Then her mouth was full of water.
Out of breath from her yell, she choked as her body was flung around. Slick rocks battered her. Ice-cold water swamped her nose. Then her head was above water again. She coughed and cried. Arms scooped her and pulled her toward shore. She tried to scramble out of the river, but strong hands yanked her back into the water.
“Stay here,” Professor Kanosh hissed. He looked half drowned, his gray hair plastered to his skull. His dog climbed onto a boulder, still standing belly-deep in the stream.
“Why?” she asked, her teeth already beginning to chatter, both from the cold and the terror.
He pointed up.
She searched and spotted the helicopter vanishing over a ridgeline to the west.
“Body heat,” the professor explained. “It was how they were tracking us so well through the woods, why we couldn’t escape. Hopefully they’ll chase Mariah’s big sweating rump deep into the woods. ”
Kai understood. “And the cold water here… it helped hide us.”
“A bit of sleight of hand. What sort of Indians would we be if we couldn’t outfox a hunter in the woods?”
Despite the terror of their situation, his eyes smiled. She felt warmer for it.
“Let’s go,” he said, and helped haul her out of the frigid stream.
His dog clambered out after them and shook his coat, spraying water, as if nothing had happened.
Kai tried to do the same herself, shaking her hair, then her jacket, seeking to shed as much of the chill from her body as she could. One of the gold plates fell out of her jacket and struck the ground. Professor Kanosh’s eyes fixed to the plate, but he made no move to take the burden from her. So she retrieved it and returned it alongside the other in her jacket.
Professor Kanosh pointed downhill. “We need to keep moving, keep warm.”
“Where can we go?” she asked, her teeth still chattering.
“First, as far from here as possible. That trick will fool those hunters only until Mariah breaks free of the forest. Once they see her saddle’s empty, they’ll come backtracking, and we want to be long gone.”
“Then what?”
“Back to civilization. Look for help. Get ourselves surrounded by people on our side.”
He headed down the mountain, following a thin deer trail, but she read the worry in his face. She also remembered the call he had interrupted when he found her. Uncle Crowe was some bigwig in Washington, something to do with national security. He was not actually a close relative, but a half uncle on her father’s side — whatever that meant. She had met him only a handful of times, last at her father’s funeral. But all of the Pequot tribe was an extended family. The entire clan was a tangle of bloodlines and family relationships. She had a thousand aunties and uncles. But everyone knew if you were in big trouble, a call to Uncle Crowe could help smooth feathers.
“I know someone who might help us,” she said.
As she walked, she reached into her pants pocket and removed her cell phone. Water dripped from it after the dunk in the stream. It wouldn’t power up. She scowled and shoved it away. She doubted she could’ve gotten a signal anyway. She’d been lucky earlier to get a single bar when higher up the mountain.
Professor Kanosh noted her efforts. “Okay, then the first order of business is to reach a phone before the hunters regain the scent of our trail. Even if it means turning ourselves over to the state police or the National Guard.”
She tripped a step. “But those were the ones who were trying to kill us.”
“No. I got a look at their uniforms. They were certainly soldiers, but not with any National Guard unit.”
“Then who?”
“Maybe it’s still the government, or maybe a mercenary group looking to cash in on some bounty. Either way, I know only one thing for sure.”
“What’s that?”
His next words chilled her more than the dip in the icy stream. “Whoever they are, they want you dead.”
Chapter 8
“Did she at least leave a number?” Painter asked as he climbed into the passenger seat of a Chevy Tahoe with government plates. It sat on the tarmac near the private Gulfstream jet they’d flown from D.C.
Kowalski already sat behind the wheel, cranking the seat back to accommodate his large frame. Their third teammate, Chin, had transferred to a National Guard helicopter heading up to the blast site in the Rocky Mountains — but before Painter could direct his full attention to the anomalous explosion, he had another matter to address.
Kat’s voice sounded tinny over the encrypted line. “That’s all I could get out of your niece. But she sounded scared. And paranoid. She called from a disposable cell phone. But she did leave the cell’s number and asked for you to call her immediately after you landed.”
“Give me the number.”
She did, but she had more news. “Commander Pierce also reported in.” From the grimness of her tone, it didn’t sound like good news. “He’s with Seichan.”
Painter’s fingers tightened on the phone. “She’s back in the U.S.?”
“Seems so.”
Painter closed his eyes for a breath. He’d had no inkling that Seichan was back on American soil. But with her training and connections, he shouldn’t have been surprised. Still, her sudden resurfacing suggested something major was afoot. “What’s wrong?”
“She claims to have a lead on Echelon.”
“What sort of lead?” He sat straighter in his seat as Kowalski kept the SUV idling. Echelon was the code name for the leaders of the shadowy terrorist organization called the Guild. He began to regret leaving D.C.
“Gray didn’t elaborate. Only said that she needed his help to gain access to the National Archives. They’re meeting with a museum curator this evening.”
Painter scrunched his brow. Why was Seichan sniffing around the National Archives? The museum was a storehouse of America’s historical manuscripts and documents. What could any of its contents have to do with the Guild? He checked his watch. It was half past nine, which meant it was after midnight in D.C. Late to be meeting with museum personnel.
“Gray said he’d call back if there was any breakthrough. I’ll keep you informed.”
“Do that. I’ll see if I can’t clear up this matter with my niece, then return to D.C. in the morning. Till then, keep holding down the fort.”
Kat signed off, and Painter tapped in the phone number he’d memorized. It was answered on the first ring by a rushed voice.
“Uncle Crowe?”
“Kai, where are you?”
A silent moment stretched. He heard a gruff voice in the background, urging her to answer.
Still, her words came haltingly, balanced between tears and terror. “I’m… we’re in Provo. On the campus of Brigham Young University. At the offices of Professor Henry Kanosh.”
Painter squinted his eyes. Why did that name sound familiar? Then he remembered a report he’d read while en route from D.C. to Salt Lake City, a preliminary debriefing of the events up in the mountains. The professor had been a close associate of the anthropologist killed by the blast.
She gave him an office address, still sounding terrified.
He did his best to reassure her. “I can be in Provo in an hour.” Painter waved for Kowalski to head out of the airport. “Stay put until I get there.”
A new speaker replaced Kai on the phone. “Mr. Crowe, this is Hank Kanosh. You don’t know me.”
“You were a colleague of Margaret Grantham. You were at the site during the explosion.” Painter shifted his briefcase up from the floorboard to his lap. He had a preliminary file on the man, along with files on many others who had witnessed the blast.