James Rollins - THE DEVIL COLONY

Rafe checked his wristwatch. If the director was telling the truth, they had until 6:15 A.M. to find the lost city and neutralize the material that was hidden there.

"Send me what you have," Rafe said, and gave him an e-mail address.

"You have my number." Painter signed off.

Rafael lowered the phone, hanging his head in thought.

Do I believe you, Monsieur Crowe? Could you be telling the truth?

Rafe lifted his head enough to glance toward Kai Quocheets.

The director had never asked once about his niece. That, more than anything, spoke to his honesty. What did it matter if he negotiated for one life when the lives of all of mankind were at risk?

The phone rang again, making Rafe jump. He stared down at the mobile device in his hand, wired to the encrypting software. But that wasn't the source of the ringing. He turned to the dining room buffet, where his personal laptop and cell phone rested. He watched his phone vibrate and heard it ring again.

Leaning more heavily on his cane than he usually did, he stepped over and retrieved the device. His personal phone was meant only for direct communication with his family, along with a few of his associates at the research facilities back in the French Alps. But the caller ID simply listed the caller's name as blocked. That made no sense. His phone didn't accept blocked calls.

He was ready to dismiss the matter and not respond, but the phone was already in his hand and he needed something to distract himself with while he awaited the data from Painter Crowe.

Irritated, Rafe lifted the device to his ear. "Who is this?"

The voice was American, soft-spoken, nondescript, perhaps a hint of a Southern accent, but too faint for Rafe to tell anything more than that. The man told him his name.

Rafe's cane slipped from his hand and clattered to the marble floor. He reached back to the buffet to catch himself. He noted Ashanda rising, ready to come to his aid. He sternly shook his head at her.

The caller spoke calmly, distinctly, with no threat in his voice, only certainty. "We've heard the news. You'll cooperate with Sigma to the fullest extent. What is to come must be stopped for all our sakes. We have full confidence in your abilities."

"Je vous en prie," he said breathlessly, cringing to note that he'd slipped into French inadvertently.

"Once you've accomplished your goal, anyone outside your party who has knowledge of what is discovered must be destroyed. But be warned. Director Crowe has been underestimated in the past."

Rafe's gaze flicked to Kai. "I may have a way of neutralizing any threat he poses, but I will still be careful."

"With such brittle bones, I'm sure that is a trait you've honed well."

While this might be taken as a vague insult, the gentle amusement-even in such trying times-made it clear that the speaker's intent was nothing but good-natured.

"Adieu," the man said in French, equally accommodating. "I have matters I must address out east here."

The phone clicked off.

Rafe turned promptly to TJ, who was packing the last of the computer gear. "Raise Painter Crowe for me." To Bern, he said, "Have the men ready to leave in fifteen minutes."

"Where are we headed?" Bern asked. He wasn't prying; it was just a need-to-know inquiry to better prepare his team.

"To Yellowstone."

TJ interrupted. "Connection's ringing, sir."

Rafe took the phone, ready to make the deal.

He knew better than to disobey. The honor of the moment warmed through him, hardening his resolve, if not his bones. He was the first in his family to ever speak to a member of the True Bloodline.

June 1, 4:34 A.M.

Outside Nashville, Tennessee

It would soon be getting lighter.

Gray wasn't sure if this was a positive development. They'd barely made it out of Nashville, having to take surface streets and back roads, sticking to the speed limits. Monk had done the driving while Gray coordinated matters with Painter Crowe.

With one goal accomplished, the director had assigned him another: to attempt to narrow down the location of the Fourteenth Colony settlement by following the historical trail. They'd dogged Archard Fortescue's path to Iceland and back. Now they had to see if they could track the Frenchman's subsequent footsteps.

That meant they weren't the only ones who were getting no sleep.

"Calling this early is becoming a habit, Mr. Pierce," Eric Heisman said over the phone, but rather than irritated, he sounded excited.

Kat had arranged the call, passing it through the Sigma switchboard to scramble the connection.

"I've got you on speaker," Gray said. He needed everyone's input. Now was not the time to miss a critical insight or overlook an important detail. Gray wanted everybody's fingerprints all over this case.

Seichan sat up from the backseat, listening in.

Monk was driving slowly down Shelbyville Highway south of the city. At this hour, it was deserted, which allowed him to focus all of his attention on the call. Kat also listened in on the other end, from Sigma command.

Heisman filled them in where he'd left off in his scholarly investigations. "Sharyn and I pulled everything we could on the Lewis and Clark expedition and its relationship to Yellowstone. I also consulted with Professor Henry Kanosh just a few minutes ago. He saved me much time and effort by researching the Native American side of the equation."

Gray urged the man along, sensing the press of time. Kat had already informed him that Painter, along with a French team of Guild operatives, was already en route to Yellowstone, where the two groups would jointly work on the puzzle from ground zero. Not a good situation from any perspective. Gray was determined to help from afar in any way he could.

"And you found no evidence that Lewis and Clark's team ever entered Yellowstone?" Gray asked.

"No. But I find it odd, almost beyond comprehension, that they missed it. The expedition crossed to within only forty miles of the park. According to Professor Kanosh, the Native American tribes had been secretive about the geothermal valley, but the expedition had bushels of trinkets and coins to ply Indians for any information about unique natural features: plants, animals, geology. Someone would have eventually tipped their hand and talked about such an unusual valley."

"So you think they did find it?" Seichan asked from the backseat.

"If they did, they erased their tracks very well. So far the only evidence we do have to support such a claim is weak at best. We know all records of Archard Fortescue came to a halt after he left with the expedition led by Meriwether Lewis. We know Lewis was murdered a few years after returning. But that's a far cry from saying either of them found that lost Indian city, that heart of the Fourteenth Colony."

"Then let's work this backward," Gray suggested, turning the puzzle around in his head. "Let's start with the death of Meriwether Lewis. Let's assume the expedition did discover the truth and that Lewis's murder was somehow connected to the discovery. Can you tell us again about the manner of his death?"

"Well, he was struck down in October of 1809, at a wayside inn called Grinder's Stand in Tennessee, not far from Nashville."

Gray glanced to the others.

Nashville?

Monk mumbled, "Oh yeah, looks like we're still dogging after those guys. First to Iceland and now Tennessee."

Heisman didn't hear him and continued: "Again, there's no solid explanation for Lewis's death. Despite the double gunshot wounds-one to the gut, one to the head-his death was deemed a suicide. It remained the belief for centuries, until just recently. It's now widely accepted that Lewis was indeed murdered, whether as part of a robbery or an outright assassination or both."