James Rollins - THE DEVIL COLONY

"I'll stay here," Kai said. "Uncle Crowe wanted to speak to you alone."

"Then I'd best not keep him waiting."

Once he was gone, she quietly closed the door. She eyed the computer. She'd been reluctant to check her e-mail, afraid of what she'd find. But a gloomy curiosity drew her to the laptop. She couldn't turn her back forever on the havoc she'd caused. She'd have to deal with the consequences eventually-but for now, exposing herself to the world in this small way was enough.

Slipping into the seat that was still warm from the professor, she opened the laptop and stared at the glowing screen. It was now or never. She reached out a hand, opened a browser, and called up her Gmail account.

As she waited for the connection to be made, she held her breath. She had to sit on her hands to keep from reaching out and slamming the laptop closed. What would it hurt to shut out the world for a little bit longer? But before she could act on that thought, the screen filled with lines of unread e-mails. She scanned the list, reading the subject lines. There were a few bits of spam and a few notes dated from before the explosion, but near the top, one message caught her eye.

She went cold all over, her skin prickling, and blindly reached to the laptop, ready to close it, regretting even attempting this. The e-mail address was jh_wahya@cloudbridge.com. She recognized the personal e-mail address for WAHYA's founder, John Hawkes. She didn't even have to open the note to know its contents. The subject line made that clear enough. It was only three letters: WTF .

Knowing there was no avoiding it, she tentatively clicked on the message and opened it. As she read the note, a heavy stone settled in her gut. Her friends and compatriots at WAHYA were her entire world. They'd taken her in when she'd aged out of the foster care system and was left to fend for herself. They supported her both financially and emotionally, offering a bond of family that had been sorely missing since the death of her father.

It made the bitterness in the letter so hard to read.

From:jh_wahya@cloudbridge.com

Subject:WTF

To:Kai Quocheets "willow3tree@gmail.com"

What have you done? All of WAHYA placed so much at stake in your honorable and peaceful mission, only to see it come to ruin, bloodshed, and shame. Your face is splashed across all the national news media, labeled as a terrorist and a murderer. It will not be long until your shame becomes ours. Yet, still we have no word from you, only a resounding silence. Were you paid by the U.S. government to betray us, to frame us? That is what is being whispered about you here.

I've done my best to urge patience, to discourage rash judgments, but without some explanation, some proof of your loyalty to our continuing cause, I cannot hold back the wolves from the door much longer. They demand blood, while I only ask for answers.

The WAHYA council has met this past hour. Unless you can clear your name in our eyes, we have no choice but to deny you, to denounce your actions as a rogue agent, to expose you as a true terrorist who subverted our good cause. You have until noon today to respond before we call a press conference.

Kai closed the e-mail. Tears rose from deep inside. She pictured all of her friends, smiling, hugging her before she left for the mountains. She remembered lingering in the embrace of Chayton Shaw, one of the fiercest advocates in the youthful organization. Chay's name meant "falcon" in Sioux, a fitting name given his long black hair, loose to his shoulders, always seeming to lift with even the softest breeze. Two days ago-which seemed an eternity now-they had talked in the quiet of the night of becoming more than just friends.

She thought of him now, picturing him turning his back on her, shunning her. With a soft sob, she covered her face with her palms, hiding both her shame and her tears.

What am I going to do?

8:35 A.M.

Hank Kanosh sat at the table with his back to the hearth, appreciating the warmth of the last embers. Painter took a seat on the other side of the table. His large-boned partner snored softly from the couch.

From the circles under Painter's eyes, it looked like he could also use some sleep, but something was certainly troubling him. Hank suspected it didn't even relate to the matter at hand. The man was too slow to broach whatever subject he wanted to discuss, his manner distracted. Something else was going on. He'd been on the phone all morning. Maybe it had to do with the strange volcanic eruption, maybe another matter. All Hank knew: it had the man on edge.

Eventually Painter cleared his throat and folded his hands on the tabletop. "I'm going to be frank with you, and I hope you'll do the same. People have died, and more will, too, if we don't get a better understanding about what we're facing."

Hank bowed his head slightly. "Of course."

"I've spoken to our geologist, who's monitoring the volcanic activity at the blast site. We believe we have a rudimentary understanding of what was hidden in that cave. It involves the manipulation of matter at the nano-level. We also believe those ancient people created-whether deliberately or accidentally-an unstable compound, something active and explosive, that requires heat to keep it dormant. That's why it was hidden in a geothermal area, where it would be kept warm and safe for centuries."

A flare of guilt burned through Hank. "That is, until we removed it from that heat source."

"And it destabilized. In the wake of that explosion, it released what our geologist calls a nano-nest, a mass of nanobots, microscopic nanomachines that eat through matter, with the potential to spread outward indefinitely. But whether through luck or planning by these ancient people, the heat of the erupting volcano killed the nano-nest, stopping it."

Horrified, Hank closed his eyes for a moment. Maggie... what did we do? He spoke quietly. "That's why the old stories about the cave warned against trespassing there."

"And it may not be the only cave like that."

Hank opened his eyes and pinched his brows. "What are you talking about?"

"There may be another site in Iceland."

Iceland?

Painter went on to explain how neutrinos from the Utah blast may have lit the fuse on a potential second cache of this substance.

"The Iceland deposit is destabilizing as we speak," Painter finished. "We have other people in the field investigating it, but there's one key piece of this puzzle that we're missing."

Hank stared the man in the eye, waiting.

"We have some grasp as to what was hidden at these sites-but not who hid them. Who were these ancient people? Why did they appear Caucasian, yet wore Native American garb?"

Hank's mouth went dry. He had to break eye contact, staring down at his hands.

Painter pressed on: "You know something, Hank. I heard you arguing with Dr. Denton back at his lab. Such knowledge could be vital to fully understanding the danger we face."

Hank knew the man was right, but such answers trod a dangerous line between his blood heritage and his faith. He was reluctant to divulge what he suspected without further proof. Though maybe now he had that proof.

"It was just a theory," Hank said. "Matt may have been a physicist, but he was also a devout Mormon, like myself. Our discussion-Matt's conclusions-were fanciful, not worth mentioning at the time."

Painter cocked his head, fixing him with one eye. "But it is now."

"Your mention of Iceland does offer some support for Matt's theory."

"What theory?"

"To answer that, you have to understand a much-disputed section of the Book of Mormon. According to our scripture, Native Americans were said to be the descendants of a lost tribe of Israel, who came here after the fall of Jerusalem in roughly 600 BC."