The Devil Colony (Sigma Force 7)

“Sounds good.”

After getting all the information, Painter hung up. Kowalski already had them heading south on Interstate 15.

Kowalski commented around the chewed stub of unlit cigar. “Got about another forty miles to go to reach Provo.”

Painter read the time estimate on the GPS. “Fifty-two minutes,” he mumbled under his breath.

Kowalski rolled one eye toward his boss. “If need be, I can make that forty-two minutes.” He gunned the engine and cocked a questioning eyebrow.

Painter sank deeper in his seat, his heart thudding harder as he considered the hunters already on Kai and the professor’s trail. “How about making that thirty-two minutes.”

Kowalski offered a crooked smile as he jammed the accelerator. “Always like a challenge.”

Painter was thrown back as the SUV gained speed. While he should have been unnerved as the needle of the speedometer climbed toward the hundred mark, instead he was relieved that he’d come out to Utah. It was confirmation that his instincts hadn’t grown stale during the time he’d been buried under the Smithsonian Castle.

Something major was afoot out here.

And maybe not just out here.

He remembered the call from Kat, reporting on Seichan’s sudden appearance, coming to ground with a possible clue to the true leaders of the Guild. It was rare for any intelligence to leak out from the vaults of that organization. It would take something significant to get them to let their guard down.

Like this mysterious explosion.

He could be wrong, but Painter had little stomach for coincidences. And if he was right, he at least had one of his best men following those leads on the East Coast. Despite the late hour, he should be getting started.

That is, if the man could keep his focus.

Chapter 9

May 30, 11:48 P.M.

Washington, D.C.

Gray followed Seichan toward the massive pillared facade of the National Archives Building. It was a cold spring night, a last blast of winter’s chill before D.C.’s boggy, humid summer started. Only a few cars moved along the streets at this late hour.

Following Seichan’s sudden appearance at his apartment, Gray had donned black trousers, boots, and a long-sleeved Army T-shirt, along with a knee-length wool overcoat. Seichan seemed oblivious to the cold, leaving her motorcycle jacket open, exposing a thin crimson blouse, buttoned low enough to catch a glimpse of lace underneath. The leather pants hugged her curves, but there was no seduction to her manner. She moved with a hard-edged purpose to her step. Her eyes took in every stir of windblown branch. She was a piano wire stretched to the snapping point. Then again, she had to be to survive.

They headed for the Archives’ research entrance along Pennsylvania Avenue. The access here was rather nondescript compared with the public entry on the far side of the building with its giant bronze doors. That massive threshold led into the main rotunda of the Archives, a hall that displayed the original copies of the Declaration of Independence, the Constitution, and the Bill of Rights, all preserved in helium-filled glass enclosures.

But those documents were not why they’d come for this midnight visit. The building held over ten billion records covering the span of American history, cataloged and stockpiled in the nine hundred thousand square feet of storage space. If they were to find the document they sought, Gray knew he’d need help.

As they approached the entrance, the door swung open ahead of them. Gray tensed until a slim figure stepped forth and waved to them brusquely. His face was fixed in a hard scowl. Dr. Eric Heisman was one of the museum’s curators, specializing in Colonial American history.

“Your colleague is already inside,” the curator said as greeting.

The man’s hair was snowy white, worn long to the collar, with a trimmed goatee. As he held the door open for them, he fidgeted with a pair of reading glasses hanging from a chain around his neck. He clearly was not happy to be called from his home at this late hour. Summoned at the last minute, the curator was attired in a casual pair of jeans and a sweater.

Gray noted the emblem for the Washington Redskins—a profile of a feathered Native American warrior—sewn on the sweater. At the moment he found the symbol ironic, considering the subject matter he intended to broach. Dr. Heisman’s historical expertise concerned the relationship between the burgeoning American colonies and the indigenous people the colonists had found living in the New World. It was just such an expert Gray needed to further his investigation.

“If you’ll follow me,” Heisman said, “I’ve reserved a research room near the main stacks. My assistant will pull whatever records you need.” He glanced back at them as they crossed the entry hall. “This is quite unorthodox. Even clerks for the Supreme Court know better than to request records outside of regular hours. It would have been easier if you’d informed me about the specific matter that you required to be researched.”

The curator looked ready to chastise them some more, but his glance happened to settle on to Seichan’s face. Whatever he saw there silenced any further complaints. He swung swiftly away.

Gray looked at her. She met his gaze and lifted a single brow, her countenance innocent. As she turned away, he noted a small scar under her right ear, half hidden by a fall of black hair. He was sure it was new. Wherever her investigations into the Guild had taken her, it had plainly been a hard path.

Following the curator through a maze of halls, they ended up in a small room dominated by a conference table and lined with microfiche readers along one wall. Gray found two people already waiting there. One was a young college-aged woman with flawless ebony skin. She could have stepped out of the pages of a fashion magazine. The black pencil dress that hugged her figure only accentuated her appearance. Her perfectly made-up face suggested she hadn’t been lounging at home when she was suddenly called to work.

“My assistant, Sharyn Dupre. She’s fluent in five languages, but her native tongue is French.”

“Pleasure to meet you,” she said, her voice silkily deep, tinged with a slight Arabic accent.

Gray shook her hand. From Algeria, he surmised from her lilting accent. Though the North African country had shaken off the yoke of the French colonists in the early sixties, the language still persisted among its people.

“Sorry to keep you waiting,” Gray said.

“No trouble at all,” came a gruff response from the far side of the table. The other figure waiting for them was well known to Gray. Monk Kokkalis sat with his feet up on the table, dressed in sweats and a ball cap. His face shone brightly under the fluorescents. He cocked his head toward the slender assistant. “Especially considering the company at hand.”