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death, she had been recruited by WAHYA, a militant Native American rights group, who took their name from the Cherokee word for “wolf.” They were fierce and cunning, and like her, they were all young, none over thirty, all proudly intolerant of the groveling of the more established organizations.
    Hidden in the dark, she let that anger stoke through her and warm away her fears. She remembered the fiery words of John Hawkes, founder and leader of WAHYA: Why should we have to wait to be handed back our rights by the U.S. government? Why bend a knee and accept bread crumbs?
    WAHYA had already made headlines with a few small events. They’d burned an American flag on the steps of a Montana courthouse after the conviction of a Crow Indian for using hallucinogenic mushrooms during a religious ceremony. Only last month, they’d spray-painted the offices of a Colorado congressman who sought restrictions on the state’s Indian casinos.
    But events here, according to John Hawkes, offered an even greater opportunity for exposure on the national stage. Drawn by the controversy, WAHYA would come out of the shadows and take matters into its own hands, mount a firm stand against government intrusion into tribal affairs.
    A shout drew her eyes toward the deeper tunnel.
    She tensed. Earlier—before the two new arrivals got here—a crash had echoed out of the back cavern, followed by a furious bout of cursing. Something had clearly gone wrong. She prayed that it didn’t pose a problem for her mission.
    Especially after waiting here so long.
    Kai shifted her weight to her other leg, seeking patience, waiting for the signal. She reached out and rested one hand on the backpack full of C4 explosive, already embedded with wireless detonators.
    It shouldn’t be much longer.
    11:46 A.M.
    “What did you do?” Hank asked, his voice booming across the small cavern, full of outrage.
    Maggie placed a calming hand on his shoulder. She recognized the problem immediately as she stepped into the back cavern.
    Along the far wall had been stacked a pile of stone boxes, all identical, each a cubic foot in size. She had examined one yesterday. It had reminded her of a small ossuary, a stone box used to hold the bones of the dead. But until she got permission from the Native American delegation of NAGPRA, none of the boxes could be opened. Each was coated in oil and wrapped in dried juniper bark.
    But circumstances had changed.
    She stared down at the half-dozen boxes scattered on the floor of the cave. The one closest had broken in half, still roughly held together by its bark wrapping.
    Hank took a deep breath and scowled at Major Ryan. “There’s a strict injunction against touching any of this. Do you know how much trouble this will generate? Do you know the powder keg building up there?”
    “I know,” Ryan snapped back at him. “One of these numbnuts hit the stack with the corner of the transport crate when they were swinging it around. The pile came crashing down.”
    Maggie glanced to the two National Guardsmen in the room. Both soldiers stared at their toes, accepting the rebuke. Between them rested a plastic green trunk, hinged open, revealing a foam-lined interior, ready to secure and transport the room’s singular treasure.
    “So what do we do now?” Ryan asked sourly.
    Maggie didn’t answer. Her legs drew her to the broken stone box on the floor. She couldn’t help herself. She knelt beside it.
    Hank joined her. “We’d best leave it alone. We can record and document the damage, then—”
    “Or we just take a peek inside.” She reached to a fractured chunk of stone, bark still stuck on it. “What’s done is done.”
    A warning rumble entered Hank’s voice. “Maggie.”
    She picked loose the bit of stone and carefully laid it aside. For the first time in ages, light shone into the box’s interior.
    Holding her breath, she removed another piece of stone and revealed more of what was hidden inside. The boxes appeared to