It seemed these negotiations had suddenly become far more challenging and exciting. Breathless, Rafe stared at the sculpted gold lid. He indeed knew what it represented. Such bottles had the potential to be the Holy Grail of nanotechnology, a key to a lost science of alchemy that promised a vast new field of industry and a source of incalculable wealth. But more than that, it would allow his family to buy their way further up the hierarchy, to rise perhaps as high as the one surviving True Bloodline.
And it would be the brittle-boned son who brought home that glory for the Saint Germaine lineage. Nothing must stop this from happening.
Rafe turned to Bern. “Do as he says. Pull your men back. Free the boy and send him over the bridge.”
His second-in-command looked ready to argue, but knew better. The prisoner’s hands were cut free, the gag ripped away.
“Go,” Bern ordered, giving him a push.
The youth fled across the bridge, skirting around the soldiers who were returning from the other side. Once he reached Painter, the pair bowed their heads for a time, then the young man nodded and headed toward the far tunnel.
That left just one last demand.
Rafe held up his arm. Another soldier hauled Kai Quocheets forward. Gagged, she struggled with her bound wrists. Her eyes grew large when she spotted Painter.
At the same time her uncle rushed forward, ready to help her. He stumbled several steps out onto the bridge, allowing his guard to drop. Half blind with an avuncular need to defend his niece, Painter threw off his backpack, letting it dangle from his wrist . . . and only then did Rafe realize his own mistake.
Oh no . . .
6:30 P.M.
Painter read the understanding in the Frenchman’s eyes. It took all of his strength to pull his attention away from Kai. He had seen the deep bruising on Jordan’s face. It had set his blood to pounding in his ears.
Had they hurt Kai as well?
Such questions would have to wait.
Instead, he stopped on the bridge. He’d taken only a few steps, but that put him out over the chasm, yet still well enough away from the hostile party on the other side. He kept his arm out. The heavy pack dangled from his fingertips over the gorge. The steam burned his exposed skin while bathing his arm in yellowish clouds of toxins. The river below hissed and gurgled.
“You already have the gold jar with you,” Rafael said, his voice a mix of dismay and respect. “You’ve had it all along.”
Painter reached out over the chasm and unzipped the pack’s main compartment. He let the gold shine out. “Shoot me, and it drops into the river below. If you want this treasure, you’ll let my niece go. Send her across the bridge. Once she’s safely in the tunnel behind me, I’ll throw the bag to you.”
“And what guarantee do I have that you’ll do as you say?”
“You have my word.”
Painter refused to break eye contact with Rafael, not to intimidate but to make his intention clear. He was being honest. There was no subterfuge, no clever plan. He had to risk everything to get Kai to safety. Kowalski had a good spot from which to defend them. Rafael would likely flee with his prize, rather than try to dig the others out of that hole. Kai would have a chance to live.
But that didn’t mean Rafael wouldn’t order his men to shoot Painter after he tossed the package. Anticipating this, he would do his best to retreat to the shelter of the boulders and work his way back to the tunnel himself.
It wasn’t a great plan, but it was all he had.
Rafael kept staring back at him, doing his best to read his enemy. Finally, he nodded his head. “I believe you, Monsieur Crowe. You are right. We can end this like civilized men.” He gave Painter a slight bow. “Until we meet again.”
The Frenchman turned and motioned for his men to free Kai. They undid her hands. Painter watched. Still gagged, she had a wild-eyed stare—but she was not looking at him.
She was looking behind him.
Because of the bubbling of the muddy river, he hadn’t heard the approach until it was too late. As he turned, he felt a telltale tremble in the sandstone trusses of the span as someone’s feet pounded onto the bridge. He got a glimpse of a tall dark shape hurtling toward him. A shoulder hit him low in the rib cage, lifted him off his feet, and slammed him to the stone bridge, knocking the wind from his lungs. Strong fingers ripped the backpack from his grasp. Then the figure flew past him.
He twisted around to see a woman sprint to the far side and reach Rafael. As promised, the Frenchman had pulled back his men. Painter should have been more specific.
The tall black woman—a veritable Amazon—handed Rafael the bag.
“Merci, Ashanda.”
Painter knelt on the stone span, defeated.
Rifles pointed back at him, but instead of ordering him shot, Rafael waved his men to retreat. He matched gazes with Painter. “You’d best be off that bridge, mon ami.”
With a nod to the side, one of his soldiers raised a transmitter and twisted a dial on it. A resounding blast sounded from under the span. The far side of the bridge exploded in a blast of sandstone and mortar. Deafened, blinded, Painter fell back and rolled off the bridge’s end and onto solid rock.
He raised himself up on his hands and knees to see Rafael and his group retreating for the surface on the far side. The remaining span of the bridge crumbled apart and crashed with mighty, muddy splashes into the river below, churning up more sulfur and heat.
As Rafael reached the tunnel, he held Kai by the shoulder. He took off her gag and called to him. “So she can say good-bye!”
Kai had to be held up by the tall commando. Her voice was a wail of fear and grief that ripped into his belly. “Uncle Crowe . . . I’m sorry . . .”
Then she was hauled up the tunnel. Still on his knees, he listened to her sobbing cries fade away.
Footfalls sounded behind him. Kowalski came running up with Jordan. “What happened to the bridge?”
“They’d mined it,” Painter said hollowly.
“Kai?” Jordan asked, his face aghast.
Painter shook his head.
“What are we going to do?” Kowalski asked. “We can’t make it across that.”
Painter slowly collected himself, gained his feet, and stepped to the edge of the steaming gorge. They had to get across. It was Kai’s only chance. With no further use for her, Rafael would soon kill her. Painter had to stay alive, so she could live, too. Still, despair washed over him. Even if they made it out, what did he have to bargain with to win her back? Rafael had the gold tablets and the canopic jar. He stared down at his empty hands.
Then the ground shook, and an echoing blast reached them. A wash of dust and smoke belched out of the far tunnel, accompanied by the distant grumble of rock.
“Seems the bastards mined more than just the bridge,” Kowalski said.
Painter pictured the chasm cliffs above crashing down, sealing them in. As the dust settled, the air grew strangely still. The sting of sulfur worsened, and the heat rose rapidly. With the opening of the blowhole above now blocked, any circulation of air stopped down here.
Jordan covered his nose and mouth. “What are we going to do?”
As if in answer, a thunderous detonation cracked through the enclosed space. But it was no explosion.
Painter turned as the fissure high up the wall broke wider, splintering outward. The concussion of the charges above must have traveled deep into the earth, to this bubble in the limestone, weakening its already fractured structure.
The flow of boiling mud surged through the widening gap. Boulders began to break off the wall and fall crashing into the pool below. Mud splashed high, raining down.
As Painter and the others retreated from the hail of muddy gobbets, more and more of the wall broke away, falling apart in pieces like a crumbling dam. The sludge fall became a torrent, gushing forth, flooding the river and overflowing the banks of the bubbling pool.
At last, Painter had an answer for Jordan’s question.
What are we going to do?
He pointed to the tunnel as a wall of mud rolled toward them.
“Run!”
Chapter 28
May 31, 9:33 P.M.
Fort Knox, Kentucky
The plan had failed . . .
Gray folded his hands atop his head. Seichan and Monk did the same as rifles pointed at their backs. Soldiers forced them at gunpoint past the bodies of the mint officers, the marble slick with their blood.
Waldorf limped behind them, nursing his wounded leg, leaving bloody footprints. “Take them out the gates,” he instructed the man carrying the plate of gold. “I’m heading to my office. I’ll sound the alarm in five minutes. You want to be out of here by then.”
“Yes, sir.”
As they passed through the security station in the lobby, Gray spotted the Humvee idling outside, its tailpipe smoking as the night grew cooler. They had only one chance.
One of the soldiers dashed ahead to the door, moving sideways, still keeping an eye on them. Now was as good a time as any. Gray glanced to Monk, who already knew what to do. His friend gave the smallest nod, a sign that Gray understood. Atop his head, Monk’s fingers blindly tapped a code onto his wrist cuff, preparing to transmit a wireless signal.
“Eyes closed, hands over ears,” Gray whispered to Seichan.
She looked momentarily confused, then her gaze shifted to the plastic tray holding Monk’s disembodied prosthetic hand.
“Now,” Gray said breathlessly.
Monk tapped the go signal, activating a small flash-bang charge built into his prosthesis, one of its unique new weapons system upgrades. Gray slipped his hands over his ears and squeezed his eyes closed. It wasn’t much protection. As the hand exploded, the flash of the charge outlined his fingers against his eyelids, and the bang stabbed into his head.
Men screamed as they went temporarily blind and disoriented.
Rifles fired wildly.
Gray had only seconds before their sight returned. He twisted around and hauled the gold plate out of the arms of the team leader. He continued his turn, dropping and pivoting on his toes, swinging back full around and heaving the heavy plate into the legs of the same soldier. Bones shattered. The man’s scream turned high-pitched.
At the same time Seichan had grabbed a gunman’s rifle out of his dazed grip, expertly flipped it around, and fired point-blank into his chest. His body flew back into another soldier. Seichan continued firing, taking down that other man, too.
Monk had lunged low toward the door, out of firing range. He threw a meaty fist up, square into the guard’s nose, crunching deeply. His target fell limply against the door and slid down. Monk retrieved the man’s weapon.
Seichan continued to fire, strafing deeper into the lobby.
Gray spotted her target.
Waldorf limped and fell through his office door, slamming it shut behind him. Seichan continued to fire, but the rounds pelted into steel. The door must be reinforced like the rest of the fortress.
“Damn,” she said.
Seconds later, an alarm Klaxon rang out, echoing throughout the building. Waldorf must have hit a panic button in his office. Monk stood beside the exit as a blast shield began to trundle down from above, preparing to seal the place up.
“Time to go!” he called out, and held the door open.
Gray and Seichan sprinted toward him. Even with her bad leg, Seichan reached the exit first and dove out. Slower, encumbered by the heavy gold plate, Gray had to duck to get under the lowering blast shield.
Monk followed, gasping. Sirens rang throughout the base, spreading the alarm. “I thought breaking into Fort Knox was hard,” he said. “Breaking out may be even harder!”
“Into the Humvee!” Gray ordered.
They ran for the idling truck. Gray hopped behind the wheel. Monk took the passenger side. Seichan leaped into the backseat. All three doors slammed at the same time.
Gray shifted into gear and wheeled the Humvee around, gunning the massive engine and barreling up speed along the entry road. In the rearview mirror, he spotted Seichan sidling over to a window and cracking a side panel so she could poke her rifle out.
“We don’t shoot!” Gray said. “These are U.S. soldiers just doing their job.”
“Oh, this just gets easier and easier,” Monk complained.
They had one hope.
Gray had already noted their ride had been outfitted with an “up-armor” kit for combat use, which included reinforced doors, bullet-resistant glass, side and rear plating, and a ballistic windshield capable of withstanding explosive ordnance. It was not an unusual vehicle to find here, since Fort Knox was home to the U.S. Army Center for Armored Warfare. It was a proving ground for tanks, artillery, and all manner of armored beasts.
To avoid killing anyone, they needed to ram their way to freedom. For the moment they had the advantage of surprise—and confusion. It wasn’t like someone broke into or out of Fort Knox on a regular basis.
Gray aimed for the gates, which had already closed. Sentries milled about, plainly unsure if this was a false alarm or merely a training exercise. The Humvee charging at them cleared up that confusion.
Rifles were raised. Rounds cracked against the windshield.
From the sentry tower, someone fired a rocket-propelled grenade, but in his haste, the shot went wide, blasting through the fencing to the side.
“Hang on!” Gray called.
He didn’t slow, trusting the soldiers to leap out of the way in time.
They did.
The Humvee’s armored grille hit the gates and bulled through with a screech of torn fencing. Then they were flying down Gold Vault Road. Rifle fire peppered the rear of the truck.
“They’ll have birds in the air in less than five minutes,” Monk said. Birds being Apache helicopter gunships. “It should take them longer to mobilize a more significant armored threat. But we could get hit by—”
A sharp whistling cut through the engine’s roar.
“—mortars,” Monk finished.
The rocket shot past their hood and exploded in the neighboring field, casting up a fountain of grass, dirt, and rock. Smoke billowed across the road.
Gray roared through it and quickly reached the end of the road. But instead of turning onto Bullion Boulevard, he drove straight across the street, bounced across a ditch, and crashed through another fence, clipping a sign that read THORNE PARK. He trundled overland across a field dotted by woods. The Humvee’s wide tires trenched deep tracks. He headed south through the park, aiming for the Dixie Highway that ran alongside the base.
Another rocket exploded into an oak tree, shattering it into flaming splinters. The Humvee smashed through the remains with a great wash of fire and smoke, blinding them all.
Then they were past it.
“That one was closer,” Monk said.
“You think?” Seichan asked sarcastically.
“They may not even be trying to hit us, only slow us down.” Gray yanked the wheel and sent the vehicle into a slightly new trajectory, trying to make them a harder target if he was wrong.
“I see lights rising from the airfield,” Seichan warned.
“Maybe that’s why they’re trying to delay us,” Monk realized aloud. “They’re sending out the gunships.”
Gray sped faster. They needed to get clear of this base and into civilian territory before serious firepower was employed. If they could escape from this place, the military would be confined to tracking them from the air, utilizing civilian police forces on the ground.
A line of lights appeared through the trees, moving slowly, car headlamps marking the Dixie Highway. They were almost there. He floored the accelerator.
“Here come the helicopters!” Seichan called out.
The Humvee rocketed toward the highway, churning mud and weeds. Then they hit the slope of the highway embankment, shooting up over the gravel and concrete apron. Gray looked for a break in the stream of car lights, found it, and skidd
ed the massive vehicle around on its side, fishtailing into traffic.
Horns bleated in protest. Tires squealed, smoking rubber on asphalt.
A small SUV bumped their rear.
Gray did not slow. He gunned the engine and set off down the highway in a wild, careening course, blaring his horn to help clear the way. The small town of Radcliff appeared as a sea of lights ahead. He raced toward it, barreling at twice the speed limit as the highway became a road at the city’s edge.
“We got company!” Seichan yelled.
A brilliant light speared the darkness behind them, reflecting from the truck’s mirrors. It was the spotlight from a helicopter sweeping down the highway toward them.
“Take the next turn!” Monk yelled.
Gray trusted him and swung around the corner onto a narrow street, not bothering to slow. Seichan slid across the backseat.
Fourplexes and taller apartment buildings lined both sides of the avenue, likely off-base housing for military personnel. The tight row of buildings offered them a temporary reprieve, blocking them from the helicopter’s view.
But that wouldn’t last long.
“There!” Monk said, and pointed. “I saw the sign from the road.”
Up ahead, a neon advertisement slowly turned atop a tall pole.
That would do.
It was another necessity around off-base housing.
Gray swung into the parking lot of an all-night automated car wash. Individual enclosed bays with coin-operated hoses and vacuums lined one side. He swung into one of the bays, pulling fully under the enclosure, hiding them from sight by air.
“Bail out,” Gray ordered.
He grabbed the gold plate. Monk and Seichan snatched up their rifles and some extra ammunition they’d found inside the Humvee. They heard the whump-whump of searching helicopters and stared skyward. Three helicopters patrolled the town, sweeping the streets with their searchlights. Gray and the others had to be out of here before roadblocks locked the place down.
There was another patron of the car wash who was also watching the air show.
Monk crossed to him, a tattooed and pierced kid in a dirty T-shirt with a Harley emblem and ragged jeans.
The Devil Colony Page 32
