gusting too cold against the sweat dripping down her back. She felt…

  Darby wiggled into a slightly more secure position, reminding herself that this probably wasn’t an ideal time for philosophizing. The three men below her had gathered around something that might have been a backpack, and the blond one seemed to be passing something out to the others. A moment later she saw the individual beams of light leap magically from their hands and cut through the approaching darkness. Flashlights.

  Darby started down the chimney-sized groove in the rock, staying as far back in it as possible in an effort to remain invisible, but soon found that the plan had a substantial drawback. The darkness in the small fissure was deepening more each minute, making it increasingly difficult to find the small hand and footholds that were the only things keeping her from falling the remaining two hundred and fifty feet to the ground. She was being forced to rely almost completely on the friction she could generate by pressing her hands and feet on one side of the groove and her back on the other.

  Her progress was painfully slow and so much harder than it should have been. If the lack of a rope and harness was eating at her concentration, the lack of the sure-footedness of climbing shoes was destroying it.

  No whining, she reminded herself. The situation was what it was.

  It took over an hour for her to work her way to a small alcove ten feet above the cave that contained Tristan’s file. There had been two very close calls on her way down—one when she’d briefly run out of holds and friction, and the other when she’d knocked off a sizeable rock that had, thanks to a soft sand landing, gone unnoticed.

  The men scouring the canyon floor were close now. She couldn’t see them from her position, but she could hear the crunch of their footsteps and an occasional eruption of a voice. When she finally worked herself into a position where she could spy on them, she saw that they were nearly invisible. Shadows behind the powerful beams of their flashlights, just like…

  She waited until their search pattern had focused them in another direction and swung quickly over the lip of the cave. Her luck had finally run out, though, and she felt her hands slide from an unexpectedly polished surface on the rock and then the sudden weightlessness of falling.

  It had been years since she and Tristan had stashed their gear in this cave, but she seemed to remember that its floor extended out further than its roof. In most cases she had a good memory for that kind of thing. But if this was one of those rare occasions that she’d confused one cliff with another, her fall would be broken by a pile of jagged rocks fifty feet below. And then all her problems would be solved.

  She hit the floor of the cave hard. Unconsciously she had pitched her weight forward, away from the precipice, and she went face-first into the rock. Dazed, she laid there for a few moments and listened to the voices of the men outside grow loud.

  They’d heard her.

  She struggled into a crouch but then froze, not sure what to do. There was no time.

  “What about over t
here?”

  It was the first full sentence she’d been able to make out, no doubt thanks to the acoustics of the cave. The deep, masculine voice had a complete lack of urgency to it. She moved back to the mouth of the cave and saw the flashlights still moving in a more or less random pattern a hundred meters away. The voices hadn’t turned to shouts, she realized; it was just acoustics.

  She took a moment to collect herself, then crawled to the back of the cave, feeling around her in the darkness for anything that didn’t belong. After a few moments the voices started to grow again in volume. This time it wasn’t an audio illusion, though; the men had redirected their search and were getting closer.

  When Darby reached the back wall, she turned left and started along it in a straight line, trying to conduct as methodical a search as possible under the circumstances. There were broken rocks strewn everywhere, and she could already feel the blood flowing from her bare knees and shins. But that didn’t bother her as much as the realization that Tristan would have most likely buried the file with the loose rocks scattered around the floor of the cave. And there was no way to feel the difference between a natural and man-made formation.

  “What’s up there?”

  She froze at the sound of the man’s voice as it echoed around her.

  The crack of sandstone on sandstone was unmistakable as someone started up the talus field below.

  You’re still okay, she told herself. You’re still okay

  The fifty-foot climb up to the cave was difficult—solid 5.10. Anyone who would try that in this light, without the protection of a rope, was probably a friend or at least acquaintance of hers. And if they took the time to set up a rope belay, she could be long gone by the time one of them made it all the way up. But not without the file.