The Devil Colony (29 page)

Instead, she stared at the screen, at the letter—and did the next best thing. She reached out, moved the cursor, and allowed her finger to hover. Painter said the Internet connection was vigorously encrypted.

What could be the danger?

Taking back a bit of control over her own life, she hit send.

9:18
A.M.
Salt Lake City, Utah

Rafe smiled as the in-box chimed with new mail. He checked his watch. It was hours earlier than he’d anticipated. Matters were moving forward splendidly. He straightened with a luxurious stretch, wearing a plush hotel robe and slippers, his hair still damp from a shower.

He glanced around the presidential suite, situated at the top of the Grand America Hotel at the heart of Salt Lake City. For the first time since arriving in the States, he almost felt at home, ensconced amid all the European appointments of the room: the handcrafted cherrywood Richelieu furniture, the Carrara marble in the spa bathroom, the seventeenth-century Flemish tapestries. From his perch atop the hotel, floor-to-ceiling windows looked out onto breathtaking views of the mountains and down to the meticulously tended parterre gardens far below.

A sniffling sob dampened his good mood.

He turned to the scrawny young man, stripped naked and taped to one of the Richelieu dining chairs. Duct tape sealed his mouth. Twin lines of snot ran from his nose. He gasped, struggling for air, eyes wide and glassy like a wounded fox.

But he wasn’t a fox.

He was Rafe’s hawk . . . a hawk he’d sent hunting.

The biographical data on Kai Quocheets had listed her affiliations, including her participation in WAHYA, the fierce young wolves fighting for Native American rights. It had taken less than an hour to determine where the organization’s leader had squirreled himself away. He’d come to Salt Lake City to be close to the action in the mountains, ready for the exposure that came with such a tragedy. But apparently John Hawkes had other needs, too. Bern had collected him out of a strip club near the airport. Seems the Native American activist liked his women white and blond, with perky fake breasts.

Another whimper rose from the chair.

Rafe held up a finger. “Patience, Mr. Hawkes. We’ll get back to you soon enough. You’ve been most cooperative. But first let’s make sure your hunt was successful.”

It had not taken much to convert John Hawkes to their cause. Two of his fingers still pointed toward the ceiling. Ashanda had snapped them back as easily as breaking small twigs. Rafe, with his brittle bones, knew that particular exquisite pain. Over the course of his life, he’d broken every one of his fingers and toes.

Not always by accident.

Eventually they won Mr. Hawkes’s cooperation, gaining all the necessary insight and personal details about Kai to craft a letter intended to draw out Rafe’s little escaped bird. And it had apparently worked.

Much faster than I expected . . .

In the e-mail sent out, he’d set a noon deadline for her to respond. She wasn’t wasting any time. He didn’t intend to either.

“Sir, we’ve succeeded in decrypting the e-mail’s text,” the team’s computer asset informed him.

Rafe turned to the man. The technician went simply by the name TJ—but Rafe had never been curious enough to ask what those initials stood for. He was an American, emaciated, often hyped on stimulants so he could run code for days at a time. The expert stood before a bevy of mini–mainframe/servers, all interconnected by Cat 6 cables and hooked into a T2 broadband line.

Rafe didn’t understand a tenth of it. All he cared about were results.

“The text will be coming up on your personal screen in a moment, sir. We’re tracking IP addresses, triangulating sat-nodes, sifting server connections, and running a killer algorithm to untangle packet pathways.”

“Just find where it was sent from.”

“We’re working on it.”

Rafe rolled his eyes at the use of the word
we
. TJ was no more than a glorified assistant. The true digital magician sat in the center of the wired nest of equipment. Ashanda’s long fingers danced over three keyboards, as swiftly and elegantly as any concert pianist’s on a baby grand. In place of sheet music, her gaze swept through lines of flowing code. On another screen, server nodes and gateway protocols splintered into a tangled web that spread across a digital global map. Nothing could stand in her way. Firewalls toppled before her like dominoes.

Satisfied, Rafe crossed to his personal laptop and read the text message on the screen from Kai Quocheets. He tapped a finger against his lower lip as he read through the wash of teenage angst and hurt feelings. A small part of him felt a twinge of sympathy, drawn by her passion, by her raw exposure on the screen. He glanced over to John Hawkes, suddenly feeling like breaking a third finger on the man’s hand. Clearly the leader sorely used his fellow members, taking advantage of their youth and exuberance. In the end, he let others suffer the consequences while he took all of the glory.

That was simply poor management practices.

TJ whistled, drawing back Rafe’s attention. He leaned over Ashanda’s shoulder. “I think she’s got it!” he said, his voice rising in pitch. “She’s crashing through the last doors!”

Rafe stepped over, nudging TJ to the side. If they were victorious, he wanted to savor the moment with Ashanda.

Standing behind her, he leaned to her ear. “Show me what you can do . . .”

She gave no sign of acknowledgment. She was lost in her own world, as surely as any artist in the heat of inspiration. This was her medium. It was said that when a person lost one sense, another would grow stronger. This was Ashanda’s new sense, a digital extension of herself.

He ran a hand down one of her arms, feeling the old bumps of scarification under her skin. Such scarring was a ritualistic practice among the African tribe to which she had belonged. The bumps had been more prominent when she arrived at the château as a child. Now they could be felt only under the fingertips, like reading Braille.

“She’s almost there!” TJ said, breathless.

Ashanda leaned ever so slightly closer to Rafe’s cheek. He felt the warmth of her skin across the distance. No one truly understood their relationship. He couldn’t put it into words himself, and that was certainly true for her as well. They’d been inseparable since childhood. She was his nanny, his nurse, his sister, his confidante. Throughout his life, she was the silent well into which he could cast his hopes, his fears, his desires. In turn, he offered her security, a life without want—but also love, sometimes even physical, though that was rare. He was impotent, a side effect of his brittle disease. It seemed that even that most intimate of
bones
was damaged.

He studied her hands as they flew between the keyboards. He remembered how in private moments she would occasionally bend his finger, torturing him between agony and ecstasy until it finally snapped. It wasn’t masochism. Rather, there was a kind of purity in that pain that he found freeing. It taught him not to fear his body’s weakness but to embrace it, to tap into a primal well of sensation that was unique to him.

She let out the softest sigh.

“She did it!” TJ whooped, lifting his arms high, like a soccer fan after a goal.

Rafe leaned closer to her, allowing his cheek to touch hers. “Well done,” he whispered in her ear.

Not moving, he stared at the screen. The digital map had swelled, and glowing green lines converged into a single locus situated in Utah. Rafe noted the location and smiled at the serendipitous sight of his own name on the screen.

“San
Rafael,
” he said. Amusement lifted his spirits. “Oh, that’s just too perfect.”

He turned to John Hawkes.

The man’s eyes were wide upon him.

“Looks like we won’t be needing our hunting hawk any longer,” he mumbled.

He crossed toward the naked man, who let out a loud, panicked moan. Rafe believed he owed John Hawkes a small gift for his services—in this case, a lesson in good management practices, something that the man sorely lacked.

Rafe stepped behind him, hooked an arm around his thin throat. It wasn’t easy to snap a man’s neck, nothing like in the movies. It took him three tries. But it was a good lesson. Sometimes even a leader had to get his hands dirty. It helped maintain morale.

He moved back, wiping a pebbling of well-earned sweat from his brow.

“With that out of the way . . .” Rafe held forth an arm for Ashanda. “Shall we move on,
mon chaton noir
?”

Chapter 22

May 31, 3:19
P.M.
Above Ellirey Island
Iceland

Gray braced himself behind the pilot, Seichan at his side. Her hand was clamped hard to his forearm, as much from a need to hold herself steady as it was from terror.

The helicopter plunged toward a fiery doom, spiraling down. Rotors screamed overhead, struggling to hold them aloft. Beyond the cockpit window, clouds of smoke billowed while hot particulate rattled against the sides of the plummeting craft like hail. The engine’s air intakes sucked in the same debris, choking the motors further.

In the seat, the pilot fought the cyclic stick between his legs with one arm and flipped switches on the console with the other. He was one of the enemy, one of the mercenary commandos, but at the moment his fate was tied to theirs—and the outlook was not good.

“We’re fucked!” the pilot yelled. “Nothing I can do!”

The island flew up toward them, a steaming, shattered chunk of rock. Fissures continued to tear apart the ancient volcanic cone. Fires raged within the deepest chasms. Seawater flooded into the island’s interior and blasted upward in steaming geysers as icy water met molten rock.

It was hell on earth down there.

Their best hope, Gray determined, was out at sea, but the waters were frigid, capable of killing in minutes. He climbed into the empty copilot seat and pressed his face against the curve of the window. He searched the waters around the island. Sunlight reflected brightly off the waves, a sight that was far too cheery considering the circumstance. But the column of smoke and steam rising from the island cast a dark shadow to the south. It was within that shadow that he could discern a sliver of white riding the dark sea.

“There!” Gray exclaimed, and pointed down and to the right. “At your two o’clock! South of the island.”

The pilot turned to him, his face deathly pale under his helmet. “What . . . ?”

“A boat.” It had to be Captain Huld’s fishing trawler. “Crash this bird as close to it as you can.”

The pilot canted the helicopter on its side and searched below. “I see it. Don’t know if I even have enough lift to clear the island, let alone get that far out to sea.”

Still, the pilot knew they had no other choice. Adjusting the cyclic stick and collective pitch, he angled their plunge to the south. Even this small maneuver caused them to lose altitude. Hobbled with only one set of working rotors, the large craft dropped precipitously. The island filled the world below. Gray lost sight of the boat beyond the rocky cliffs.

“Not going to make it . . .” the pilot said, fighting stick and throttle.

An explosion of boiling water and steam blasted out of a crack ahead, shooting high into the sky. The craft crashed through it, blinding them all for a frightening breath. Then they were past it. The water blew clear of the glass, revealing a deadly plunge toward a scalloped curve of volcanic cone. It rose like a rocky wave ahead of them, blocking the way to the open water.

“Not enough power!” the pilot hollered above the strained wail of the rotors.

“Give it everything you can!” Gray hollered back.

The ground grew closer. Gray spotted the sprawled bodies of cattle in the open field, killed by either the extreme heat or toxic gases—or maybe simply from sheer fright.

Then suddenly the island began to fall away. The meadow receded beneath them.

We’re climbing again.

The pilot saw it, too. “That’s not me!” He pointed to the altimeter. “We’re still falling!”

Gray shifted closer to the window and stared below. He realized his error. The helicopter wasn’t climbing—
the ground was falling under them
.

As he watched, a chunk of cone broke away, split off by the boiling crack behind them. A quarter of the island slowly tipped and slid toward the sea, upending like a drunk falling off a bar stool.

Ahead, the wall of the volcanic rock lowered, tilting and dropping away, clearing a path to the open sea. But they weren’t out of the woods.

“It’ll be close!” the pilot said.

Below, boulders bounced and rolled across the meadow. One rock sailed past the cockpit window.

The pilot swore, bobbling the craft to avoid a collision.

Still, they continued to hurtle toward the lip of the cone. It was dropping away too slowly. The pilot groaned, fighting the stick with everything he had. Gray activated the copilot seat’s controls. He didn’t have any skill with this particular craft, but he could lend some muscle. He hauled on the collective. It fought him, felt like he was trying to crowbar the craft higher.

“No good!” the pilot bellowed. “Hold tight! We’re going to cr—”

Then they hit.

The wheels and lower skids slammed into the rocky lip of the cone, tearing away beneath the craft with a screech of metal. The helicopter was tossed up on its nose. Through the windshield, Gray got a dizzying look at the dark sea below as the craft flipped clear of the crumbling island.

The helicopter flew farther out, toppling on its side, spinning the world into a kaleidoscope.

3:22
P.M.

Seichan caught glimpses of the dark sea as the helicopter spun wildly. She clutched a handle overhead, her legs pinned against a spar to hold her in place. Monk bellowed from the back, accompanied by a sharper cry from the old caretaker. Closer at hand, Gray was tossed from the copilot’s seat and struck the windshield hard, cracking his head against the frame.