The Devil Colony (Sigma Force 7)

Rafael Saint Germaine leaned on his cane, standing over a hole in the ground. She was pushed toward him from behind. He noted her approach.

“Ah, there you two are. Looks like we’re all in attendance now.”

A shape emerged from the hole, thick with black body armor and wearing a bulky helmet. Still, even without seeing his face, Kai knew it was the blond giant named Bern. When he did look up, she saw that his face was streaming with sweat, which dripped from his eyelashes and off his nose.

“Sir,” he said to Rafael, “we’ve got the ambush site locked down. We just need the bait.”

His gray-green eyes flicked toward Kai.

“Très bien, Bern. Then we’re ready. We’ll take them both down. No reason not to play all of our cards.”

Kai turned to Jordan. He had been staring to the side—toward a shape half covered in a tarp, booted legs sticking out. She again pictured the rifle shot that had taken out the park ranger and began to shake. Jordan turned, noting the focus of her attention, and stepped to block her view. He put his other arm around her and held her.

Impatient, Bern reached to rip them apart, but Jordan knocked his arm aside. Surprisingly, he was successful.

“We can move on our own,” Jordan said coldly, and helped Kai along.

They both knew where they were headed.

Down that black hole.

But what fate awaited them below?

6:22 P.M.

Alone, Painter climbed up the remaining length of the passageway toward the cavern that contained the boiling mud fountain. He’d left Hank down below at the Anasazi tomb. Kowalski had Painter’s pistol in hand and had taken up position behind an ice-encrusted rock fall a few yards behind him.

Painter’s mind ran through various scenarios, doing his best to anticipate every eventuality, to think a dozen steps ahead of his opponent. He advanced unarmed. What was the use of a weapon? He and the others didn’t have enough firepower to lay down a barrage and storm their way out of this hole without getting killed. Instead, he needed to be smart.

He reached the end of the tunnel and stepped into the sulfurous, sweltering cavern. Again a mix of awe and gut-wrenching terror struck him as he viewed the surge of bubbling and roiling mud that flowed down the wall and across the cavern. The heat seemed worse than before, but maybe that was because of the chill of the tomb below.

Steeling himself for what was to come, he stepped out of the tunnel and into the open. Beyond the bridge, a spread of lamps revealed a tight knot of soldiers gathered on the far side. They weren’t trying to hide themselves. The enemy must have guessed that the fleeing dog had alerted their quarry.

Figures rose out of the rubble of dark boulders to either side of him, with rifles mounted at their shoulders. Painter held up his arms, palms open, showing he had no weapon, and continued forward. All he had on his person was his backpack with his flashlight secured to it. He hadn’t wanted anything in his hands to be mistaken for a weapon.

One of the soldiers attempted to enter the black tunnel behind him, to go after the others. The pop of a pistol discouraged him.

“I have a man at a bottleneck down the passageway!” Painter called out without turning. “He’s got plenty of ammunition and can pick you off one at a time. Stay back. I know what you want! We can settle this quickly!”

Painter continued forward, step by step, heading toward the bridge.

Across the way, a thin man broke from the knot of soldiers and moved toward the bridge, too.

One of the mercenaries accompanied the man forward. Painter recognized the commando who’d shot Professor Denton back at the university lab. He pictured the blood on the dog leash. It was smeared on his pants where he’d wiped his hands. That was another death he knew he could lay at that soldier’s feet.

I’m sorry, Nancy . . . I should never have involved you.

Darkness narrowed his vision as he studied the helmeted giant.

But now is not the time for revenge.

That was clear enough. The commando was dragging a young man behind him, all trussed up and gagged. It was Jordan Appawora. Painter was not overly surprised to see the young man here. He’d already worked out in his head that someone had to tip off the Guild team to his location in Arizona. That left few choices.

Outnumbered, he had to get their attention and gain some control.

“I’m not going for a weapon,” Painter called out, and slowly reached to the open side pouch in his pack. With one hand, he carefully extracted the two gold tablets and held them aloft. “I believe this is what you came after, yes?”

From across the bridge, the thin man eyed Painter suspiciously, clearly struggling to figure out what angle was being played here. After a long breath, he simply relaxed with a shrug, perhaps deciding he still had the upper hand.

“Monsieur Crowe, my name is Rafael Saint Germaine.” His accent was French, cultivated, with just a touch of a Provençal lilt, placing his origins somewhere in the south of France. He pointed a cane. His arm shook with a very fine tremor, which continued down the length of the cane. The palsy was unusual for someone so young, likely something he’d been born with, made worse by the climb down here and the heat. “I believe I will take those from you.”

“Of course,” Painter said. “But you can have them freely. As a sign of good faith.”

Still, a soldier stalked up from behind and tore them from his grip.

The Frenchman motioned for the soldier to hurry over, but his focus never left Painter. Despite the air of frailty about the man, a dark cunning shone from his eyes. Painter dared not underestimate him. A hunted animal was most dangerous when it was wounded, and this man had been wounded since birth. Yet, despite that, he’d survived amid a group that tolerated no weakness—and not only survived, but thrived.

Rafael examined the plates. “Such generosity is most confusing. If I may be blunt, I expected more resistance. What is to stop me from killing you right now?”

Weapons were cocked behind him.

Painter took another step forward, stopping at the edge of the bridge. He wanted to make sure this man understood.

“Because,” he said, “that was a sign of my cooperation. Because what we found down below makes the worth of those two plates pale in comparison.”

The man cocked his head, turning his full attention to Painter.

Good.

“May I?” Painter asked, reaching to the open pouch on the other side of his pack.

“Be my guest.”

Reaching inside, Painter removed the sculpted top of the gold jar they’d found. He held up the wolf’s-head totem.