The Devil Colony

by James Rollins

  He stumbled into a room that left him trembling in awe. Gold covered every surface, floor to ceiling. Massive plates—three stories high—made up the walls, like gargantuan versions of those smaller gold tablets. And like those miniatures, writing covered the walls here in their entirety, millions of lines, flowing all around.

  Hank had fallen to his knees between two fifteen-foot-tall sculptures of bald eagles, upright, side by side, wings outstretched to touch the walls on either side and tip to tip in the middle. “In Solomon’s Temple, these were giant cherubim, winged angels.”

  Even Painter had halted his headlong rush forward to gawk. “They look like the eagles on the Great Seal. Did someone show Jefferson a drawing of this space?”

  Hank just shook his head, too moved to speak anymore.

  Rafe felt a similar stirring—how could he not?—but he knew his duty. “Record all of this,” he ordered one of his men, sweeping his cane to encompass the walls. “This must not be lost.”

  “But where are the caches of nanotech?” Painter asked.

  “That is a puzzle I will leave to you, Monsieur Crowe.”

  That cache was going to blow anyway, so Rafe saw no need to chase down that trail. The true treasure was here: the accumulated knowledge of the ancients. He ran a palm along the wall, casting his eyes from roof to ceiling, trying to preserve it all with his unique eidetic memory, to bank it away into his organic hard drive. He moved step by step around the room, lost in the rivers of ancient script. Here must be their history, their ancient sciences, their lost art, all recorded in gold.

  He must possess it.

  It could be his family’s entry to the True Bloodline.

  A shout rose to the side, but he did not turn.

  It was Sigma’s geologist. “Director, there’s a door back here—and a body.”

  5:55 A.M.

  Deafened by the continuous firefight, Major Ashley Ryan did not hear the small team flanking his nest of boulders. Pinned down, he and his two men did their best to hold their castle—picking off targets when they could, driving back raids and attempts to swarm them.

  Bern’s commandos had control of the valley floor, holding the entrance to the tunnel below. Ryan could not even reach his men’s packs and extra ammo.

  Then a sharp barking drew his attention back and to the left.

  The alarm saved his life—all of their lives.

  Ryan flicked a gaze in that direction. Spotted a shadowy trio of commandos slip low out of the dark tree line and race low toward his team’s flank.

  The dog leaped atop the boulder and bayed a challenge.

  Ryan rolled, freeing his rifle from the boulder roost. He used the distraction caused by the dog to pop the lead assassin in the face with two rounds. The man went down. The other two commandos fired. The dog yelped, one foreleg shattering under him. The dog toppled off the boulder and hit the grass.

  Motherf—

  Ryan raised himself higher, exposing himself, and squeezed the trigger hard, strafing in automatic mode. By now, his two men had entered the fray, swinging around and firing. A brief barrage and the two commandos crumpled outside the castle of boulders. Their walls had not been breached, but it had been close. And they all had a problem.

  “I’m out,” Boydson said, discharging a smoking magazine from his rifle.

  Marshall checked his weapon and shook his head. “One more volley then I’m spent.”

  Ryan knew he wasn’t in any better shape.

  Bern bellowed in German across the field, his voice rife with bloodlust. He must know their quarry had been beaten down, that they were running low on options and ammo. Ryan shifted forward again and peered out.

  The enemy force—still fifteen strong—was readying for a final charge. Bern was going to lead it, standing exposed fifty yards away, fearless in his body armor and confident in his firepower.

  A big arm pointed toward Ryan’s position.

  Ryan settled his cheek to his rifle.

  Here we go.

  9:56 P.M.

  Tokyo, Japan

  Riku Tanaka sat in front of the computer deep within the labyrinthine structure of the euphemistically named Public Security Intelligence Agency, Japan’s premiere espionage organization. Riku could not even say what floor he was on—likely underground, from the annoying hum of the air-conditioning—or even what building.

  He did not care.

  His hand rested in the palm of Janice Cooper.

  Since their rescue out of the frigid depths of the Super-Kamiokande detector’s tank, he’d seldom been out of physical contact with her. Her presence helped him maintain his balance in the world, like an anchor securing a ship in questionable seas, while his psyche rebuilt itself.

  They waited for the latest data from the various subatomic particle labs to collate through his refined software program. With the point of critical mass approaching, unknown variables were falling away, allowing a more exact estimate of the time when the explosion would occur.

  Finally, the calculations were complete.

  The answer glowed on the screen.

  Riku’s hand flexed, squeezing hard.

  Janice returned his hold, needing an anchor now as much as he did.

  “We’re doomed.”

  5:56 A.M.

  Yellowstone National Park

  Painter crouched beside the body on the ground.

  The man lay on his back atop a bison hide, hands folded to his chest.

  The Native American garb on the man’s mummified remains was brighter than the bodies outside. A pearlescent ring of white eagle feathers circled his bare, thin neck. A long braid of gray hair still had bits of dried flowers, where someone had placed them with great and loving care. A richly beaded cape—acting as a burial shawl—wrapped his bony shoulders.

  This man had not committed suicide. Someone had interred him here in the Holy of Holies, a great honor.

  Painter could guess why.

  Two objects were placed under his shrunken, pale hands.

  Under one, a white wooden cane, topped with a silver knob imprinted with a French fleur-de-lis symbol.

  Under the other, a birch-paper journal bound in hide.

  It was the body of Archard Fortescue.

  Painter didn’t need to read the journal to know that the man must have stayed here after the Lewis and Clark party left, intending to be the guardian and protector of this great secret. He must have gone native while he lived with the Indians, been accepted by them—and from the care with which his body had been laid, well loved.

  Painter turned away. “Rest well, my friend. Your long vigil is over.”

  Chin stood by an open door at the back of the room. His words were awash with terror. “Director, you need to see this.”

  Painter crossed to Chin, who pointed his flashlight out the back door of the Holy of Holies. Hank and Kowalski joined them.

  Beyond the threshold, steps led down to an expansive room that stretched far back and wrapped to either side of the inner sanctum.

  “This is the temple’s treasure room,” Hank said.

  Painter gaped, unable to speak.

  Instead, it was Kowalski who summarized their situation the most succinctly.

  “We’re fucked.”

  5:57 A.M.

  With his cheek against his rifle’s stock, Major Ashley Ryan peered through his scope. Fifty yards away, Bern swept his arm down, his face bright with the flush of the final kill. Across the valley, commandos rose from hiding, preparing to charge the castle.

  “Major?” Marshall asked.

  Ryan had no consoling words for the kid. Or for Boydson, who sat slumped with his back to the boulders, clutching a dagger in his hand, his last weapon. His two men were barely into their twenties. Boydson had a new baby boy. Marshall had plans to propose to his girlfriend the following week, had even picked out the ring.

  Ryan kept his focus forward.

  He intended to take out as many of the enemy as possible, to make them
pay in blood for each of his men’s lives.

  He studied Bern through his scope, needing him to be closer. He did not have ammunition to waste. Each round from here on had to count.

  I want you.

  Ryan, though, would not get the honor of this kill.

  As he peered, Bern’s hands suddenly clutched his throat. Blood spouted thickly from his mouth. An arrow had pierced through his neck. The big man fell to his knees as a savage whooping and hollering rose all around the valley. It echoed eerily off the canyon walls, causing Ryan’s hair to practically stand on end.

  A crashing behind him made Ryan roll himself around. He swung up his weapon, coming close to shooting Jordan in the chest. The young man bounded briskly up to the major. Ryan thought the kid had been buried farther back in the nest of boulders—where he’d been ordered to remain.

  But Jordan was winded, his clothes damp and torn in places. Clearly Ryan’s instructions had been ignored.

  Jordan skidded next to him as the screams grew louder, setting Ryan’s teeth on edge.

  “I’ve got movement out in the woods!” Marshall yelled. “Shadows all around. Every direction!”

  “Sorry that took so long,” Jordan said. “We didn’t want to be spotted until we had the valley completely encircled.”

  The young man shifted up and stared beyond the boulders.

  As the major’s gaze turned in the same direction, he noted that the kid seemed to be purposefully avoiding eye contact. Across the valley floor, the remaining members of Bern’s team, leaderless now as the giant lay flat on his face in the grass, milled about in the valley. Some ducked back into cover.

  But there was no cover any longer.

  A sharper cry pierced the valley, and a volley of arrows swept out of the forest and dropped from every direction, hailing down atop the commandos’ positions. Screams of shock and bloody pain now joined the war cries echoing off the wall.

  Rifles fired at shadows.

  Return fire followed from the forest.

  Commandos fell one by one. Ryan could now make out shadows as the hidden hunters moved in. They wore no recognizable uniform. He spotted some military outfits, but most of the men simply wore jeans, boots, and T-shirts—though a few had on nothing but breechclouts and moccasins.

  But they all had one thing in common.

  They were Native Americans.

  With the war clearly won, but not wanting to take any chances, Ryan waved to his men. “Get to our packs, haul them over here.”

  In case things went sour again, he wanted ammunition.

  Jordan sank back down, breathless, and explained. “Before flying here, Painter had Hank and me roust up men we trusted fully from our tribes, from others. He arranged transports and helicopters. Once Painter knew where in Yellowstone we were going, he had our forces dropped into place before everyone got here. He didn’t trust that the French guy wouldn’t pull something like this.”

  Damned right, there . . .

  “Our guys kept hidden way back in the valley. They came close to being spotted a few times, but we know how to move through the woods unseen when we want to. Once the fighting started, I went out to report on force levels and positions to coordinate the attack.”

  Ryan stared at Jordan with new eyes. Who was this kid? But he was still pissed.

  “Why didn’t Crowe tell me? Why didn’t he involve the Guard to begin with?”

  Jordan shook his head. “Seems there was some concern about infiltration. I don’t really know. Some problems out east with traitors in the government. Painter wanted to go old school here, sticking to his blood.”

  Ryan sighed. Maybe that was for the best.

  Jordan searched around the castle. “Where’s Kawtch?”

  Ryan realized he hadn’t seen the mutt since he’d gotten shot. He felt a flicker of guilt for his disrespectful lack of concern. The dog had saved his life.

  Jordan spotted the small body in the weeds, not moving.

  The kid rushed over. “Oh, Kawtch.”

  Before Ryan could offer sympathy or apology, Boydson came running up, threw down his pack, and held out the radio. “It’s for you. Washington has been trying to raise you.”

  Washington?

  The major lifted his radio. “Major Ryan here.”

  “Sir, this is Captain Kat Bryant.” Ryan could feel the urgency in her voice pouring steel into his spine. Something was wrong. “Do you have access to Painter Crowe?”

  Ryan looked over to the hole. With no radio contact through solid rock, someone would have to go down there. “I can reach him, but it might take a few minutes.”

  “We don’t have a few minutes. I need you to get word to Painter immediately. Tell him the physicists have revised their timetable based on cleaner data. The cache will explode at six-oh-four, not six-fifteen. Is that understood?”

  Ryan checked his watch. “That’s in four minutes!” He lowered the radio and pointed at Jordan. Ryan needed to send someone Painter would trust without hesitation. “Kid, how fast can you run?”

  6:00 A.M.

  Painter pointed his flashlight into the treasure vault behind the Holy of Holies.

  Hundreds of stone plinths supported golden skulls of every shape and size: fanged cats, ivory-tusked mastodons, domed cave bears, even what looked like the massive skull of an allosaurus or some other saurian beast. Amid them also stood scores of canopic jars, some etched with ancient Egyptian motifs, possibly originals carried over from their ancient home. But there were clearly others that had been modeled on local animals: wolves again, but also birds of every beak, mountain lion and other cats, grizzly bears, even a curled rattlesnake.

  “We’ll never be able to move all this in time,” Chin said. “We have only fifteen minutes.”

  Kowalski nodded. “Time for Plan B, boss.” He looked over at Painter. “You do have a Plan B, right?”

  Painter headed back into the main temple. “We can try to move as much as we can. Maybe lessen the chance it’ll ignite Yellowstone’s caldera.”

  Kowalski followed, pitching other ideas like hardballs. “How about we come down here with blowtorches? Doesn’t heat kill this stuff?”

  “Take too long,” Chin said. “And I don’t think a flame’s even hot enough.”

  “Then how about we drop a bunker buster up top.”

  Painter fielded that one. “We’re too deep.”

  “What about the nuclear option?”

  “Last resort,” Painter said. “And we might end up causing what we’re trying to prevent.”

  Kowalski tossed his arms high. “There’s got to be something we can do.”

  As they entered the Holy of Holies chamber, a thin figure burst through the gold chain curtain. He skidded to a stop, gaping momentarily at all the gold.

  Kai stepped toward him. “Jordan . . . ?”

  He held up a hand, panting to catch his breath. “Washington called . . . timetable got shortened . . . stuff is gonna blow at six-oh-four.”

  Painter didn’t have to check his watch. His internal clock had been counting down all on its own. Two minutes. All eyes stared at him for some solution, some insight.

  They were out of options—except for one.

  He pointed to the door. “Run!”

  Chapter 41

  June 1, 6:02 A.M.

  Yellowstone National Park

  Two minutes . . .

  Kai raced with the others through the massive temple. Jordan stuck to her side, which helped keep her on her feet. A part of her simply wanted to crash to her knees and give up. But Jordan would glance her way, silently urging her to stay with him—and she did.

  Plus she had another massive incentive.

  Ashanda was running alongside her like a juggernaut. If Kai fell, she was sure the woman wouldn’t even slow; she’d simply drag her along. Past Ashanda’s shoulder, Rafael was being carried between his two soldiers, hanging from their shoulders.

  The group reached the exit to the temple.

 
Kai’s uncle and the team geologist led the way, bounding down steps two at a time. Despite their speed, they were deep into a discussion. The geologist pointed to the boiling fountain. Uncle Crowe shook his head.

  Behind them all came Kowalski. His large form was not meant for sprinting. He wheezed in the hot air, his face glowing and running with sweat.

  “We’ll never make it to the surface,” Kai mumbled as she and Ashanda hurried down the steps.

  Jordan refused to give in to despair. “The mouth of the tunnel is pinched. If we get past that squeeze point, we should be okay.”

  Kai didn’t know if such an assessment was based on anything more than hope, but she took it to heart. Just get to the tunnel.

  With a goal set, she felt better, ran faster.

  A cry sounded behind her. Ashanda skidded to a stop. Kai wasn’t as fast and got pulled off her feet by the handcuffs linking them together. Jordan braked and came back to them.

  Behind them, Rafael and his two guards tumbled down the stone steps, landing in a tangled heap.

  Ashanda headed back to them. Kai had no choice but to follow.

  The soldiers disentangled themselves. One limped away a couple of steps, wincing on a twisted ankle. The other simply bounded to his feet, looked around in wild-eyed panic, and fled toward the distant tunnel.

  The other guard watched him, seemed to reconsider his own options, and with a hopping, painful bounce to his step, chased after his comrade.

  Jordan called to them: “What’re you doing? Help us!”

  Uncle Crowe and the geologist stopped as the guards ran past.

  Kowalski waved Painter and Chin on. “Go! I got this guy!”

  He bent to pick Rafael off the ground. The Frenchman screamed as Kowalski lifted him. Both of the man’s legs were canting at odd angles. Broken. Startled, Kowalski almost dropped him again, not expecting such injuries from a simple tumble.

  But Rafael hung on with one arm. “Merci,” he said, his brow pebbling with pained sweat. One hand palmed his ribs on that side, probably broken, too. He pointed his other arm, his eyes catching apologetically on Ashanda. Like Kai, he knew she wouldn’t leave him.