The Devil Colony (28 page)

The stretcher rested in the grass, its cargo still waiting to be shifted to the chopper’s hold. Gray noted the gold shining on top. It came from a broken stone box, revealing a stack of metal tablets inside.

Same as the Utah cave.

Standing next to the stretcher, still clutching the pack to his chest with one arm, was the civilian he’d noted before. Gray got a better look at his face. Blond hair framed a pale complexion, with pouting lips and a scruff of patchy beard. It was the face of someone who led a soft life and found little he liked about it. As soon as the helicopter’s door was fully open, the man rushed forward. Soldiers helped him inside.

Beyond the chopper, the lodge remained dark and quiet on the far side of the meadow. Monk waited for his signal. It would be hard to miss.

Gray aimed his SIG Sauer P226. The magazine held twelve .357 rounds. Same as Seichan’s weapon. Each shot had to count. Seichan matched his pose, ready.

Gray aimed for the soldier guarding the helicopter. He couldn’t risk any of the enemy gaining shelter inside the chopper’s hold. He centered his shot and squeezed the trigger.

The crack of his pistol was loud, triggering an echo from Seichan’s weapon. Gray’s target dropped. Before the soldier could hit the ground, Gray shifted and blew the throat out of a second.

Confusion reigned for several breaths. The soldiers, jammed together and deafened by the helicopter’s engines, struggled to ascertain who was shooting at them. One of the eight original commandos fired at the lodge, believing it to be the source of the attack.

A shotgun blast responded from the building, shattering out a window as Ollie took a potshot at the attackers.

Good job, Ollie . . .

All eyes turned in the lodge’s direction.

A mistake.

With everyone looking the wrong way, Gray took out another two men in the back, while Seichan concentrated her fire on the eight commandos who had the lodge pinned down. Her accuracy was scary good. She emptied her clip, taking four men down at some distance.

As she ejected one magazine and slapped in another, Gray shifted his focus to the closest two soldiers. The pair had backed away from the lodge, coming close to their hiding spot, unaware of the danger. He took them both out, emptying his magazine into them while hurtling out of hiding, staying low.

They needed more firepower.

Reaching the bodies, he grabbed one of their automatic weapons, snatching it in midrun. Seichan shadowed him, firing her pistol. He swung the rifle up, thumbed it into full automatic, and fired from the hip. He strafed into the line of soldiers, taking several down and driving the rest away from the chopper and into the sheltering boulders.

Seichan gained the other rifle.

Together, they dove into the helicopter’s hold.

The only occupant was the pudgy civilian. His hands were struggling at his waist, trying to free a holstered weapon, but Seichan slammed him hard with the butt of her rifle. He fell limply into his seat. She headed toward the pilots, determined to sway them to their cause at gunpoint.

Gray continued his barrage, fierce enough to allow Monk and Ollie to make a break from the lodge. They ran low while Gray covered them. Monk fired, too, offering further discouragement.

The two reached the chopper safely. Gray yanked them inside and tugged the cabin door closed. His ears rang from all the gunfire.

“Stay low!” he yelled at Monk and Ollie.

The reason for this command became clear as the helicopter was fired upon. Rounds pinged off the sides. But already the engines were howling up. Apparently Seichan had been persuasive enough—or the pilots already knew about the impending explosion of the island.

Gray checked his watch.

Four more minutes . . .

He had time to spare.

He was wrong.

A tremendous blast rocked the chopper. The ground bucked under the helicopter, knocking Gray to his hands and knees. Overhead, the engines screamed. The helicopter rose unsteadily, canted nose first, its liftoff bungled by the quake. The hatch crashed back open, improperly latched in his haste.

Beyond the door, clouds and smoke obscured half the island.

“Gray!” Monk hollered.

Gray twisted to see the civilian, his nose broken and bloody, diving for the open door, still clutching his pack. Gray rolled after him and snatched at the bag, catching a strap. Whatever was inside had to be important enough if the man was willing to die to keep it from him. But the guy would not let go. He had an arm hooked in the other strap as he plummeted out of the helicopter.

The man’s weight, as he jarred to a stop, dangling by the pack, yanked Gray toward the open door. On his belly, half out the door, Gray refused to let go of the pack. The man whipped his body back and forth, trying to free himself and his precious prize.

Gray slid farther out the door—then a heavy weight fell across his legs, pinning him in place.

“I got you,” Monk said.

The chopper rose higher, struggling for height. As they climbed, one section of the ancient volcanic cone broke away and slid heavily toward the sea. Deep fissures skittered across the remainder of the island. Men scurried in all directions, fleeing the destruction—but there was no escape.

Not even by air.

The helicopter shuddered and suddenly dropped several yards in a single second. Gray rose off the floor, then crashed back down. Monk struggled to keep him from falling out the door.

“We’re losing pressure!” Seichan yelled from the cockpit.

Before Gray could respond to the new danger, he heard the blast of a pistol. A searing burn clipped the edge of his ear. He stared below. His nemesis was hanging by one arm, but he’d finally succeeded in freeing his weapon with the other. If the chopper hadn’t dropped so suddenly, Gray would already be dead.

Not that he had a long life expectancy at the moment.

As the pilot sought to steady the helicopter, the stubborn civilian fixed his aim more carefully. At point-blank range, he wouldn’t miss a second time.

The man smiled up at Gray, yelled something in French, and pulled the trigger. The blast was deafening—but it didn’t come from a pistol. It came from a shotgun.

The next thing Gray knew, Ollie was straddling him, holding his smoking weapon.

Below, half the man’s face was gone. Slowly, his slack arm fell free of the pack, and his body tumbled end over end toward the ruins of the island.

Monk pulled Gray and his hard-earned prize back inside.

Monk shook his head. “From now on, arms and legs inside the ride at all times.”

Gray reached out and clasped Ollie’s hand. “Thanks.”

“Owed him.” Ollie gingerly touched his broken nose. “No one punches me in the face and gets away with it.”

Again the helicopter bumped violently and began a dizzying drop earthward. They all grabbed for handholds, waiting for the plunge to stop. It didn’t. Gray stared out the open door. The island, cracking apart and crumbling, rose up toward them. Fires now glowed within the depths of the deepest fissures, smoldering with the promise of worse to come.

As they continued to fall, the chopper began a slow spin.

Seichan popped her head into the hold from the cockpit. “We’ve lost all pressure to the rear rotors!” she said, and added what all of them already knew: “We’re going down!”

Chapter 21

May 31, 9:05
A.M.
San Rafael Swell
Utah

Kai stood on the porch in the shade. She crunched a roasted piñon nut between her teeth, savoring the salty, rich flavor. Iris had gathered the seeds from the native piñon pines growing here. She was still inside shaking her winnowing tray over an open fire, preparing more nuts to be ground into flour.

Iris tried to show her how it was done, how to keep from burning the nuts, but Kai knew the old Hopi woman was only trying to distract her. Instead, Kai stared at a thin pall of dust retreating across the badlands. Painter and the others had wasted no time, gathering gear and flying off in the rented SUV, even taking the dog.

But not her.

Earlier, she’d reined in her anger, knowing it would do her no good. Bitterness still burned like coal in her gut. She’d been here at the start of all of this mess. She deserved to see it through to the end. They kept saying that she had to bear the consequences of her actions like a woman, yet still treated her like a child.

She popped another nut in her mouth, grinding it between her teeth. She was used to being left behind. So why should today be any different? Why should she expect anything more from her uncle?

But deep down, she had.

“That guy’s sort of intense.”

Kai turned to find Jordan Appawora standing in the doorway. He’d changed out of his suit into cowboy boots, a faded blue T-shirt, and black jeans held up by a belt with a large silver buckle in the shape of a buffalo head.

“So Painter Crowe’s your uncle?” he asked.

“Distantly.” At the moment she was ready to sever their blood ties entirely.

Jordan stepped onto the porch. He held a cowboy hat in one hand and juggled a small fistful of steaming piñon nuts in the other, trying to cool them. He must have taken them straight from Iris’s pan. He noted her attention, flipping one into his mouth.

“They’re called
toovuts
in Paiute,” he said as he chewed the kernel. “Do you want to know what they’re called in Hopi?”

She shook her head.

“How about in Arapaho or Navajo?” he asked, now grinning. He came closer. “It seems our host is willing to share all she knows about piñon nuts. Did you know the pitch from piñon pine trees was used as chewing gum, or that it also acted as a balm on cuts and wounds? Seems the sticky stuff was both the Trident and Neosporin of the Old World.”

She hid a grin, turning away.

“I had to get out of there,” he whispered conspiratorially, “before she started teaching me the Hopi rain dance.”

“She’s only trying to help,” Kai scolded, but could not hold back her grin.

“So what do we do now?” Jordan asked, donning his cowboy hat. “We could take a hike to Three Finger Canyon. Or Alvin’s grandkids left their mountain bikes . . . we could take a ride to Black Dragon Wash.”

She glanced to him, trying to ascertain his motives. His tanned face, with high cheekbones that made his dark eyes shine, seemed innocent and open. But she suspected there was more to the invitation than exercise and sightseeing. She’d caught him staring a bit too often her way. Even now, she felt a blush heating her cheeks and stepped toward the open doorway. She already had someone interested in her, someone important to her.

She pictured Chayton Shaw back with her friends at WAHYA. It would feel like a betrayal to go out with Jordan. She’d already compromised herself enough. She still stung from the e-mail she’d read earlier. She didn’t intend to make things worse.

“I better stick close,” she said, heading inside. “In case my uncle calls . . .”

It was a lame excuse, even to her own ears, but he didn’t call her on it, which made it that much harder to turn her back on him and head inside. Still, she glanced over a shoulder, staring at Jordan as he stood silhouetted against the morning’s brightness. She couldn’t help but compare him to Chay, whose fierce activism was all too often blunted by peyote, mushrooms, or weed. Though she’d known Jordan for less than an hour, there was something purer and more honest about his tribal pride, the way he doted on and supported his grandfather, the way he listened patiently to Iris’s teachings.

Seeming to sense her attention, he began to swing around. She hurried away, bumping into the table, almost knocking over a tray of cooling piñon nuts. She headed to the back room, needing some privacy.

She stood in the darkness and covered her burning cheeks with her palms.
What am I doing?

Across the room, the closed laptop’s idle button glowed like a green cat’s eye in the dark. Painter had left the satellite hookup and one of his linked sat-phones, in case he needed to reach them. She was thankful for that.

Needing something to distract her, she crossed to the desk, sat down, and opened the laptop. She feared seeing a second note from John Hawkes, but she had to check. She called up her e-mail account, and after an interminable wait, saw she had no new mail. She reached to close the laptop, but her eyes drifted to the saved note from WAHYA’s founder. Scrunching up her face in determination, she opened it again. She wanted to read it once more, maybe as some sort of punishment, maybe to see if it was as bad as she remembered.

As she read it again, she felt no despair as she had felt last time—instead, anger slowly built with each line. Already bitter from Painter’s abandonment, she recognized that John Hawkes was trying to do the same. To shuck her off when there was the least bit of trouble.

After all I did . . . all I risked . . .

Before she could think otherwise, she hit the reply button. She didn’t intend to send the response. She just needed to vent, to get it off her chest. She typed rapidly, unloading her fury through her fingertips. She wrote a long, rambling letter, declaring her innocence and explaining how she was actively clearing her name without any help from WAHYA. She underlined that last part. It felt good to do so. She expressed her disdain for the lack of loyalty and support shown to one of their own. She listed all of her accomplishments and contributions to the cause. She also let John Hawkes know how much WAHYA meant to her, how this betrayal and mistrust of her wounded her to the marrow of her bones.

By the time she typed those last words, tears were welling up in her eyes, blurring the screen. She knew they came from somewhere deep inside, from a wound that would not heal. She wanted to be loved for who she was—for the good, the bad, the noble, and the weak—and not to be tossed aside when her presence grew inconvenient. In the end, she recognized a truth about herself. She wanted to be loved like her father had loved her. She deserved that. She wanted to scream it at the world.