James Rollins - THE DEVIL COLONY

He nodded appreciatively. "Well done, Ms. Quocheets. Going native Paiute on me, are you?" He bumped a fist against his chest. "Does a brave proud."

She pretended to swing her helmet at him.

He dodged back. "Okay, I surrender!" he said with a wolfish grin. "Back we go."

They took a more sedate pace for the return trip, sticking to the road, ambling along in no particular hurry, squeezing out every last moment together. At last they reached the circle of small pueblos. They sidled over to the shed, parked the vehicles, and climbed off.

As she took a step, her legs wobbled a bit, still vibrating from the ride. Jordan caught her arm, his fingers tightening much too hard. She turned, ready to shake him off, but his face had gone all tense.

He drew her back into the shadows of the shed.

"Something's not right here," he whispered, and pointed. "Look at all the fresh tire tracks."

Now that he'd pointed it out, she realized that the sandy dust was all cut up with multiple treads. But where were the vehicles? She suddenly was too aware of how silent it was, as if something were holding its breath.

"We need to get out of here..." he started.

But before they could take a step, they saw men in desert combat gear come sweeping out of the shadows behind the pueblos on the far side, spreading wide. Kai's heart climbed into her throat, choking her. She instantly knew that this assault was her fault, knew how the enemy had found her.

The e- mail...

Jordan tugged her around-only to find a monstrously tall blond figure, also dressed in khaki camouflage, standing before him. The man lashed out with a rifle, punching the butt into Jordan's face.

He dropped to his knees with a cry that sounded more surprised than pained.

"Jordan!"

The attacker turned and leveled his rifle at Kai's chest. His words were gruff, his manner frighteningly cold. "Come with me. Someone would like a word with you."

11:33 A.M.

Flagstaff, Arizona

Standing at the foot of the towering structure, Hank Kanosh appreciated its name. Wupatki. It certainly was a tall house .

The ruins of the ancient pueblo climbed three stories, constructed of flat slabs of red Moenkopi sandstone, quarried locally and mortared together. An amazing feat of engineering, it climbed high and spread outward into a hundred rooms. A part of the pueblo also included the remains of an old masonry ballpark and a large circular community room.

He imagined how all of this must have once looked. In his mind's eye, he put the thatched and beamed roof back in place. He rebuilt walls. He pictured corn, beans, and squash growing in the neighboring washes. He then populated the place with Indians from various tribes: Sinagua, Cohonina, and of course, the Anasazi. The different tribes were known to live in relative peace with one another.

Standing beside the ruins with Kawtch at his side, Hank stared at a view that had changed little from ancient times. Wupatki had been built on a small plateau overlooking a vast distance, revealing the breadth of the tabletop mesas that encompassed the high desert, the brilliant beauty of the Painted Desert to the east, and the snaking green path of the Little Colorado River.

It was a picturesque spot.

Still, a dark mood settled over him as he studied the dusty ruins. Why did these ancient people leave? Were they driven out, slaughtered? He pictured blood splashing the red walls, heard the screams of children and women. It was too much. He had to turn away.

Down at the foot of the ruins, Painter and his partner wandered near the community amphitheater. The group, led by Nancy Tso, had traveled the short distance from Sunset Crater National Park, but they were still waiting for the ranger to get permission for an overland hike. It was forbidden to stray from the public areas of the park here without guidance. The more remote ruins and monuments-close to three thousand of them-were considered too fragile, as was the desert's ecosystem, for sightseeing.

Once Nancy received permission, she would guide them herself to where she had seen the symbols Painter had shown her, the mark of the Tawtsee'untsaw Pootseev, the People of the Morning Star. Hank's blood pounded harder at the thought of them. Could they possibly be one of the lost tribes of Israel, as described in the Book of Mormon?

Impatient and done exploring, he hiked down to the others, drawing a sullen Kawtch along by his leash. He spotted Nancy Tso heading the same way from the visitors' center.

Reaching the group first, he found Kowalski amusing himself with one of the other unique features of the pueblo. He stood before what appeared to be a raised fire pit, newly constructed of mortared flagstone. But the square pit in the center was not meant to hold a fire.

The big man leaned over the opening. He had to hold on to the Stetson he'd bought for the hike to keep it from blowing off of his head. A stiff breeze blew up from below, coming out of the pit.

"It's cool," Kowalski sighed. "Like air-conditioning."

Painter stood by the information sign. "It's a blowhole."

Hank nodded. "It's the opening to a breathing cavern system. It's dependent on atmospheric pressure. When the day's hot as it is now, it exhales the cool air trapped below. In the winter, when it's cold, it inhales. It can get to blowing up to thirty miles per hour. Archaeologists believe this is one of the reasons the pueblo was established here. Blowholes, which were considered to be openings to the underworld, were held sacred by the ancient people, and as you mentioned, it doesn't hurt that it offers some natural air-conditioning in the summer."

Painter read from the posted sign. "Says here that back in 1962, excavations below found pottery, sandstone masonry, even petroglyphs down there."

Hank understood the interest he could see on Painter's face. On the drive here, Nancy Tso had told them where she'd seen the moon and star symbols drawn by Jordan's grandfather. They were part of some petroglyphs found deep in the desert, near one of the many unmarked pueblo ruins out there.

"It also says here," Painter continued, "that the size, depth, and complexity of the cavern system below have never been fully determined."

"That's not necessarily true," Nancy Tso said, interrupting. She crossed down the last of the path and joined them, noting their attention. "Newer studies that have been published within the last couple of years suggest the limestone cavern system under this plateau may be around seven billion cubic feet in size, stretching for miles underground."

Painter studied the blowhole. The opening was sealed with a locked grate. "So if someone wanted to hide something from prying eyes-"

Nancy sighed. "Don't start that again. I agreed to show you where I saw those symbols. That's all I'm going to do. Then you're all clearing out." She checked her watch. "Park closes at five o'clock. I plan on being out of here by then."

"So you got permission for us to explore?" Hank said.

She slapped some permit forms against her thigh. "It's a good two-hour hike."

Kowalski straightened and seated his Stetson more firmly on his head. "Why can't we just take that Cherokee of yours? It's got four-wheel-drive, doesn't it? We could be there in under ten minutes, shorter if I drive."

She looked aghast at the suggestion.

Painter did, too, but Hank suspected it was for a very different reason. Painter's partner had little regard for speed regulations-or common road courtesy, for that matter.

"Let's get some rules straight at the outset," Nancy said, and held up a finger. "First rule. LNT. Leave no trace. That means what you carry in you carry out. I've arranged for backpacks and water. It's all inventoried and will be checked when we return. Is that understood?"