The Devil Colony (18 page)

Painter quickly reassembled his jury-rigged shell, pocketed it, and grabbed the Mossberg shotgun from where it leaned against the bench. Turning, he whispered and motioned to Denton. “On my signal, you take off for the others. I’ll buy us some time.”

The professor nodded, but the penlight in his hand shook as he flicked it off.

Painter led the way back to the lab’s door and crossed the few steps to the main hall. With Denton hovering behind him, he peeked around the corner. In the wan illumination of emergency signs, he spotted a clutch of men in black commando uniforms gathering at the foot of the stairs. With hand gestures, the team prepared to split: half to search the basement beneath the science building, the others preparing to enter the underground facility that extended north of the center.

Painter didn’t have a moment to spare. With a finger to his lips, he waved for Denton to head down the hall, away from the gathering in \the stairwell. Denton wouldn’t be exposed for long. Fifteen feet away, the darkened hall turned abruptly to the left. Once around that corner, the professor had a clear run straight for the others.

Denton seemed to realize this. Hugging the wall, he hurried toward safety. Painter used the Mossberg’s ghost-ring sighting system to keep a watch on the assault team. If any of them made an aggressive move in Denton’s direction, he intended to drop the man with a sizzling jolt of a Taser round. The surprise of such armed resistance should drive the hunters into momentary cover, hopefully buying Painter enough time to make it around the same corner as Denton before the team regrouped.

Without taking his eyes off the assault team, he listened to the soft tread of Denton’s retreating steps. When he reached the corner, a soft double cough sounded from that direction. Painter turned in time to see Denton’s body blown away from the corner and hit the far wall. He slid into a boneless slump, half his face gone.

Painter fought against reacting, going deadly calm, hardened by fury.

A large figure stalked into view from around the corner, a pistol fitted with a silencer smoking in his grip. The man wore black combat gear like the others, his helmet fitted with night-vision goggles. Unlike his teammates, there was nothing sloppy about his manner. The sureness of his movement spoke of command. He must have silently sneaked past Painter’s position in the applied physics lab, taking point and scouting ahead on his own. From his wary posture, the fleeing professor must have caught him off guard. The soldier clearly didn’t intend to allow that to happen again as he swung toward Painter’s direction.

Whether he’d been spotted or not, Painter knew that his only hope lay in taking the offensive. He dove low into the hall. A pistol cracked in his direction—the man was fast, but in his haste, he shot too high.

Painter fired as he slid on one shoulder, the shotgun blast loud in the confined hallway. He hit the man in the upper thigh, marked by a bluish spark of electricity as the Taser ignited. The man gasped, going rigid with a violent tremble of his limbs. As he toppled toward the floor, Painter rolled on his back, pumping the Mossberg with one hand, ejecting the spent cartridge and positioning another.

Leaping to his feet, he fired blindly toward the stairwell and turned away. He heard a shocked cry from that direction, indicating he’d hit someone. He let that small victory fuel his flight down the hall. Reaching the corner, he vaulted over the twitching, agonized body of the ambusher.

As he passed, he caught a glimpse of Denton on the floor, knew he was dead. Guilt flashed through him. The professor had been under his protection. He should never have exposed him like this—but he knew why he had.

He pictured Kai’s face, scared, wide-eyed as a doe, looking years younger than eighteen. He’d taken risks he normally wouldn’t have dared to take—and another man had paid the price for his recklessness.

Still, for the moment, he had no time for remorse.

As he turned the hall’s corner, gunfire spattered behind him. He ducked and fled out of the direct line of fire from the assault team—but such a reprieve wouldn’t last for long.

11:39
P.M.

“Get up!” Rafe yelled at the screen.

Through the camera feed, he had watched Bern shoot some white-coated old man in the face, savoring that frozen look of surprise before it vanished in a fog of bone and blood. But that victory was short-lived. A moment later, his second-in-command was on his back. The camera feed revealed a twitching view of the ceiling—then a shadowy figure leaped over Bern’s body, carrying a rifle or shotgun in one hand.

Rafe leaned close enough to bring his nose to the screen. He pressed to activate Bern’s radio. “Get up!” he repeated.

He didn’t so much care if Bern captured the shooter. He just wanted to see what was happening. He leaned back, a tight grin on his face. All of this was quite exciting.

11:40
P.M.

Painter sprinted down the hall. It was a straight run to reach the laboratory at the back of the facility. Ahead, a set of double doors creaked open. He spotted Kowalski spying out, his pistol pointing down the hall toward Painter. He must have heard the gunfire.

Painter yelled, “Get everyone back! Into cover!”

Obeying, Kowalski retreated, but not before he kicked the door wide, opening the way for Painter’s headlong flight.

Every second counted.

As he ran, Painter pulled back the shotgun’s pump, ejecting the spent cartridge. Cradling the Mossberg under an arm, he freed the jury-rigged shell from his pocket and fumbled it into the empty chamber. Once this was done, he slid the pump forward, pushing the block and firing pin into position.

He would have only one shot.

As he reached the lab door, the crack of a pistol sounded behind him. He felt a burning slice across his upper arm as a bullet grazed him. Glancing back, he saw the downed commando, limbs still twitching, haul himself around the corner. The pistol, wavering in his grip, fired again, but missed.

Painter grimly admitted the truth to himself:
That’s one tough bastard.

Reaching the lab, he dove inside and pulled the door shut behind him. Seconds later, the staccato rounds of an automatic rifle pounded the steel door as the rest of the assault team must have reached the hallway. The gunfire continued without pause.

He had no time.

To make matters worse, he was blind. With the door shut, the laboratory was pitch-black. He skidded deeper into the room, one arm in front to keep from crashing into something.

“Where?” he yelled above the ringing cacophony of the assault.

Ahead, a flashlight ignited, spearing the room with a dazzling brightness. It revealed the others hidden behind the heavy bulk of a Van de Graaff accelerator, part of a larger complex that extended deeper into the cavernous room.

Painter hurried toward them, scanning the roof for the C4.

“Behind you!” Kowalski yelled from his shelter. “Above the door.”

Painter swung around and stared up. The flashlight’s beam centered on a yellow-grayish glob of explosive crammed into a crevice above the door. It looked like an old stress fracture that had recently been patched. Kowalski had chosen a good spot.

He raised his shotgun—just as the double doors were yanked open in front of him. Gunfire strafed blindly into the room. Painter stumbled away and dropped to his back. A pair of commandos rushed into the lab under the cover of the barrage. Kowalski returned fire from his sheltered position.

Painter caught a glimpse of the soldier he’d Tasered out in the hallway. The guy pointed an arm, barking orders, clearly the leader.

Painter couldn’t give him any more attention than that.

From the floor, he lifted his shotgun, centered his aim on the patch of C4, and pulled the trigger. The shotgun blasted, the XREP dart flew out, and a spat of electricity sparked along the roof as it impacted—but nothing else happened.

Kowalski swore, clearly girding himself for the pitched firefight to come.

What had gone wr—

—a deafening
boom
knocked the wind from Painter’s lungs and flung his body against the bulk of the accelerator. As he flew back, he watched the two commandos in the room get flattened, pounded first by the shock wave, then buried under a tumble of cement, twisted rebar, and soil.

Smoke and dust rolled across the room, billowing deeply into the facility.

Dazed, he felt his body lifted off the floor. Kowalski had him under one arm, hauling Kai with the other. Ears still ringing, he struggled to get his legs under him. Ahead, slabs of broken debris blocked the doorway, cutting off the hunters. Painter craned up. In the smoke-choked darkness, light flowed down through the roof.

Moonlight, achingly bright.

They’d done it.

11:42
P.M.

Rafe stood before the desk that held his laptop. He folded his fingers atop his head, staring at the ruins of a hallway as his team retreated. He finally let out the long breath he’d been holding.

He lowered his arms, balling both hands into fists.

He glanced to Ashanda, as if silently asking her if she’d witnessed what had happened on the screen. She still sat with the small boy, who looked half comatose from shock.

Rafe could relate.

His heart pounded, firing his blood. While he was certainly angry, a part of him could not help but be impressed.

So our quarry found some help . . . a bodyguard with some skill.

If nothing else, Bern had gotten a good picture of the wily culprit from his helmet-mounted camera, just before the explosion dropped the roof. While the photo was grainy, the camera managed to capture a full view of his face. The new enhancing software and facial-recognition program developed by a Saint Germaine family subsidiary for Europol should make short shrift of identifying the man.

Over the radio, Bern’s voice came garbled with digital dropouts. “. . . escaped on foot. Local law enforcement and emergency response teams are already arriving on-site. What . . . orders?”

Rafe sighed, damping down the fire in his blood. It was a shame. With the limits of his body, it wasn’t often he got to enjoy such a heady rush of adrenaline. He spoke into his throat mike. “Clear out. The targets won’t remain in the area. We’ll pick up their trail again.”

It sounded like Bern wanted to argue, furious at the loss of his teammates. It must be his Aryan blood, fueling that Germanic desire for immediate revenge. But Bern would have to learn patience. If there was one true source behind the wealth and power of the Saint Germaine family, it came from their knowledge of, appreciation for, and skill in
le long jeu
.

The long game.

And with his unique mind, there was no better player than Rafael Saint Germaine. For others this might be a mere boast, but he’d proven himself time and again. It was why he stood here now, assigned by the family to chase after a treasure going back millennia.

Was there any
longer
game?

After Bern signed off, Rafe crossed back to his laptop and brought up the image of the shadowy intruder into their affairs. Many primitive cultures put great stock in names, believing that to obtain such details granted special powers over others. Rafe believed this down to his crumbling bones.

He leaned on his fists atop the desk and stared at his adversary.

“Vous êtes qui?”
he asked the man.

It was a question he desperately wanted to answer.

Who are you?

12:22
A.M.

From the passenger seat of the SUV, Painter watched the lights of Provo vanish into the distance in the rearview mirror. Only now did he let his guard down.

Slightly.

Against his better judgment, Kowalski was again behind the wheel of their rental, in this case, a white Toyota Land Cruiser. Where they were going, a four-wheel-drive vehicle would be needed. Painter wasn’t up for the long drive himself. His upper arm still throbbed from the bullet graze, and his head ached from the concussive explosion.

Maybe I’m getting too old for this . . .

He flashed back to his couch at home, Lisa fingering the white lock in his dark hair, noting the gray notes elsewhere. What was he doing out in the field? This was a younger man’s game.

Proving this, Kowalski seemed little fazed, nursing a thermos of coffee to keep him alert for the overnight drive. A glance to the backseat revealed Kai leaning on Professor Kanosh, with one hand resting on the old man’s dog. Both were asleep, but a pair of canine eyes—one brown, one blue—stared up at him, wary, guarded.

He gave the dog a nod.
Keep an eye on her.

This earned a weak thump of a tail.

He turned back around, still heavy-hearted. After their escape across campus, he’d had to break the news about the murder of Professor Denton. Kanosh had looked crushed, aging in seconds. He’d lost too many close friends in the span of a day. Only the need to put some distance between them and the hunters had blunted the anguish. So after a quick stop at a CVS pharmacy for first-aid supplies for his wound, they set out of town.

They were headed to some friends of Kanosh, a group of Native Americans who were living off the grid. Painter wanted to get Kai somewhere safe. Plus he needed answers to his questions about what was really going on out here.

His cell phone vibrated in his pocket. Frowning, he fished it out, checked the caller ID, and raised it to his ear. “Commander Pierce?” He was surprised by the call at this late hour, especially from the East Coast, where it was two hours later. He kept his voice low so as not to disturb the others.

“Director Crowe,” Gray said, “I’m glad you’re okay. I heard from Kat about the attack. She asked me to give you a call.”

“Concerning what?”

Painter had already reached out to Sigma Command. He’d briefed Kathryn Bryant on the events in Utah. She was helping with the aftermath of the blast at the university, while using her resources in both federal law enforcement and various intelligence communities to help identify the team who invaded the physics lab.