Shasta- A Dane Maddock Adventure: Dane Maddock Universe, #9

By David Wood and C.B. Matson

What waits beneath the mountain?

When an old enemy abducts their friend, it's up to former Navy SEALs turned treasure hunters Dane Maddock and Bones Bonebrake to find him. With the clock ticking and powerful forces standing in their way, can Maddock and Bones unlock the secrets of ancient Lemuria and stop Pym Industries before it's too late!? SHASTA is most action-packed Dane Maddock adventure yet!

"Classic adventure for the modern reader."

Praise for David Wood and The Dane Maddock Adventures!

 "Dane and Bones.... Together they're unstoppable. Rip roaring action from start to finish. Wit and humor throughout. Just one question - how soon until the next one? Because I can't wait." Graham Brown, author of Shadows of the Midnight Sun

"What an adventure! A great read that provides lots of action, and thoughtful insight as well, into strange realms that are sometimes best left unexplored."  Paul Kemprecos, author of Cool Blue Tomb and the NUMA Files

"A page-turning yarn blending high action, Biblical speculation, ancient secrets, and nasty creatures. Indiana Jones better watch his back!"  Jeremy Robinson, author of SecondWorld

"With the thoroughly enjoyable way Mr. Wood has mixed speculative history with our modern day pursuit of truth, he has created a story that thrills and makes one think beyond the boundaries of mere fiction and enter the world of 'why not'?"  David Lynn Golemon, Author of the Event Group series

"A twisty tale of adventure and intrigue that never lets up and never lets go!"  Robert Masello, author of The Einstein Prophecy

"Let there be no confusion: David Wood is the next Clive Cussler. Once you start reading, you won't be able to stop until the last mystery plays out in the final line." Edward G. Talbot, author of 2012: The Fifth World

"I like my thrillers with lots of explosions, global locations and a mystery where I learn something new. Wood delivers! Recommended as a fast paced, kick ass read." J.F. Penn, author of Desecration

"An adrenaline-fueled thrill ride!" Alan Baxter, author of Hidden City

"David Wood has done it again. Within seconds of opening the book, I was hooked. Intrigue, suspense,monsters, and treasure hunters. What more could you want? David's knocked it out of the park with this one!" Nick Thacker- author of The Enigma Strain

• Language: English
• Publisher: Adrenaline Press
• Release date: Feb 25, 2020
• ISBN: 9781393352075

David Wood

David A. Wood has more than forty years of international gas, oil, and broader energy experience since gaining his Ph.D. in geosciences from Imperial College London in the 1970s. His expertise covers multiple fields including subsurface geoscience and engineering relating to oil and gas exploration and production, energy supply chain technologies, and efficiencies. For the past two decades, David has worked as an independent international consultant, researcher, training provider, and expert witness. He has published an extensive body of work on geoscience, engineering, energy, and machine learning topics. He currently consults and conducts research on a variety of technical and commercial aspects of energy and environmental issues through his consultancy, DWA Energy Limited. He has extensive editorial experience as a founding editor of Elsevier’s Journal of Natural Gas Science & Engineering in 2008/9 then serving as Editor-in-Chief from 2013 to 2016. He is currently Co-Editor-in-Chief of Advances in Geo-Energy Research.

Book preview

PROLOGUE

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Nahonka had watched Major Dickson’s horse grow weaker over the past few months. Now it refused to eat, standing in the pasture, staring at the surrounding mountains, and shivering in the evening mist. The last surviving member of his tribe, Nahonka knew that his own fate was linked to that of the dying warhorse.

The Major, fresh from the Mexican War, had railed against his posting to the tiny mining camp of Chilcoot Creek and raged against all of its inhabitants. However, he saved his bitterest vitriol for young Nahonka. Every morning, he would summon the boy to his office and lift a coil of rope from beneath his desk.

You take care of my horse, boy. That is your only job. The day my horse dies, you’ll swing from the nearest tree.

Nahonka brushed the aging animal as the shadows lengthened and the smoke of a hundred cook fires rose in a gray haze across the valley below. He didn’t want to die. Yet every day as the horse weakened, he felt a bit of his own spirit slip into the darkness. Every day the proud old creature refused to eat, Nahonka took no meals himself.

Now, as the sun slid toward the western horizon, he felt the rift between his world and the spirit world begin to open. Shadows of his ancestors flitted between the trees and tall spindly creatures lurked just beyond his field of vision. Stepping from the tales his grandmother told, the guardians of Y′et, the dwellers beneath the Mountain, walked openly upon the earth. Portents of change, young Nahonka read them as omens of his death.

The old warhorse whickered, flicked his ears, and raised his head. Nahonka spun about and found himself facing a young woman. Clad in buckskin and woven leaves, she could have been sixteen, she could have been sixty.

The woman cocked her head to one side and asked, Why do you wish to die, Nahonka?

Beautiful and terrifying, the woman rendered him speechless. She waited unmoving while he stammered for words.

Who... how is it you know me?

I knew you in your mother’s womb. I have known you since the winds first swept snow down from the sacred mountain. You are Nahonka, Watcher of the People, guardian of tradition.

I am none of those. I am a slave of my father’s murderer and tomorrow I will die by his hand as well.

You have a horse. Ride him tonight and live tomorrow.

I have nowhere to go.

You have people of your own. Follow me and I will take you to them.

On a stolen saddle, with a stolen hackamore, Nahonka rode a stolen horse into the hills above Chilcoot Creek. As if in a dream, he followed the woman gliding between the trees. Sometimes she seemed to walk, a spirit of the woods, and sometimes it seemed to Nahonka that she rode a snow-white elk that climbed among the rocks and scree with all the delicacy of a yearling fawn.

As for his own mount, the dying horse had found some inner reserves and climbed the hillside with stoic determination. Among the pine shadows and out in the open moonlight Nahonka rode, oblivious to all but the flitting shape of the mysterious woman and her ghostly band of spirits. He’d lost sight of Chilcoot Creek by the time the moon rose high enough to shine above the surrounding hills.

Nahonka had no idea where he was being led. He didn’t care. Death would come just as surely for stealing a horse as it would for allowing one to die. That night passed to the creaking of his saddle and the lonely cries of night birds in the forest.

As the sky lightened in the west, he and his phantom entourage crested a long ridge. Nahonka dismounted and walked the last few yards. Below him, the Sacramento River poured through its dark canyon. A scattering of gray and salmon-pink clouds floated in the turquoise sky, and as the mist cleared, Mount Shasta glittered pure and white in the new day’s sun.

The mysterious woman appeared at his side, herself a thing of mist and clouds. We must go, Nahonka. We traveled slowly in the dark, but now the men have found your trail and they follow behind us with murder in their hearts.

Nahonka led his aging mount down the east face of the ridge.

You knew my name but tell me, by what name should I call you?

I am Killeli, keeper of the Fires.

Nahonka walked along in silent contemplation. He’d heard the name uttered in his grandfather’s lodge. A woman from out of the dawn of days, she was the bringer of chaos, the mother of hard winters. Killeli walked with him as he descended into the shadows until the old warhorse began to fidget. Ride now my child. Your enemies are close by and you still face a perilous river crossing before you reach the land of your ancestors.

Nahonka glanced back. Five riders crested the ridge less than a mile behind. He swung into the saddle and coaxed his horse into a gallop that risked disaster for both rider and mount. Grinning, the strange woman clung to her snowy elk and matched his pace stride for stride.

Crashing through the brush, the old stallion soldiered on. He cleared fallen logs and scrambled down the crumbling slope like a deer flees the wolf. Nahonka no longer tried to guide the animal, but simply clung to its back and prayed for a painless death.

They hadn’t descended far when the first shot smacked into a tree a short distance away. Its report echoed back from the river canyon, a ghostly salvo from below. Nahonka allowed the horse to run, disregarding the other shots that spun sizzling of the rocks around him.

Closer, he could hear the river grumbling over its falls, and behind, the clatter of shod hooves on loose rock. Two more shots. The first burned through his left arm and the second caught his horse in the flank. The animal screamed and stumbled. Another shot through its neck dropped rider and mount, all tumbling bodies, flying limbs, and hard stones.

Somehow, Nahonka regained his feet and ran. The shots ceased as he headed for the canyon edge. His pursuers had fanned out. He knew they wanted him alive, to prolong the torment, to drag him back beaten and humiliated for their master, Major Dickson.

Gasping, stumbling, he reached the canyon rim. Looking down, Nahonka saw nothing but a black mass of churning water. Above him, five men descended with slow deliberation.

Killeli stepped to his side. You must choose now. Jump and trust the river or stay and die at the end of a rope.

Clambering over stones and logs his pursuers closed around Nahonka. One raised his pistol, aimed and fired. The shot struck Killeli in the abdomen. She doubled over and tumbled into the water below. Nahonka glanced back, then leapt into the void after her.

The clench in his stomach as he watched the sky recede above him, the cold impact of the river on his back, they mattered nothing compared to seeing Killeli take that bullet. Nahonka burst to the surface, gasping for air. He was answered by a volley of shots that peppered the churning water. Diving deep, he let the current carry him downstream until his lungs burned for breath. Once more at the surface he became target of another volley. A numbness in his leg told Nahonka that he’d been hit again. Lifted to the crest of a steep wave, he felt rather than heard the deep thunder of water. A glimpse of white chaos, then he flew over the cataract.

Reeds and gravel beneath his chest, Nahonka retched and vomited a fountain of water and yellow bile. No shots echoed down the canyon. No bullets scattered stones about his feet. Shivering, he dragged himself to the riverbank where the first rays of sun crawled across the canyon wall.

Nearby, spinning slowly in an eddy, Killeli floated face down. Nahonka dragged her cold body to the shore, so real now that they had crossed the river. He touched her cheek. He felt her wet hair against his arm. Somehow, he knew he had reached his destination. Nahonka now stood in the land of Killeli, the land of his People at the foot of the great Mountain.

Dragging his injured leg, he laid her body on a pyre of splintered logs and river-washed branches. As Nahonka arrayed her arms and shut her sightless eyes, he noticed a jade green stone knife suspended from a chord about her neck. Holding it up in the morning sun, he heard the sound of a thousand voices. Chanting, lamenting, they called out in a language he barely remembered.

Down a narrow path, a line of People waited for him. Living People, his People, not ghosts, they approached bearing torches and beating drums. As the smoke of Killeli’s flaming pyre reached up its arms to greet the morning sun, a tall spindly figure approached Nahonka. It took the stone knife from his hands and hung it about his neck.

Welcome home, child. You are now our Watcher. Watch carefully, for someday, you will herald the new dawn when the Killeli returns to her Mountain.

1

At the foot of a broad ramp guarded by eight stone rams, Dane Maddock stopped and gazed up into the massive atrium. Sixteen tall columns supported a rectangular stone lintel. Primitive, almost cyclopean, the adjoining structure rose from the surrounding vegetation, an angular limestone block glowing in the afternoon sun.

Maddock, as he was known to his friends, wiped a bead of perspiration from his forehead and turned to the tall Cherokee standing at his side.

Three thousand miles, and here we are at last.

Uriah Bones Bonebrake looked up from a scrap of paper he held. Papyriform columns, definitely Old Kingdom, Egypt. But look at those vertical walls, and cornice work, Roman influence from two millennia later.

You’ve been reading again. I told you not to do that.

Screw you, Maddock. Don’t make me smite you with a plague of frogs.

Just then, a smiling young woman in a colorful Egyptian dress walked up and said, Welcome to the Rosicrucian Museum. Would you like a brochure? Her name tag read Deana.

Bones grinned at her. I certainly would. I’ll take your number, too.

The young woman arched an eyebrow.

A brochure would be great, Maddock said.

She handed Bones a folded glossy sheet before hurrying over to a group of Japanese tourists. His eyes followed her a moment, then he shoot his head.

Nice going, Maddock. You scared another one off.

Yeah, we’re on a mission. I don’t want to get kicked out before we can even make contact with Sally. She was supposed to meet us here.

Bones climbed to the top of the ramp and looked out over the museum grounds. Yeah, Sally. She probably got distracted. I mean, craft beer, mac and cheese, along with a bit of you-know-who.

Or she’s waiting for us inside. So, what do we know about this place?

Bones held a finger in the air and read aloud.

The Ancient and Mystical Order Rosæ Crucis was established in the United States in 1909, being the true and proper heirs to the ancient Egyptian philosophy of The Primordial Tradition. Since the time of Sir Francis Bacon...

Maddock grimaced. Not that. I mean here, in the heart of Silicon Valley, their headquarters and museum. Does the brochure say anything about... Maddock glanced back at the woman and lowered his voice, ...about the key?

Bones held out the brochure and pointed to an ancient key decorating the second page. You mean this one?

Nah, Maddock shook his head, it can’t be that simple.

Bones crossed the atrium and pushed through a gigantic pair of gilded metal doors. Maybe it is. Sally said we needed to come here to find the key.

Sally, Maddock thought. Five-foot, two inches of headache. She’d been Bones’ problem for a while, then the two of them managed to rope everyone else into the kerfuffle. By the time they’d escaped from Maug Island, she’d attached herself to Corey Dean. A year later, she’d dumped him for Willis. And now Willis had dropped off the radar. Maddock shook off his reverie as he stepped into the museum.

Bones had paused just beyond the doors and stood gaping at an enormous golden sarcophagus. That can’t be real.

It’s a reproduction, a small voice answered from behind.

Maddock turned to see that the young woman had followed them inside. He noticed that in addition to the white robe, she wore a traditional wig of stranded beads and the iconic eye makeup of ancient Egypt.

She smiled up at Bones and shrugged. I ran out of brochures.

Bones grinned back at her. And you’re here to give us a private tour.

I don’t know much, I’m what they call a Neophyte, a newbie—my name is Deana. She blushed and held out a hand.

Bones took it and made a slight nod. I’m Bones, this is Maddock.

Maddock, Maddock... oh, no. I was supposed to give you a message when you arrived. She began patting herself. It’s here somewhere.

Bones smirked. Can I help you look?

What? No absolutely not. Oh, you’re kidding, aren’t you? Not funny. She reached behind her back and unclipped a small mobile phone case. Here it is.

Deana’s slender fingers tapped around on the screen before she handed the phone to Maddock.

Who is this Letson guy anyway, and how does he know me?

A friend of ours. That explains a lot. Among other things, Jimmy was a hacker—one of the best in the business.

What does it say? Bones leaned closer.

Looks like Sally isn’t coming. She wants to meet us in San Francisco. Jimmy’s arranged transportation.

What? Right now? Bones made a grab for the phone. Let me see that.

Maddock pulled back. No, you’ll break it. He held the screen up for Bones to read.

No way. We’re flying up in a private jet?

Maddock nodded. On my credit card, it seems.

Deana pushed between them. Give me my phone back. You two are crazy. How’d this creep get my number anyway?

He likely checked your admin computer to learn who would be working the entrance. Maddock handed her the phone.

I don’t get it, Bones said, why didn’t he send you the text, or just call one of us?

That’s been bothering me too. He turned to Deana. Did anyone else talk to you today—I mean, anyone who seemed weird?

Only the two of you. She glanced over her shoulder. Are you guys in trouble or something?

I didn’t think so, but now I’m wondering.

Augustus Pym has the resources to pull something like this, Bones said. Pym was a powerful businessman whom they’d run afoul of a while back. We got back a year ago. I’ve been shaking out my shoes every morning, looking out for Russians in cheap suits, but ‘til today, nothing.

Maddock watched the young woman. She hadn’t reacted to Bones’ admission. Still, something seemed off. A strand of beads fell across her face as she cocked her head.

Back from where? she asked.

Maug Island, Bones said, as if that answered everything.

Maddock explained. That’s the northern end of the Mariana Island chain in the Pacific.

Oh, the western boundary of Mu, the lost continent. Deana brightened. You’ve actually been there?

Bones did a doubletake. You know of Maug?

"Well, yeah. The Lemurians, they started all of this. They were the first Rosicrucians, after all. It’s cool that you’re looking to discover the mysteries of ancient Lemuria. She looked over her shoulder. So, are you on, like some kind of secret mission?"

It’s complicated, Maddock said. They had left Pym’s son on the island to die. Since then, the possibility of dad taking revenge had been in the back of their minds. A friend sent us here to look for something.

Deana gaped at Maddock and then at Bones. So, some rando sends me a message and hopes I’ll help you with your secret mission?

Not a rando, not anymore. Likely he’s watching on the security feeds right now.

Probably listening on your phone too. Bones raised his middle finger and said, Screw you, Letson.

The interior lights blinked off, then back on. Deana shivered and hugged herself. I’m calling security.

Maddock held up his hands. Please don’t. Just turn your phone off for now. We really could use that tour. There’s something here we need to see before we leave.

Deana’s eyes flicked between the two of them. I don’t think our security would be up to it anyway. What are you guys, commandos or something?

Not anymore, Bones said. Think of us as history buffs.

Right, you look just like my professors... except not. What is it you need to see?

Bones held up the brochure and pointed to the key. Got one of these?

The young woman snorted. That’s just allegorical... unlocking your mind and all.

"Then what kind of key would we find here?"

She pointed to a frieze decorating the wall above them. People call that the Egyptian Key.

Maddock didn’t bother to look up. "The ankh, we could have stopped at a local head shop and saved ourselves the trip."

That’s not all, take another look, Bones said. The eye in the pyramid, we’re in a den of Bavarian Illuminati.

Maddock shook his head. Don’t mind my paranoid friend here; he sees conspiracies in the most unlikely places.

However, he had to admit that Bones was right. Alternating between the iconic looped cross ankh symbols, the frieze included different variations on the Eye of Horus staring down from a row of stylized pyramids. I’m still not sold. What else is there?

I could show you the Royal Tomb. It’s very authentic.

Bones shook his head. Been there, got the t-shirt.

Deana gave him a puzzled look and asked, What’s with this key thing anyway?

Maddock glanced back at the entrance and scanned the galleries. That’s just it. We don’t know what we’re looking for and it seems our friend Sally, who did know, is a no-show. I’m sorry we wasted your time.

Oh, no—you don’t get to come in here, weird me out, and then just walk away. I can show you some stuff that almost no one ever looks at. Maybe you’ll get a few ideas.

Bones nudged him. "Yeah, let’s go see some stuff as long as we’re here."

Maddock followed Deana past displays crammed with artifacts and up flight after flight of stairs. Each hall they entered was smaller than the previous one. Bones paused at the alchemy exhibit and stared around. Smaragdine Tablet? I’ve...

No, you haven’t. Maddock started up the next flight.

Bones glanced at the exhibit again. Nope, guess not.

Deana had stopped at the foot of a narrow staircase. Above, the hall was in shadows. The top level is devoted to ancient religions of the world. They... I mean, we keep the lights dimmed to preserve the old pigments. I’ve only been here a few times. It’s creepy.

Maddock nodded and motioned for her to lead the way.

Deana shook her head. No, you guys go on up.

Bones took the steps two at a time. Maddock followed. Dim red floodlights illuminated a row of life-sized wooden statues. In some places the original polychrome paint still clung to the surface.

Man, I can feel the age of these things, Bones said. It’s like a blanket of dust on my soul.

Maddock walked down the row. Yeah, well some of their rites weren’t too pretty either. Let’s see if we can find whatever it is Sally wanted us to see and get the hell out of here.

Bones bent close to examine a huge bronze idol. "Moloch—it says here they burned babies in this thing. It can’t be real, can it?"

Deana had crept up the stairs behind them. She peeked past Bones. Disgusting, isn’t it? Dates from the Hebrew time of the First Temple, maybe three thousand years old.

A few feet away stood a grotesque red demon, all arms and horns and snarling fangs. Its globular bulging eyes glared down at the three intruders. As Maddock drew closer, Deana whispered, That represents the Kali Yuga, the evil lord of final destruction. Please don’t touch it.

In the chamber’s lurid red glow, Kali Yuga seemed to radiate malice on all who stood before it. Bones gave a low whistle. I don’t think you could pay me enough to mess with that thing.

The wall behind was lost in the burnt umber shadows. Still, Maddock thought he detected a subtle movement. Edging closer, he saw that a painter’s drop cloth had been hung like a soiled curtain behind the statue. He looked again. The bottom of the cloth rippled out, then hung straight. What’s behind here?

It’s a new exhibit. We’re not supposed to... She paused as Bones slipped behind the hanging cloth. ...go in there.

Maddock pulled a miniature Maglite from his pocket and stepped past the curtain. Bones played his own light along the wall.

There’s got to be a switch or something in here, Bones said.

Deana followed them in. Don’t...

Maddock reached behind and flipped a toggle switch protruding from the bare wallboard. A pair of temporary floodlights came on, illuminating a chaos of unfinished exhibits and open display cases. We’re not going to touch anything. We just need to look. He turned back as Bones reached for a white feathered headband. I said, no touching.

I wasn’t going to... well, I was, but I won’t. It’s just that this is all Native American, not Egyptian.

Yeah, Deana said. The lost tribes of Israel. They carried so much of the ancient wisdom here to the new world.

Bones didn’t look up from the array of obsidian knives he was admiring. This is some amazing work, but what are these symbols?

"That sun symbol is a petroglyph found with this cache of ceremonial weapons. The nested triangles mean mountains. The one next to it is a coyote, symbol of chaos. Together, they probably mean something like, the sun rising in the mountains brings chaos. Strange, but I don’t know what else."

Yeah, but this third one is the eye of Horus. We just saw a bunch of them back there.

Don’t you understand? The sun-and-mountain symbol is just like the eye in the pyramid. That proves the connection.

Maddock shook his head. Seems a little far-fetched to me. He looked over the other exhibits. Nothing struck him as unusual. An impressive collection, but I think we’ve run out of clues.

Deana hung her head. "I just thought there’d be something here."

To Maddock, she looked a little like Cleopatra after losing Mark Anthony. Hey, we had a great visit. Seriously, super interesting stuff. It’s just that we have someone waiting for us.

Deana smiled. I guess I can’t talk you into becoming Rosicrucians?

Bones shook his head. Probably not today. But how about I come by later for another tour?

Bones smile faltered. Uh, yeah, that would be great.

Maddock laughed. Come on Rameses. We’ve got a chariot to catch.

2

Willis tucked his feet beneath him and hugged his knees to his chest. No use opening his eyes. There was nothing to see. Not today, not yesterday, maybe not the day before. All the world had fled to darkness. He could be eight years old again, sitting in his Grams’ cellar, waiting for the storm that thundered and shrieked like colliding freight trains to pass overhead. Waiting for Grams to say: everything’s gonna be okay, sugar. Waiting for her to say anything.

They had waited a twelve-hour eternity before someone thought to check on the old woman living on the far side of the railroad tracks and her visiting grandson. They’d come with flashlight beams waving, with tow trucks and chains to clear the fallen timbers. Young Willis’ night of darkness ended in the arms of his mother and a long ride back to Detroit. He rubbed his eyes just to see the stars. This eternal night ain’t gonna end so easily.

The nineties had been a tough decade for a young man growing up in the decaying streets of Motown. Lately he’d had plenty of time to regret a youth spent in small larcenies and confrontations with the police. Willis’ eighteenth birthday dawned through a wire-reinforced window at the local detention center. They prodded him into an interview room.

A man entered. Big, taller than even Willis, broader about the shoulders. You’re eighteen now, boy. That means no more juvie for you. Ready to serve some grownup time?

Willis glared up from the tabletop where he’d been studying his own bruised knuckles. The man wore a black suit and had one of those funny collars. Priest or something. So what if I am?

The man sat down. He didn’t offer a name. He had a big head, short hair, crinkly black beard. He didn’t smile.

I saw you fight last night. Put that other kid in the hospital.

Had it coming.

I’m not saying he didn’t, but I’m not the judge. So, you like to fight?

Yeah, what’s it to you?

Look kid, I don’t give a dog’s butt about your attitude, your righteous anger, none of that crap. I know someone who is looking for someone like you to take on a tough job, real tough job. Not one in ten thousand of your little friends out there could handle it, but I think you can. Are you interested?

Now, in the perpetual night, with nothing but his own dark memories, Willis sat wishing he’d asked the priest’s name, that he could have found him and thanked him for yanking a young thug off the system’s treadmill and pushing him into the Navy.

A brief flare of light. Off on the periphery of his vision, Willis saw a faint yellow speck. How he’d run to that first one, an eternity ago. How he’d crouched at the tiny flame just to watch it dim to a blue halo before burning out. Even as the orange ember that remained faded to darkness, Willis could still feel the sense of loss, of death left by that spent candle.

He didn’t run this time. The light would last maybe sixty seconds, no more. A piece of birthday candle cut brutally short, he’d find food and water nearby. Then the flame would vanish. Someone watched. Someone with night vision goggles sat in the security of a high ledge and peered down at his captive, his subject, his specimen.

He once tried talking to that unseen entity. In SEAL school they taught him how to be a prisoner, how to play to your enemy’s pride. They taught him to create a rapport with his captor, create sympathy, create weakness. Willis used everything he’d learned, but finally weeping on his knees, he’d realized that it was like praying to a silent God for the life of his dying grandmother.

This purgatory, this prison, it was huge. An enormous cavern of rough stone and dry sand. He’d scouted it that first day, if ever it had been day somewhere, or if ever the sun still crossed the blue heavens above. Willis had wandered the perimeter, climbing as high on the rocky walls as he could. Nothing else to do but fall and endure the contusions. A beetle in a bowl, he’d scrabble his legs up the side, then slide back to the center. Somehow, if there was an entrance, he’d find an exit.

Two energy bars and a bottle of water. Nothing like home-made mac and cheese, and definitely no resemblance to craft beer. No way. He downed the water. He’d had worse. Last year, it was Spam heated on the manifold of a busted down diesel engine, along with the brackish dregs of a ruptured water tank. But then last year he’d been surrounded by friends, his misery had plenty of company. And there was Sally.

She had seemed to him like one of those tiny jeweled frogs, loud, fragile, and possibly dangerous. And oh, was she so smitten by Corey Dean. That quiet intensity and brilliant mind just drew her to him like a porchlight draws bugs. Still, Corey had always reserved his truest devotion for his computers and equipment. Sally had figured that out. Eventually.

Willis opened one of the granola bars and dropped the wrapper. Chocolate raisin, it was okay. He felt kind of bad about being a litterbug, but circumstances gave him little choice. Maybe someone came by and picked them up. He’d never found evidence of his earlier meals. Maybe this place is so huge he could wander forever without crossing his own path. The cavern was warm too, comfortable he’d say.

His thoughts returned to Sally. She had invited him to spend the weekend together. Sally said she had something special she wanted to share with him, the El Yermo annual mac and cheese cookoff. There’d be food, music, and craft beer. She’d invited him for the week. Willis curled up on the sandy ground to think. He recalled that long ride back from the northern islands, limping along in a sinking boat with a busted engine, Sally had curled up between him and Corey when she slept. Whether it had been for warmth, protection, or convenience, he missed it now.

3

Twenty minutes after leaving the Rosicrucian Museum, Maddock and Bones arrived at the private aviation side of San Jose International Airport. Just across the street a small blue sign read: Champagne Charters. They jaywalked over to a hangar, its corrugated back wall broken only by a single steel door.

Hi, Maddock said to the tall blonde woman who was rising from behind a desk. I’m...

Dave Matlock and Uri Bainbrook? Without waiting for an answer,