That startled him. “Why involve President Gant?”
“Where you’re going, you’ll need a presidential order to get inside. It will take Gant’s signature to open those doors.”
“What doors? Where are we going?”
The answer left him dumbstruck. After a few more details, Kat signed off. Gray closed his phone to find Seichan staring at him.
“Where are they sending us now?” she asked.
He slowly shook his head, trying to make sense of what he’d just heard, and told her.
“Fort Knox.”
Part III
Gold Rush
Chapter 25
May 31, 2:55 P.M.
Arizona desert
“What you’re doing violates both state and federal law,” Nancy Tso said.
Painter ignored her threat as he used a dagger to dig out the last of the mortar that sealed the slab of sandstone over the blowhole.
Nancy Tso stood, fists on her hips, at the edge of the field of petroglyphs carved into the chasm floor. Kowalski guarded her, holding the ranger’s pistol in his hand. Earlier, he’d relieved the woman of her sidearm before she knew what was happening.
“I’m sorry, Nancy,” Hank Kanosh said. “We’re trying to be as careful as we can.”
Proving this, Hank picked out a broken chunk of mortar from the spiral artwork on the slab, flicked it clear, and gently brushed fine sand from the moon-and-star symbol in the center.
Kawtch sniffed after the tossed bit of mortar, as if this were a game.
Painter continued to scrape and dig, sweating under the sun, his exposed neck burning. After another five minutes, the plate began to vibrate under his palm.
Hank felt it, too. “You must’ve gotten it loose. The air blowing up from below is starting to rock the slab.”
Painter agreed. He worked around the edges, on his knees, and searched until he found a decent-sized gap where he could wedge the knife blade under the rock’s lip. The block’s edges angled inward, like a rubber stopper. He pushed down on the dagger’s hilt and pried the stone up slightly. It was about four inches thick, too heavy for Hank to lift on his own.
He lowered it and waved to Kowalski. “Give me a hand with this.”
“What about her?” Kowalski thumbed toward the park ranger.
Painter sat back on his heels. He needed the woman’s cooperation, which meant he needed to be honest with her, to let her know the gravity of the situation. “Ranger Tso, I’m sure you’ve heard about the volcanic eruptions up in Utah and over in Iceland.”
The angry creases around Nancy’s eyes and the hard set to her mouth did not relax. She just glared at him.
“What we’re searching for here is related to both of those disasters. Many people have died, and many more will die, too, unless we get answers. Answers that may lie below.”
She shook her head, scoffing. “What are you talking about?”
Hank answered, “The Anasazi. We happen to have evidence that the volcanic activity today is directly related to the destruction that gave rise to the Sunset Crater and the annihilation of the Anasazi in the area. I can’t go into much further detail, except that the symbols we showed you—the moon and star carved into the slab’s petroglyph—are clues to that tragedy.”
“If we’re going to save lives,” Painter pressed, “we have to keep moving.”
She stared from Painter to Hank and back again. Finally, she sighed, the deep creases fading—somewhat. “I’ll give you both a little latitude. For now. But be careful.” She held out her hand toward Kowalski. “Can I have my weapon back?”
Painter studied her, reading her body language, trying to judge if this was a ruse to regain her pistol. She seemed sincere, but ultimately they couldn’t keep watching their backs.
“Do it,” he instructed Kowalski.
Kowalski looked like he was going to refuse, but he finally flipped the gun around and offered the grip to the ranger. She took the weapon, held it for a long moment as they all waited, then promptly holstered it.
She waved Kowalski forward. “C’mon. I’ll help you.”
With Painter prying the stone up, it took all three to grip the exposed edge and pull the stone cork out of its hole. Balancing the slab up on its edge, Kowalski rolled it to the chasm wall and leaned it there.
“Satisfied?” he asked Nancy, brushing his hands on his pants.
She refused to respond and turned to the hole. Painter fished out a flashlight from his pack and pointed it down. The beam illuminated a wide shaft, angled steeply as it dropped away.
“They’re steps,” she said, awed.
Steps was a generous term. Carved into the rock were distinct footholds, not much larger than would hold a toe or heel. Still, it was better than nothing. They wouldn’t need ropes.