Bellamy also understood, letting out a low moan. “Noooo . . .”
“It’s the only way,” Chin explained to the private. “We can’t let it spread up your leg.”
He was right. As Ryan ran toward his camp, he remembered the question he’d posed earlier, picturing the expanding crater. How do we stop it?
He had his answer.
At great cost.
All they could do for now was damage control.
In less than a minute, he returned with an ax, collected from the camp’s firefighting gear, along with two of his men. By the time they arrived, Chin already had his belt cinched around Bellamy’s thigh. The private lay on his back, pinned at the shoulders by the geologist. Behind his mask, Bellamy’s face shone with terror and pain.
Gasps rose from the other two soldiers.
Ryan understood. Bellamy’s leg looked like a shark had taken a bite out of the calf. Only meat and skin still held the appendage together. The rest had been eaten away by whatever had contaminated him.
Chin met Ryan’s gaze as the other two soldiers took his place. The geologist glanced from the ax to Bellamy. “Do you want me to do this?”
Ryan shook his head. He’s my man. My responsibility. He hefted up his ax. He had only one question for the geologist. “Above or below the knee?”
He found the answer in the grim expression on Chin’s face. They dared take no chances.
Heaving with all his strength, he swung the ax down.
Chapter 11
May 30, 10:20 P.M.
Provo, Utah
Painter Crowe forced his fingers to loosen their death grip on the armrests of his seat. The race from Salt Lake City to the university town of Provo had challenged even his steely resolve. He had tried to distract himself by placing a call to his girlfriend, Lisa, to let her know he’d landed safely, but as they raced down the highway, dodging around slower traffic, often swerving wildly into the opposite lanes, he had wondered if perhaps that call had been premature.
Kowalski finally killed the engine on the Chevy Tahoe and checked his watch. “Twenty-eight minutes. That means you owe me a cigar.”
“I should’ve listened to Gray.” Painter shoved the door open and almost fell out. “He told me to keep you away from anything with wheels.”
Kowalski shrugged and climbed out, too. “What does Gray know? Guy spends most of his time pedaling around D.C. on that bike of his. If God had wanted men to ride bikes, He wouldn’t have put our balls where they are.”
Painter stared over at Kowalski. Dumbfounded and at a loss for words, he simply shook his head and headed across the parking lot with Kowalski in tow. The larger man wore an ankle-length black duster, which allowed him to hide the Mossberg pump-action shotgun strapped to his leg. To blunt its lethality in the urban environment, the weapon was equipped with Taser XREP shells—wireless, self-contained slugs that delivered a paralyzing jolt of electricity into their targets.
It was a wise precaution, considering the man who was wielding that weapon.
At this late hour, the campus of Brigham Young University was quiet. A few students walked briskly down the sidewalks, bundled against the chilly wind blowing off the snow-crowned mountains surrounding the city. A couple glanced curiously their way, then moved on.
Ahead, streetlamps shone warmly along wooded walkways, and a tall bell tower loomed in the distance. University buildings, mostly dark, spread outward in all directions, while a few still glowed brightly with late-night classes.
Painter checked the campus map he’d pulled up on his cell phone. Professor Kanosh had asked them to rendezvous at a lab in the earth sciences building. Gaining his bearings, Painter led the way.
The Eyring Science Center was situated along a tree-lined path off of West Campus Drive. It was hard to miss the large domed observatory resting atop it. A wide staircase led up three levels to its massive glass facade.
Once they were through the doors, Kowalski frowned as he eyed the cathedral-like lobby, whose main feature was a giant Foucault’s pendulum suspended from the ceiling, weighted down with a giant brass sphere. To the side a small café—closed at this hour—was shadowed by a giant life-sized allosaurus nestled amid tall ferns.
“So where now?” Kowalski asked.
“We’re to meet at a physics lab in the basement.”
“Why down there?”
That was a good question. It was an unusual place to meet a historian, but Professor Kanosh had mentioned something about some tests being run for him. No matter, it was still a remote and quiet place for them to meet. Painter checked a directory, then crossed to a stairway leading down. The Underground Physics Research Laboratory truly lived up to its name. The lab wasn’t just in the building’s basement; it was buried under the lawn on the north side of the building.
As they crossed into the complex, it wasn’t difficult to find the specific lab, deserted as the facility was now. Raised voices echoed down the hall from an open doorway.
Painter hurried forward, fearing someone had already found Kai and Professor Kanosh. As he entered the room, he reached for the shoulder-holstered pistol under his suit jacket. He was on alert as he took in another man, who seemed to be threatening Professor Kanosh with a dagger—but Painter let his arm drop away from his holster as he fully absorbed the situation. The man with the knife was wearing a white lab coat, and the dagger looked old, possibly an archaeological artifact. Furthermore, Professor Kanosh was showing no fear, only irritation. Clearly the other man was a colleague, one who seemed determined to make a point.
“This may be the very proof we’ve been looking for!” he said, slapping the dagger on the tabletop. “Why are you so obstinate?”
Before Professor Kanosh could answer, the two men noted Painter’s sudden arrival as he swept inside. Their eyes widened and grew even rounder as the hulking form of Kowalski followed him into the room.
The two colleagues were seated at a long table in the center of an expansive lab. A few lights glowed deeper in the facility, revealing an array of equipment. Some Painter recognized from his own background in electrical engineering and design: mass spectrometers, various solenoids and rheostats, resistance and capacitance boxes. One piece of equipment drew his eyes. In a neighboring alcove, the tall column of an electron microscope hummed alongside a series of glowing monitors.
“Uncle Crowe?”
The question came from the shadows alongside the microscope array. A young woman stepped tentatively into the light, her arms wrapped around her chest, her shoulders slumped. She stared up at him through a fall of long black hair.
It was his niece Kai.
“Are you all right?” Painter asked. It was a stupid question considering the circumstances.
She shrugged, mumbled something under her breath, and joined Professor Kanosh at the table. Painter tracked her. So much for the warm family reunion. Then again, it had been over three years since he’d last seen Kai. It had been at her father’s funeral. In that short span of time, she had grown from a gangly girl to a young woman, but in her face, he could see that she had also grown harder, far more than she should have grown in only three years.
He could guess why. He recognized that guarded stare all too well, half challenging, half wary. Orphaned himself, he knew what it was like to be raised alone, taken in by an extended family that still held you at arm’s length and shuttled you from one home to another.
It was that knowledge that tightened Painter’s chest. He should have done more for her when he had the chance. If he had, maybe they wouldn’t be standing here now.
“Thank you for coming,” Professor Kanosh said, cutting through the tension. He waved Painter to the table. “Maybe with your help we can clear up this mess.”
“I hope so.” Painter eyed the professor’s colleague, not sure how freely he could speak in front of him.
Recognizing his rudeness, the man held out his hand. Still, it was less a welcome than a challenge. While the man looked to be
as old as Professor Kanosh, his gray hair had thinned to wisps atop his head, and where the sun had baked Kanosh’s skin to hard leather, his colleague’s face sagged and hung loose, bagging heavily under his eyes. Painter wondered if the man might have had a stroke in the past year or so. Or maybe it was simply a matter of being holed up in this basement lab for most of his working career, far from sunlight and fresh air.
Painter could relate to the wear and tear that put upon a body.
“Dr. Matt Denton,” the man said. “Chair of the physics department.”
They all shook hands. Painter introduced Kowalski as his “personal aide,” which caused the big man to roll his eyes.
Professor Kanosh was polite enough not to question it. “Please call me Hank,” he said, perhaps sensing Painter’s guardedness. “I’ve explained our situation to Matt. I trust him fully. We’ve been friends since high school, going back to when we first served together on a church mission.”
Painter nodded. “Then why don’t you explain the situation again to me.”
“First, let me assure you. I don’t think Kai had anything to do with the blast. The explosive charges she dropped were not the source of that tragedy.”
Painter heard the catch in his voice at the end. He knew the professor had been close to the anthropologist who had died. Kai placed a hand on the older man’s arm, seeming both to thank him and to console him at the same time.
Kowalski rumbled under his breath, “Told you it wasn’t C4 . . .”
Painter ignored him and faced the professor. “Then what do you think caused the explosion?”
The professor stared at him full in the face as he answered. “Simple.” His next words were firm with conviction. “It was an Indian curse.”
10:35 P.M.
Rafael Saint Germaine allowed himself to be assisted from the helicopter. Rotor wash flattened the spread of manicured lawn surrounding the landing site. While other men might blush at needing such help, he was well accustomed to it. Even the short hop from the height of the cabin to the helipad risked breaking a bone.
Since birth, Rafe—as he preferred to be addressed—had suffered from osteogenesis imperfecta, also known as brittle bone disease, an autosomal defect in collagen production, leaving him thin-boned and short in stature. Due to a slight hunch from mild scoliosis and a clouding of his dark eyes, most took him to be decades older than his thirty-four years.
Yet he was no invalid. He kept himself fit enough with calcium and bisphosphonate supplements, along with a series of experimental growth hormones. He also exercised to the point of obsession, making up in muscle for what he lacked in bones.
Still, he knew his greatest asset lay not in bone or muscle.
As he was lowered from the helicopter’s cabin, he raised his eyes to the night sky. He could name every constellation and each star that composed them. His memory was eidetic, photographic, retaining all the knowledge that crossed his path. He often considered his fragile skull as nothing more than a thin shell enclosing a vast black hole, one capable of sucking in all light and wisdom.
So despite his disability, his family had had high hopes for him. He’d had to live up to those expectations, to make up for his shortcomings. Because of his defect, he had been mostly pushed aside, kept hidden away, but now he was needed at this most auspicious moment, offered a chance to bring great honor to his family.
It was said the Saint Germaine lineage traced back to before the French Revolution, and that much of the family fortune came from war profiteering. And while this continued through to modern times, the family company now extended into a multitude of businesses and enterprises.
Rafe, with his exceptional mind, oversaw the Saint Germaines’ research-and-development projects, sequestered and isolated in the Rhône-Alpes region near the city of Grenoble. The area was a hotbed for all manner of scientific pursuits, a melting pot of industry and academic research. The Saint Germaine family had its fingers in hundreds of projects across various labs and companies, mostly specializing in microelectronics and nanotechnology. Rafe alone held thirty-three patents.
Still, he knew his place, knew the darker history of his family, of its ties to the True Bloodline. He fingered the back of his head, where, hidden under a drape of hair, there was a freshly shaved spot, still tender from a recently drawn tattoo. It inked his family’s role—his pledge—to that black heritage.
Rafe lowered his hands, staring out. He also knew how to take orders. He had been summoned here, given specific instructions, reminded of the cold trail of history that had led to this moment. It was his chance to truly make a mark in this world, to prove himself and bring untold riches and honor to his family.
As the helicopter door closed behind him, he caught his reflection in the glass. With his black hair cut rakishly long and his fine aristocratic features darkened by a perpetual shadow of beard, some considered him handsome. He’d certainly had his share of women.
Even the strong arms that assisted him out of the helipad belonged to a member of the fairer sex—though few would call his caretaker “fair.” Fearsome would be the better term for her. He allowed himself a shadow of a smile. He would share this observation with her later.
“Merci, Ashanda,” he said as she let go of his arm.
One of his men came forward with his cane. He took it and leaned on it, waiting for the rest of his team to offload.
Ashanda stood stolidly at his side. More than six feet tall and with skin as black as shadows, she was both nurse and bodyguard, and as close a member of his family as anyone who shared the Saint Germaine bloodline. His father had found her as a child on the streets of Tunisia. She was mute, a result of having her tongue cut out; she’d been brutalized and sold for sex—until she was rescued by his father. He had killed the man who offered her to him as he passed along the street on business. After that, he stole her back to the family château outside the fortified French city of Carcassonne, where she was introduced to a boy in a wheelchair, becoming both pet and confidante to that fragile child.
A scream echoed over to Rafe. He stared across the rolling lawn to a dark mansion—on whose grounds they’d landed. He didn’t know who owned this estate, only that it was convenient to his plans. The home sat on the slope of Squaw Peak overlooking the city of Provo. He had handpicked this spot because of its proximity to Brigham Young University.
A muffled gunshot silenced the cry from the mansion.
There could be no loose ends.
His second-in-command, a German mercenary named Bern, formerly a member of the special forces of the Bundeswehr, stepped before him, dressed all in black. He was tall, blond, blue-eyed, Aryan from head to toe, a mirror image to Rafe’s darker self.
“Sir, we’re ready to proceed. We have the targets isolated in one of the campus buildings with all access points watched. We can take them on your orders.”
“Very well,” Rafe said. He despised using English, but it had become the common language among mercenaries, fittingly enough considering the crudeness and lack of true subtlety of the tongue. “But we need them alive. At least long enough to secure the gold plates. Is that understood?”
“Yes, sir.”
Rafe pointed his cane toward the campus. He pictured the girl and the older man, fleeing on horseback. While his team had been outfoxed by a clever ploy, it was only a momentary setback. From video of that hunt and by means of facial-recognition software, he’d identified the Indian on horseback. It hadn’t taken long to determine that the historian had returned to where he felt the safest, to the bosom of his university. Rafe smiled at such simplemindedness. While the pair had escaped his snare once, that would not happen again.
“Move out,” he ordered, and hobbled toward the mansion. “Bring them to me. And do not fail this time.”
10:40 P.M.
“What do you mean by an Indian curse?” Painter asked.
Professor Kanosh held up a palm. “Hear me out. I know how that sounds. But we can’t dismiss the
mythology surrounding that cavern. For ages, the Ute elders, those who passed shamanic knowledge from one generation to another, claimed that anyone who entered that sacred burial chamber risked bringing ruin to the world for their trespass. I’d say that’s pretty much how it unfolded.”
Kowalski made a scoffing noise deep in his throat.
The professor shrugged. “I think there must have been a kernel of truth in those old stories. A proverbial warning against removing anything from that cave. I believe that something unstable was hidden there for centuries, and our attempt to transport it out caused it to explode.”
“But what could it be?” Painter asked.
Across the table, Kai shifted in her seat. The answer to that question was plainly important to her, too.
“When Maggie and I first lifted the golden skull from its pedestal, I found it to be unusually cold, and I felt something shift inside it. I think Maggie felt it, too. I suspect something was hidden inside that totem, something valuable enough that it was sealed inside a fossilized skull.”
A corner of Kowalski’s lips curled in distaste. “Why pick a skull for that?”
The professor explained: “In many Indian gravesites, prehistoric fossils have been found buried with the dead and were clearly revered. In fact, it was an Indian who first showed the early colonists the location of rich fossil beds, where the remains of mastodons and other extinct beasts sparked the imagination of the scientists of that era. There were heated debates among the colonists, some even involving Thomas Jefferson, about whether such beasts still lived out west. So if these ancient Indians needed a vessel to secure something they considered sacred—and possibly dangerous—a prehistoric skull would not be an unexpected choice.”
“Okay,” Painter said. “Assuming you are correct, what might that be? What were they hiding?”