The Devil Colony (Sigma Force 7)

Rafael turned his head and weakly lifted his hand to part the fall of hair that hid his mark. The third symbol had been added just days ago, inked in crimson around the older two, to mark his new elevation.

He heard Painter gasp, knowing what the man saw. In the center of the tattoo, the star and moon . . . encircling it, the square and compass . . . and around them both . . .

“The shield of the Knights Templar,” Painter whispered. “Another secret order.”

“And there are more, or so I’ve heard.” Rafael let his arm drop heavily. “As I said, we are the secret within all secret societies. This third mark brings my family one step closer to joining the True Bloodline on that highest pedestal. Or at least it would have.” Again a painful chuckle croaked forth. “Failure is severely punished.”

Painter remained quiet for a long breath, then spoke. “But to what end? What is the goal of all of this?”

“Ah, even I do not know everything. Some things you’ll need to discover on your own. I’ll tell you no more because I know no more.”

He closed his eyes and turned his face away.

After a time, Painter rose and headed back up the tunnel.

Once alone, Rafael Saint Germaine leaned down and gave one last kiss to his love, holding it until he felt those lips dissolve away—taking him with them.

Chapter 42

June 1, 6:22 A.M.

Yellowstone National Park

Painter burst out of the darkness into light.

He didn’t know what to think of Rafael’s claims: grand delusions, lies, madness, or truth. All he knew was that the danger below had to be stopped.

While talking to the Frenchman, Painter had stared out into the cavern. Nothing remained. No bodies, no temple. As rock turned to sand and sand to dust, what he saw there offended him at a fundamental level, frightened him to the core of his being. Steps away, there had swirled a storm of pure entropy, where order became chaos, where solidity had no meaning.

The nano-nest had to be destroyed.

In the short time he’d been down below, the Fairyland Basin had changed into a bustle of frantic activity. Helicopters dotted the valley floor, ferrying everyone clear. They had one last chance to stop the growing cancer below from eating its way down into the depths of the volcanic caldera. And that hope hinged on striking while the nano-nest was still relatively small and confined.

Painter strode across the valley toward where Chin and Kowalski were working. It looked like they were ready.

As he passed one of the helicopters, he spotted Kai and Jordan seated next to Hank. Kai turned and waved, but Jordan’s attention was on her alone. The professor leaned down and accepted a blanket-wrapped package from Major Ryan. Hank gingerly settled the dog to his lap, so as not to jar the broken leg. Ryan had insisted that Kawtch receive attention from the field medic before his own wounds were treated.

As Painter headed away, the chopper lifted off behind him, roaring skyward and kicking up a whirlwind. He joined Chin and Kowalski.

“Are you ready?” Painter asked.

“Just about done here.” Kowalski sat cross-legged on the ground. Coiled at his feet was a spool of detonation cord threaded through cubes of C4. “It’s just like stringing popcorn.”

“Remind me not to come over to your house for Christmas.”

He shrugged. “Christmas is okay. It’s Fourth of July that scares most people away.”

Painter could only imagine.

Kowalski plus fireworks. Not a good combination.

Chin stood beside the ten-foot geyserite cone called the Pitcher’s Mound. He had topographical maps spread out on the chalky fields of sinter, along with scans of the basin that had been done with ground-penetrating radar.

“This cone’s the best spot,” Chin said. “GPR scans show this is the closest access point to the plug blocking the geothermal vent below. Release that and the superheated cauldron suppressed deep in the earth will come roaring up like a sleeping dragon.”

The idea had been Painter’s, but the execution was all Chin and Kowalski. The geologist had earlier described how two forces had shaped Yellowstone: the volcanic eruptions from deep underground and the shallower hydrothermal explosions. While they needed intense heat to kill the cancer below, a volcanic eruption was not an option, definitely not here. So the next best thing was to attempt a hydrothermal explosion.

Painter proposed triggering a shallow, superhot blast to fry the nano-nest before it had a chance to drill its way down to the volcanic magma chamber six miles underground. While there was some threat of the hydrothermal explosion disturbing that magma chamber, too, it was less risky than doing nothing and letting that nano-nest eat its way down unchecked.

But how do you trigger a hydrothermal blast?

“Okay, let’s do this.” Kowalski stood, hauled up his bulky spool of C4, and crossed to Chin.

The geologist had tilted ladders against the minivolcano’s steep sides. The two of them climbed to the top, where steam was rising from a small opening, just large enough for a shaped charge of C4 to slip through. Lying on their bellies on the ladders, the two men fed the spooled C4—one cube at a time, a hundred cubes in all—down the mouth of the cone, sending the chain deep underground, dropping it as close to the rock blocking the hydrothermal vent as possible. Chin had calculated the amount of explosive they needed to shatter the rock.

Kowalski doubled it.

For once, Painter agreed with Kowalski.

Go all in . . . or go home.

“That’ll do it,” Chin said from atop the Pitcher’s Mound.

The two men slid down their ladders.

Kowalski rubbed his palms together in happy anticipation. “Let’s see if this C4 colonic works.”

Painter glanced his way. It actually wasn’t a bad description for blasting that blockage free. The trio hurried to the last helicopter, which was still waiting in the basin. Engines hot, its rotors already spinning. They climbed aboard, buckled in place, and took off.

The helicopter pilot spared no fuel.

The valley shrank rapidly below.

“That’s good!” Painter radioed over his headset.

With the chopper slowly circling, Painter gave Kowalski a thumbs-up. He already had the transmitter in hand. With a fierce grin, Kowalski pushed the button.

From this height and with the charges buried underground, the explosion sounded like distant thunder.

Painter stared below. The Pitcher’s Mound was still intact. The only change was a bit more steam rising from its cone.

“That sucked,” Kowalski said. “I was expecting—”