Hot Ice (15 page)

"It's all there," Hunt informed her. "From Reno, where you were born, to the heist this evening at the Houston museum. And everything in between."

She dragged her attention from a grainy photograph of the apartment building she'd lived in as a child to Hunt's face. "How?"

"You weren't thinking about fingerprints in the safe house in San Cristóbal."

Taylor's heart stopped beating for a few horrified seconds. Oh God. She
always
wore thin latex gloves for
work
. And she always pulled on a second pair as she left the scene, a third pair at the first clothing exchange, a fourth on her way back to wherever she was staying. Right now she wore thin latex gloves beneath the frilly black lace. She felt sick to her stomach.

She'd thought of
none
of her usual safety precautions that night when he'd engineered her escape from jail.

Dread filled her. She put a hand up to her forehead, horrified to notice her fingers shook.
Think. Concentrate and think
. Men responded better to a faint than a woman throwing up on their shoes. And although she'd once
done
it to get out of a sticky situation, it was really, really hard to throw up on command. Not that she wasn't perfectly prepared to do it now if it became necessary.

"I—I feel faint," she said weakly to no one in particular. She didn't need to see any more. It was all there. "Can I lie down for a few minutes?"

Hunt turned off the computer and shut it with a loud
snap
. "No." Tundra gray eyes met Taylor's. Her breath shuddered in her lungs, then stopped altogether at Hunt's expression.

"Now that you know that
we
know you aren't really Ginger Grant who is registered in room 902, or Mary Ann Wells—the name you used for this room—maybe you'll wise up and cut the crap."

"If I give you what you want,
I
keep the jewelry. That's the deal." She spoke only to Huntington St. John. As far as Taylor was concerned, there was no one else in the room.

The woman had cojones, Hunt thought with irritated admiration even as he raised a brow at her audacity. "You're in no position to make deals, sweetheart."

"Actually," she countered, "I'm in a
great
position. You want what I've got. Who do you think has the power here?"

"Not the one who's surrounded."

"All in the way you look at things," she said. "And what's wrong with giving me an incentive to share?"

Hunt figured she was buying time. Probably not a good idea to let that incredible mind of hers work unchecked for very long. "How about not going to jail for the rest of your life? How's that for incentive?"

"Please. If I was worried about jail would I be a jewel thief?" She shrugged, then quickly added, "That's
alleged
jewel thief."

"Oh, for fuck sake—" Bishop snarled.

Hunt put up his hand to stop Neal's blustering and kept his attention on Taylor. "Now that you're aware that Morales is a terrorist," he said, giving her the benefit of the doubt, "do you for a moment believe that he too isn't looking for you to get back what you stole from him?"

"
He
can't possibly know who I am."

"Why not? We do. And what about the woman who approached you in San Cristóbal before the robbery?" Hunt pushed harder. "The one who wanted you to steal the contents of the safe for
her
? Who do you think
she
was? A nun looking for a donation to the church? We believe she was a member of the Black Rose."

"The Black Rose?"

"Another deadly terrorist group known for their senseless torture of informants, enemies—hell, pretty much anyone. By design or default—and we don't really give a damn which it is—you've not only compromised national security, you've made some powerful and lethal enemies."

As if dealing with one terrorist organization wasn't enough. Jesus bloody Christ.

Hunt continued, "You're caught between Scylla and Charybdis."

"And
you
."

"And me," Hunt agreed. "
We
found you. The Black Rose found you in San Cristóbal. How long do you think it'll take them, or Morales's
Mano del Dios
, to track you down again?"

She bit her lip, the only sign that they were getting through to her. When she realized what she was doing, she stopped. Her chin came up.

"Uncomfortable having so many people breathing down your neck when you're trying to do such a good job keeping that low profile of yours, isn't it?"

Hell, yes, Taylor thought, she was more than
uncomfortable
knowing that so many people had discovered her identity. Up to and including her real name.

She could see the suave Mr. Huntington St. John out of the corner of her eye. He moved with the sinuous tread of a big cat. No wasted motion, no abrupt movements. It was unnerving. As though he were waiting for his prey to bolt from the tall grass and make a run for it before he streaked after her, all determination and ripping white teeth.

Her wild imagination was going to trip her up if she wasn't very, very careful.
Get a grip
, Taylor warned herself.
Just get a grip
. No matter
who
he was, or
what
he threatened, he was only a man. She reminded herself that she interacted with wealthy, sophisticated men every day of the week.

The other guys didn't bother her nearly as much as he did. "I want to make a phone call."

"No."

No matter who these guys
said
they were, good guys or bad, she'd die before she led them, or anyone else, to Switzerland and her sister. She hadn't seen Amanda's name in their document. But that didn't mean they didn't know about her. Did they? She had no reason to believe, as thorough as they'd been, that they'd miss Mandy. She could only pray that
somehow
they had.

If she went to jail, if she
died
, Mandy would be well taken care of for the rest of her life. Taylor had promised herself that no matter how horrible it might be for herself, she'd do whatever it took to protect her sister.
Whatever
it took.

All eyes were focused on her, but Hunt's were the only pair that unnerved her. She paused several beats as she considered her options. "All right," she told him flatly. "Give me forty-eight hours to retrieve what you're asking for." She'd fly to Switzerland, see what she had, and go from there. If she deemed the take to truly be of importance to national security, she'd courier it back to them. If not, seeing as how it was so damn important, she'd
sell
it to them. For a pretty penny for the inconvenience.

"Let you out of my sight?" Hunt said blandly. "Not going to happen."

How much should I give them to back off? Everything
, she realized. Hunt would settle for nothing less. "It's in a secure safety-deposit box in Switzerland. I'll have it couriered to wherever you like."

"Contact the airport," Hunt told the elevator man flatly. "And what?" Hunt turned to ask her. "I'm supposed to ask you for the location and a password again?"

"The password isn't the problem." Oh, God. She hated this. Hated giving up this much information. Hate, hated,
hated
, letting anyone get this close to Amanda. But she was short on options. At least for now. "It requires a retinal scan."

"Look around you, sweetheart. Do we seem like amateurs to you?"

She swallowed and shook her head.

"High-powered plasma lasers are a
problem
. Retinal scans are child's play."

"So, I give you the password and you handle it from there?" she asked, feeling a tad relieved knowing this ordeal was almost over. "Great. I'm glad we could reach a mutually satisfying agreement. I'll jot down the password and be on my merry way."

His expression lingered somewhere between a scowl and what she was sure, for him, passed as a smile. That look made the hair on the back of her neck lift.

"That's one option," he agreed.

Too easy, she thought.

"But that would mean I'd have to remove one of your eyes in order to get past the retinal scan."

She should have known. Taylor felt and tasted revulsion and pulled a face.

"Didn't think you'd be too keen on that option." His fingertip reached out and gently grazed the side of her face. "And I didn't have any desire to disfigure you for life. So we'll go with the less… invasive option."

"Which is?"

"We're all going to Switzerland."

Chapter Thirteen

London

"I have ascertained nothing about this man," Andreas Constantine told Morales over the scrambled private line in José's Lon-don office. "This thief has never been caught, never so much as been
seen
. He is a ghost. A chimera."

"Unacceptable." José Morales sat down heavily in his chair. His empire was crumbling, and no one was helping him shore it up. "
Someone
must know the name of this offal who has robbed the
Mano del Dios
of their future." The San Cristóbal
policía
originally claimed to have captured a female member of the gang. But that information had proven erroneous.

God showed his impatience by sending an excruciating pain through José's belly. He clenched his teeth and rode out the pain, refusing to take his medication in front of his people. No sign of weakness was permitted. "One million American dollars to whoever delivers the person stupid enough to steal from me, José Morales. The man will first pay with his fear, then with his life."

"The word is out there. Everyone is trying to find out who he is. We'll find him soon, I assure you." Constantine said flatly. "But we have another serious problem, José. There is speculation that T-FLAC is involved."

"
Madre de Dios
, Andreas.
T-FLAC
?" José crossed himself." T-FLAC is aware of the theft? Now? So close—?" His mind raced with the ramifications of this new piece of information.

If the counterterrorist organization was responsible for the robbery, then they had access to the mine. He prayed that this was not so. "
They
sent this person to rob me?"

Constantine paused. "Either T-FLAC or Black Rose."

"
I will call upon God, and the Lord shall save me
." Morales crossed himself, and shut his eyes. "
Evenings and mornings and at noon I will pray and cry aloud and He shall hear my voice
." The men bowed their heads until he finished speaking, then said in unison, "Amen."

Chapter Fourteen