She stared out the window. What did she have to do to prove herself to him? Dying might do it. Then again, maybe not.
She heard Monk talking in low whispers to the caretaker. He’d used smelling salts to revive the man enough to get him on his feet. Once free of the chair, the tough old codger rallied. Swearing a litany that came close to making her blush, he pulled a shotgun down from above the fireplace, ready to exact some revenge.
Gray’s voice grew sharper as he spoke on the phone to Sigma command. “Forty minutes? That’s how long we have to get clear of the island?”
Frowning, she stared out the window. What was that about? Any answer would have to wait. She watched the soldiers begin to move, shifting out of hiding. They must have received their orders. Whatever fate awaited them—capture or death—it had been decided.
Seichan lifted her pistol. “Here they come!”
Chapter 19
May 31, 8:34 A.M.
San Rafael Swell
Utah
Kai crept into the small guest bedroom at the rear of the pueblo. She found Hank Kanosh crouched over an open laptop, but he wasn’t staring at the screen. He sat with his palms over his face, his posture one of grief. She felt horrible for intruding, considered stepping back out, but her uncle had sent her here.
“Professor Kanosh . . .”
He jerked in the seat, startled, and quickly lowered his hands. He stared at his palms as if he was surprised to find them there.
“I’m sorry for disturbing you,” she said.
He reached and closed the laptop. She caught a glimpse of an open e-mail, something with strange writing inscribed in the body of the text, very much like the script she had seen on the gold tablets. He had obviously been trying to work, to keep himself busy.
Painter had allowed them access to the Internet, scrambled over an encrypted satellite feed. They could check their e-mail, peruse the news, but they were forbidden to reach out. No sending e-mail, no Facebooking. Though the prohibition on the latter of those two was directed more at her than the professor.
Kanosh took a deep, shuddering breath, collecting himself. “What is it, Kai?”
“Uncle Crowe asked if you’d join him in the main room. There’s something he wanted to talk to you about before the others arrived.”
He nodded and stood. “It’s always something with your uncle, isn’t it?”
She offered him a small smile. He squeezed her shoulder as he passed. She flinched from his touch, betraying her nervousness.
“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 [email protected]
/* */. 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: [email protected]
/* */
Subject: WTF
To: Kai Quocheets <[email protected]
/* */>
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.
JH
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.