The Devil Colony (Sigma Force 7)

Before Hank could answer, Kawtch let out a low growl of warning. His nose was still in the air, sniffing. They both turned to the northeast, to where Kawtch’s nose was pointing. The skies, lighter now, revealed a churning black smudge at the horizon, like thunderclouds stacking up toward a gully-washing storm.

“Smoke,” he mumbled.

And a lot of it.

“A forest fire?” Kai asked.

“I don’t think so.” His heart thudded with a growing sense of dread. “We should head back down.”

6:38 A.M.

Provo, Utah

Rafael Saint Germaine sat enjoying a tiny porcelain cup of espresso in the mansion’s massive and extravagant kitchen. The absurdity of the room amused him. What the Americans considered to be the epitome of class struck him as ridiculous, living in homes of cheap modern construction, decorated to evoke faux–Old World charm. His family’s château in Carcassonne dated back to the sixteenth century, surrounded by fortified walls atop which battles had been fought that changed the course of Western civilization.

That was the true mark of aristocracy.

He stared out the kitchen windows and across the sprawling lawns to the helicopter as a crew prepped it for departure. Across the table were reams of biographical data. He’d read them with his breakfast and saw no need to peruse them again. He could recite most of the details by rote.

On the top of the stack rested the photograph of the man who had thwarted his actions at the university last night. It had taken only a short time to put a name to the face. It ended up being someone well known to his organization. If the photo hadn’t been so grainy and shadowy, he wouldn’t have needed the facial-recognition software to identify him.

He whispered the name of his adversary, “Painter Crowe.” The director of Sigma. He shook his head—both dismayed and amused—and stared down at the photo. “What are you doing out of your hole in D.C.?”

Rafe had not anticipated that Sigma would be so quick to respond to the events that had occurred here. It was an underestimation he intended not to repeat. But such a miscalculation was not entirely his fault. It had taken much longer to connect the pieces together. Their target—the lithe thief with such sticky fingers—was indirectly related to Crowe, sharing the same tribal clan. She must have called upon family ties to enlist his aid.

It was an interesting development. He spent the rest of the night, except for a short nap, incorporating this new variable into his equations and running various permutations through his head. How best to play this out? How to turn this to his advantage?

It had taken until this morning to tease out a solution.

Footsteps echoed from the hallway, passing through the butler’s pantry to reach him. “Sir. We’re ready to depart.”

“Merci, Bern.” Rafe tapped his Patek Philippe wristwatch. The timepiece included a tourbillon movement, the French word for “whirlwind.” That’s what they needed to be this morning. “We’re running late.”

“Yes, sir. We’ll make up time in the air.”

“Very well.”

Rafe took one last sip of his espresso. He pursed his lips at the taste. It had gone lukewarm, bringing out a sharp bitterness. It was a shame, as the discovery of the coffee beans here, an expensive import from Panama, had been a pleasant surprise. He had to give the owners of this monstrosity some points for taste, if only for their beans.

He stood up, feeling generous.

“Is Ashanda still with the boy?” he asked Bern.

“They’re in the library.”

This elicited a smile. Without a tongue, she certainly wasn’t reading the child a story.

“What do you want me to do with the boy after you leave?” Bern’s manner stiffened, perhaps knowing what the answer must be.

Rafe waved an arm dismissively. “Leave him here. Unharmed.”

Bern’s brows lifted ever so slightly. For the stoic man, it was the equivalent of a gasp of surprise.

Rafe turned away. Sometimes it was good to act unpredictably, to keep your subordinates on their toes. Using his cane, he crossed through the house to collect Ashanda. The library was a two-story affair, filled with leather-bound books that were likely never read, only showcased as ostentatiously as everything else in the home.

He found Ashanda seated in a plush wingback chair. The child was asleep in her arms as she gently brushed her long, impossibly strong fingers through his blond curls. She hummed tunelessly deep in her chest. It was a comforting sound to Rafe, as familiar as his mother’s voice. He smiled, drawn momentarily into the past, to happy summer nights, sleeping on the balcony under the stars, warmed by the presence of Ashanda next to him in a nest of blankets. He’d often heard her hum like that, holding him as he recovered from some break in his brittle bones. It was a balm that soothed most aches, even the grief of a child.

He hated to disturb her, but they had a schedule. “Ashanda, ma grande, we must depart.”

She bowed her head, acknowledging the command. She rose smoothly, turned, and gently placed the boy onto the warm cushion, curling him into place. Only then did Rafe notice the bruising around the boy’s thin throat, the odd canting of his neck. He had not been asleep after all.

She crossed to Rafe and offered him her arm. He took it, squeezing her forearm in sympathy. She had known what must be done, known what he would have normally ordered. She had acted as much for his benefit as the child’s, granting the boy a swift and painless end. He did not have the heart to tell her it wasn’t necessary—at least, not this one time.

He felt bad.

Am I truly that predictable?

He would have to prepare against that, especially today. He had been informed about the volcanic eruption in the mountains, confirming what was long suspected. Things had to move fast now. He checked his watch, noting the spin of the tourbillon.

Like a whirlwind, he reminded himself.

He could waste no time. They had to flush out the birds that had escaped his grasp last night, to pick up their trail again. It had taken most of the night to puzzle out a solution, one played out in the wild every day.

To bring down a frightened bird, it often took a hawk.

7:02 A.M.

San Rafael Swell

“How many dead?” Painter asked, the satellite phone pressed against his ear.

He paced the length of the central room of the largest pueblo. Embers glowed in the fire-blackened cooking hearth, accompanied by the bitter scent of burned coffee. Kowalski sat on a pine-log sofa, his legs up on a burl-wood table, his chin resting on his chest, dead tired after the long drive.