The Demon Crown

by James Rollins

  Still, the gunman had the wherewithal to keep his pistol leveled at the second assailant. Before he could fire, Aiko’s rifle cracked. The man’s head exploded.

  The second figure skidded to a stop, hands up, showing no weapons.

  Palu.

  Aiko and Gray both tumbled into view. Palu’s raised arms were soaked in blood. Gray recognized the blade in the dead man’s leg. It was from Seichan’s arsenal. He must have fought his way through the small force still on-site, using both the element of surprise and the explosion to take them all down, except for this last one who had tried to flee.

  Gray reached him. “Where’s Seichan?”

  Palu grimaced. “Taken. When coming up, I saw her through the glass below being dragged toward the exit to the island. They had the professor, too.”

  Gray was already moving. “Then let’s go get them.”

  Palu blocked him with a thick arm. “No. Never make it.”

  Aiko agreed, lifting her rifle and reminding him. “Out of bullets.”

  “We can find more ammunition, other weapons. If we hurry before they seal—”

  A deep boom cut him off. The trickling of water in the neighboring dome became a heavy torrent. Water flooded out of the pen and into the torture chamber.

  They were out of time for debate.

  The flooding flushed Kowalski and the other two men into view. Palu did a double take upon seeing his cousins here—and in their condition. The Hawaiian must not have known about the raid on his men’s catamaran.

  Gray didn’t have time to explain. “We have no choice now. We’ll have to make for the exit.”

  Palu refused to lower his arm. “Not that way.”

  “Then where?”

  He finally dropped his arm and pointed down. “All the way to the bottom of this damned place.”

  “Why? What’s there?”

  Palu turned and led them. “Hopefully a way out.”

  5:30 A.M.

  Masahiro stood beside the open blast doors as the unconscious woman was finally dragged out of the station and into the rock-hewn island tunnel. He stared at the blood dribbling from her left temple. Someone must have pistol-whipped her.

  Serves her right.

  He wished the same fate had befallen her captor, the pale Russian. As if flaunting her prisoners, Valya had deliberately taken her time moving her party out of the station.

  She gave Masahiro a smug look as she strolled past him.

  Fury stoked inside him, knowing this gaijin would take full credit for the captures.

  He stepped back as smoke rolled from the station into the outer passageway, carrying with it the angry hum of the freed wasps.

  “Close it up,” Masahiro ordered, turning his back on the station.

  My work is done here.

  He was wrong.

  Valya nodded to the two guards, both part of her personal team.

  One grabbed Masahiro by the lapels of his jacket and shoved him back through the blast door into the station. Masahiro tripped over the edge and landed on his backside. The other guard leaned a shoulder against the thick steel door and began to close it.

  No . . .

  He tried to get up, but something landed on his cheek. He swatted, panicked. The sting felt like a burning coal jabbed into his flesh. Then the entire side of his face ignited with fire. He patted a hand there, as if trying to put out those flames. He expected to find his skin melting off his cheek.

  Through tears of pain, he watched the blast doors slowly shut. Before it sealed, Valya stared back at him from the other side, her eyes shining with cold victory.

  Then she was gone.

  In that last moment, Masahiro knew his ultimate failing: underestimating the depths of the woman’s ambition.

  Behind him, the humming grew louder, drawn by his frightened breath and pounding heart. As the swarm swept over him, he closed his eyes. His body was pelted from every side, like the hard hail that frequently assailed the heights of Mount Fuji.

  Only here ice was fire.

  Screams ripped from his throat, which only opened himself further. Wasps crawled into his mouth, crowding inside, pushing deeper, stinging all the way down.

  Their sheer numbers choked his wails to whimpers.

  Until finally fiery pain chased him into oblivion.

  5:38 A.M.

  Gray followed the others in a mad dash down the stairs of the central hub. They paused only long enough to collect weapons along the way, removing them from dead bodies, the grim handiwork of Palu and his cleaver.

  By now, the entire station trembled and shook.

  The footing on the steps was treacherous as the staircase had become a waterfall. Other domes in the upper tier must have collapsed. The lake was rapidly flooding into the station from multiple directions. Gray felt the pressure in his ears building as the remaining air was squeezed by the closing walls of water. It was also harder to breathe as smoke was compressed into those same tightening spaces.

  And it wasn’t just the smoke.

  As they reached and ran out onto the middle level of the hub, he smacked a stray wasp from his hair. Still, he felt a mule kick to the side of his head as it stung his ear. Between them and the sweep of stairs to the lower level, a dark swarm hovered at the mouth of the main exit tunnel. The wasps milled and churned. In the enclosed space, their humming sounded like an electrical fire.

  With no other choice, the group skirted the swarm’s edge.

  “Don’t slow,” Gray warned. “Keep running.”

  The group hugged the outer walls of Masahiro’s office. Still, as they passed the cloud of wasps, the swarm was drawn by the wake of their passage. The buzzing intensified as the wasps finally found targets to vent their fury.

  “Faster!” Gray urged the others.

  He knew he asked the impossible. Aiko led the way with Palu, who supported Makaio, all but carrying his cousin. A step behind them, Kowalski tried to do the same with Tua.

  The swarm closed in on their group, a dark wave threatening to crash over them.

  Gray did his best to herd the others toward the stairwell to the lower level. Wearing only swim trunks, he felt exposed. His skin pebbled with anticipation of more stings.

  Kowalski suddenly swore, crashed to one knee, and swatted at his neck.

  Gray rushed to his side. He grabbed Tua with one arm, while offering the other to Kowalski.

  The big man simply glared and pushed up on his own.

  Together, they chased after the others.

  Gray felt strikes against his right leg, his left arm. Fire burst from those spots. He forced himself onward. Adrenaline fought against the pain. Tears coursed his cheeks. His legs stumbled under him.

  Kowalski must have noted his distress and shifted to half-carry both Gray and Tua. Gray was in awe of the man’s constitution, especially noting the number of wasps perched on his shoulders and back. The man’s muscles twitched and shuddered as he was stung multiple times.

  Maybe it was the antidote in the syringes or the opioid analgesics that kept Kowalski moving, but Gray suspected it was the guy’s sheer stubbornness.

  Ahead of them, Aiko and the others had reached the stairwell. They vanished into the smoke billowing up the steps.

  Like a long-distance runner spotting the finish line, Kowalski grunted and hauled harder for the stairs. As they finally shoved into the thick pall, the leading edge of the swarm retreated from the smoke.

  Even the wasps on their bodies fled.

  Gray quickly understood their precaution. He coughed on smoke that smelled of scorched rubber. He tasted burning oil on his tongue. He tried to hold his breath but pain and exhaustion forced him to keep gasping.

  Finally, the group splashed into the lower level. The floodwaters were knee-deep down here. Once free of the stairwell—which had been funneling the smoke upward like a chimney—the air grew clearer. Smoke continued to flow along the roof of the tunnels, but by ducking their heads, they found a stratum of breathable ai
r.

  The ice-cold water also helped reduce the pain from the stings.

  “This way,” Palu said, pointing to a tunnel on the left.

  The Hawaiian set off, wading swiftly.

  The surface of the water was full of debris, all covered by a dense layer of drowned wasps of every iteration: tiny scouts, larger egg-laying breeders, and others he did not recognize.

  “Should be just down this next tunnel,” Palu promised them. “If it’s still here . . .”

  The next passageway was long, extending to a remote corner of the station.

  He prayed such isolation had kept this section undamaged and intact.

  As they traversed its length, the water quickly crested their waists. It became easier to half-swim, floating and kicking off the floor with their feet. This method also kept their heads away from the layer of smoke above.

  Finally, the tunnel ended ahead at a sealed door.

  An airlock.

  Just as Palu had promised.

  The Hawaiian had told them how he and Seichan had spotted a small submarine docked down here. It had likely been used to ferry in supplies, maybe even sections of the station while it was being constructed.

  Now it was their only hope of escape.

  And not just their only hope.

  A trio of station workers shivered in front of the airlock. They looked like drowned rats. It seemed their group wasn’t the only one trapped in the flooded station.

  Aiko pointed a rifle at them and spoke rapidly in Japanese. She then turned to Gray. “It’s the sub crew. They were assigned to move the vessel.”

  Gray felt a surge of relief. He had planned on doing his best to figure out how to operate it. This was even better.

  But Aiko did not look happy and explained why. “They’ve been trying to get inside, but the airlock mechanism is damaged. There’s no way to get through.”

  Gray shifted forward, waving the crew out of his way. He peered through the double set of windows to the dry dock beyond. The conning tower of a small submarine poked from a pool inside, just waiting to be used.

  Despondent, he rested his forehead against the glass.

  So close, yet so far.

  5:49 A.M.

  Ken braced himself in the cargo hold of the transport plane as it took off from the island’s airstrip. Due to the short runway, the aircraft accelerated powerfully—then lifted skyward at a steep angle.

  From the Cyrillic script stenciled on the inside of the hull, the plane was likely former Russian or Serbian military. Its design was simple. The flight deck was enclosed behind a door. The rest of the aircraft was a hollow shell. Jump seats lined the inner walls, but the bulk of the hold was empty space.

  Not that it was empty now.

  The hold was packed with crates, boxes, and barrels, all tied down or covered in netting. It was everything salvaged from the station.

  As the plane tipped at an angle, circling around, Seichan’s head lolled in her restraints. The blood had dried on her temple, but she remained unconscious. Still, their captors were taking no chances with her. Her wrists and ankles were secured in steel cuffs and chains. She was belted into her jump seat. A guard sat next to her with a pistol in hand. Another sat across with an assault rifle across his knees.

  A door slammed, drawing Ken’s attention.

  Valya left the flight deck and pointed to two other men. Ken eavesdropped as she spoke in Japanese. “You and you. With me.”

  The men snapped out of their seats to follow.

  Ken knew all the crew were loyalists to her ambitions. None of them had questioned her when she had abandoned Masahiro in the station. She had also taken additional steps to cover everything up. When their group had reached the former Coast Guard building, Ken discovered the place had been turned into a slaughterhouse. It appeared others on her team had ambushed everyone as they evacuated via the freight elevator, mowing them down with submachine guns. The bodies had been dragged to the side and rested atop a lake of blood.

  Valya had barely given the pile more than a dispassionate glance.

  Ken recognized a coup when he saw one.

  Confirming this, a loud explosion shook the craft. Ken craned around to a window behind his seat. The rusted tin roof of the Coast Guard building sailed high into the air, propelled by a column of smoke and fire.

  Definitely erasing her tracks.

  Winds suddenly howled into the cargo hold. Ken flinched, fearing some flying shrapnel had struck their aircraft. Instead, he spotted a hatch at the rear of the plane hinging open.

  Valya stood back there and pointed below.

  Two men rolled an orange barrel to the door once it was fully open. Upon her signal, they shoved the large canister out the back of the plane.

  Ken turned his attention to the window. He followed the barrel as it tumbled down. It struck the island’s pier, where the station’s hovercraft was docked. Upon impact, a fiery blast mushroomed skyward. Fountains of flame swept outward, covering both the wooden pier and the boat.

  As the plane circled the island, more of the incendiary charges were dropped. Smoke and flames spread over the atoll. It was all too reminiscent of the destruction he had witnessed at the Brazilian island of Queimada Grande.

  They’re going to burn it all down to the bedrock.

  But they had one additional step.

  Valya pointed again, hollering to be heard over the wind. Ken couldn’t make out all she said, but he did hear the word mizūmi.

  He cringed, suspecting what was about to happen.

  The plane swung out over the ocean, then tilted around for a final bombing run. Only this time the barrels were not going to be used to set anything on fire.

  Instead, they would serve as makeshift depth charges.

  For mizūmi meant lake.

  5:55 A.M.

  “This is friggin’ nuts,” Kowalski noted, but he bore a savage grin on his face.

  Gray couldn’t argue. But if they died in the next seconds, Kowalski would do so happily. There was nothing Sigma’s demolition expert liked more than blowing stuff up.

  Gray and the others sheltered behind a pried-up section of steel floor. They were positioned some twenty yards away from the damaged airlock. Earlier, Kowalski and Palu had rigged a cube of C4 to a timer. It was the last of the fireman’s supply from the cache they had obtained back on Maui.

  This either worked or they were all dead.

  The plan was to blow the airlock and gain entry to the docking dome. But so much could go wrong. If the charge was too weak, they would fail to blast their way through both doors. If it was too strong, they risked damaging the submarine or even collapsing this section of station.

  Still, they had to take the chance.

  As the two men had prepared the charge, Gray had listened to blasts echoing through the water from above. From the dull glow overhead, he knew the enemy must be firebombing the island on their way out.

  “Get ready,” Kowalski warned. He studied Palu’s wristwatch and counted down the final seconds by holding his fingers outstretched and curling each digit, marking the time.

  By now, the floodwaters swirled chest-high—which was a good thing.

  Gray knew the docking bay must be pressurized to keep the lake from flooding though the pool inside there. When they blew the doors, the violence of the decompression could immediately let the lake rush in. Their only hope was that the trapped air in the flooded station was compressed enough to somewhat match that pressure.

  Just one other detail that could go wrong . . .

  Kowalski curled his last finger, forming a fist.

  Gray had warned everyone to open their mouths and expel their breaths, to help them withstand the blast’s concussion. It failed miserably. The explosion slammed his eardrums and squeezed his rib cage to the point that he didn’t know if he’d ever breathe again.

  Then it was over.

  He gasped along with the others.

  Ahead, both doors were gone.


  Past the airlock, the pool around the conning tower welled upward, meeting the waters flooding out of the tunnel and into the chamber.

  He sighed.

  The pressure seemed to be holding for now.

  So far so good.

  They lowered their section of flooring and allowed the current to drag them all into the docking bay. As they all washed into the chamber, sheets of water started jetting from the domed roof. The force of the blast had splintered the glass.

  As Gray watched, the cracks spread and widened.

  He pointed to the conning tower. “Inside! Now!”

  One of the crew swam to the tower’s ladder and clambered to the top. Once there, he crouched and twirled the locking mechanism to open the hatch.

  The others climbed up. When the door was heaved open, the perched crew member helped them all—one after the other—down into the safety of the small submarine. Gray went last, making sure everyone was aboard.

  He matched gazes with the terrified man atop the tower.

  Together in this, they were no longer enemies.

  Movement through the glass wall drew Gray’s attention. A bright orange barrel fell past their position.

  No, no, no . . .

  Gray lunged forward, grabbed the crew member, and rolled him headfirst through the opening. He then swung down to the ladder inside and slammed the hatch behind him as an explosion rocked the sub sideways.

  The conning tower struck the edge of the docking pool with a loud clang.

  He hung on to the ladder with one hand and spun the lock on the underside of the hatch with the other. He then dropped down. He was relieved to see that the man he had tossed below had landed on others, cushioning his fall.

  Gray shouted. “Get us mov—”

  The engines engaged with a rumble, cutting him off. Clearly the other two crew members had already rushed into position.

  Gray stalked forward, ducking his head from the low roof. He recognized the small vessel. It was a Una-class submarine built by the Yugoslav navy. The midget sub had been engineered to lay down mines in or deliver Special Forces into waters too shallow for larger vessels. It had clearly been decommissioned and modified for private use. The solid nose cone in front had been replaced with polymer glass.