The Devil Colony (Sigma Force 7)

Kai stared toward the ceiling, picturing the buried lab in her mind’s eye. “How about up?” she asked, grasping for anything.

Painter gave her an appreciative squeeze. It did much to return some strength to her legs.

“What about that?” he asked the two professors. “Are there any air vents? Service tunnels?”

“Sorry,” Denton said, his voice quavering. “I know the entire schematics of this place. There’s nothing like that. At least not large enough to crawl through. Only thing above our heads is a foot of reinforced concrete and about a yard of soil, rock, and lawn.”

“Still, the kid’s idea is a good one.” The gruff words came from the doorway, from the man named Kowalski. “How ’bout we make our own exit?”

He tossed something the size of a ripe peach toward her uncle, who caught it one-handed. She felt Painter flinch next to her, then swear under his breath.

11:35 P.M.

Painter stared down at what he held. Though his eyes had somewhat adjusted to the dark, it was still difficult to examine the object—but from the chemical smell and the greasy feel to the claylike substance, there was little doubt of its identity.

He fought through his shock to ask, “Kowalski, what are you doing with C4?”

Kowalski shrugged both shoulders. “Still had it with me from before.”

From before?

Painter pinched his brows, thinking back; then he remembered. He recalled the man kneading a fistful of the plastic explosive in his office, as casually as someone squeezing a stress-relieving ball. And maybe it served that purpose for him, as he’d apparently never gotten rid of it.

Painter lowered his arm and shook his head in disbelief. Leave it to Kowalski to be walking around with a pocketful of explosives.

Which begged another question.

“I don’t suppose you have a blasting cap to go along with it?” he asked.

Kowalski turned his back dismissively, focusing back on the hallway. “C’mon, boss. I can’t think of everything.”

Painter glanced around at the lab, trying to determine how he could improvise some type of detonator. C4 was notoriously stable. It could be burned, electrocuted, shot with a bullet, and it still would not explode. It took an intense shock wave, like the one caused by an exploding blasting cap, to set it off.

Denton stepped forward and offered a possibility. “The applied physics lab might have what you need. They work in conjunction with the region’s mining operations. They keep percussion and blasting caps over there.”

“And where’s that?”

“Off by the stairwell.”

Painter sighed inwardly. Not the direction he wanted to go. It would be dangerous, and risked exposure, but he had little choice. He studied Denton. He hated to involve a civilian, but the underground facility was a maze, and he didn’t know where to begin looking for blasting caps in that other lab.

“Professor Denton, would you be willing to come with me? To show me?”

The professor nodded, but he was clearly reluctant.

Next, Painter crossed to Kowalski and handed back the balled-up chunk of explosive. “Find a place to plant this. A roof joist or someplace where we have the best chance to blast a hole to the surface. And get as deep as you can into this facility, as far from the science center as possible.”

Painter imagined all the exits were being watched. If his plan worked, he wanted to pop out beyond whatever snare had been set around the building.

Denton pointed. “The rearmost lab is the particle accelerator chamber.”

“I know where that’s at,” Kanosh added. “Straight down at the other end of the hall. Can’t miss it. I can take him.”

“Good. Bring Kai and your dog, too. All of you hole up down there until we return.”

Painter sensed the press of time and quickly calculated in his head what he needed to pull this off. Denton helped him gather the necessary tools. He then crossed back to Kowalski and freed his SIG Sauer pistol from its shoulder holster. He traded his sidearm for the man’s Taser-modified shotgun.

“Keep the others protected. Shoot to kill.”

Kowalski scowled. “Like I shoot any other way.”

Kai shifted to the shadow of the big man, but her eyes were huge on Painter. “Uncle Crowe, be careful . . .”

“That’s definitely my plan.” Still, he could not escape a feeling of misgiving as he pointed to the door. “Everybody move out.”

11:36 P.M.

Seated in a leather desk chair in the mansion’s library, Rafe watched his laptop’s monitor. It carried live feed from the operation in the field, offering multiple viewpoints via cameras mounted on the black helmets of his mercenaries. It was a jumbling viewpoint that threatened to turn his stomach, but he couldn’t look away.

He had watched the initial assault as power and telephone feeds were cut, all exits under close watch. Four shell-shocked students stumbled out of various doors, escaping the dark building. They were quickly dispatched, their bodies whisked into hiding. The assault team continued inside, searching floor by floor for their targets.

He was not surprised that the power loss had failed to flush out his targets as it had the few students. After the events in the mountains, his prey had grown more wary, but his men had been handpicked by Bern for both their thoroughness and ruthlessness. Their targets would be found.

On one corner of the laptop screen, Bern turned his camera toward his own face, indicating he wanted to report in from the field. His voice was a bit choppy from the digital feed. “Sir, all the upper levels are clear. That leaves only the basement. The team’s heading down.”

“Very good.” Rafe drew his face closer to the screen, eager to watch.

So they fled into the cellars, like so many frightened rats. No matter. I’ve got the best rat catchers money can buy.

A whimper drew his attention to a wingback chair by the fire. Flames danced, casting shadows—but none darker than his black queen, Ashanda, who sat in the chair, holding a small boy, no older than four. The child’s face was a ruin of tears and mucus. His eyes were wide with shock and fear. They probably should have moved the body of his mother from the room, but there’d been no time for such niceties. The woman lay on the Persian rug, her blood and brain matter ruining the subtlety of the wool pattern.

Ashanda stared into the flames and gently stroked the boy’s hair. One of Bern’s men had offered to alleviate the boy’s suffering with the swift skill of his blades, but Ashanda had backhanded the muscular mercenary away as if he were a rag doll, in order to protect the child.