Hot Ice (32 page)

She studied each of them carefully as they were introduced.

Austin: surfer type, sun-streaked hair, dangerous eyes, lazy smile. Escobar: cold black eyes, twitchy, filled with nervous energy, pacing as they waited. Savage: the only woman, strikingly beautiful, green-eyed redhead, controlled. Fisk: black guy, shorter by a good foot than the other men, slight, good hands, easy smile.

If she imagined really hard, she could believe they were here for a party. As friends.
Um, no. She wasn't that good at self-delusion
.

She started another pot by the time Hunt, followed by Max, returned to the kitchen. Hunt's expression was grim, his hand wrapped in a bloodstained towel. She wondered how that happened.

"This is what we have," he said, standing in the doorway. He was back to being the chilly man from Houston and the antagonist from San Cristóbal. He was also all business.

He walked into the room and stood beside the flashy redhead. "HQ broke the encryptions," he told them, his tone grim. "Morales appears to have replicated Dante's seven levels of hell inside the abandoned mine. The missile, according to Satcom and infrared photos, is at the base."

Nobody said a word. Nobody moved.

"Thanks to Taylor's sticky fingers," he went on, not looking at her as he spoke, "we are now in possession of the access codes for levels three and five. But even
with
these codes—and remember, it's only two out of seven levels—it won't be easy. Morales has had years to think this through.
And
the best, most creative minds in the world to help him.

"Our analysis department and our think tank guys will work on variables and possible scenarios while we're in transit. So far we know that scientists, mechanical engineers, and—God only knows what the hell
this
means—the movie industry, were involved in the ten-plus years it took to construct this place."

Hunt looked from one member of his team to the next, his eyes skimmed over Taylor without pausing. "According to our intel, sixteen hundred men gave their lives for this project.
I
believe that everything José Morales has worked and strived for since the inception of
Mano del Dios
is hidden inside that mine. Destroy what he has hidden, and we destroy
Mano del Dios
."

"Is that before or after we deactivate what could possibly be a nuclear warhead?" Daklin asked, grabbing his jacket as he slid off a bar stool.

"
After
," Hunt told him, ignoring Daklin's sarcasm. "The plane's engine is running. Wheels up, twenty minutes."

He hadn't glanced at her once, and Taylor realized that he had no intention of taking her with them. "Why did you take 'thousands of manpower hours' to find me in San Cristóbal, Hunt?" she demanded as everyone hustled and bustled around them, preparing to leave.

They stopped what they were doing. Silence fell on the room like a shroud.

"Wasn't it so that I could help you break into whatever facility it was that those codes were for?" she asked quietly. Her heart beat too fast and her palms were slick with nervous perspiration.

He gave her the tundra look that made icicles form in Taylor's veins. Gone was the lover. Here was the T-FLAC operative with a mission.

"I only needed you to get into the safe," he told her dismissively. "You'd already done that by the time I got to San Cristóbal. If you'd given me the disks at that time, we wouldn't be here arguing right now. "

Unfortunately, very true. Still, the idea of getting through a major terrorist's version of Dante's seven levels of hell intrigued her, and actually gave her all those lovely preheist anticipatory palpitations. "Your boss wanted me to go with you," Taylor pushed. "Didn't he?"

"Michael Wright is not my boss," he told her.

He wasn't saying no. "Didn't he?" She hadn't had a really exciting challenge in months. This would certainly be that. And probably more. Not to mention she'd have a valid reason for spending a little more time with Hunt.

Hunt glanced around at his team, who weren't even pretending not to be intrigued by the byplay between them. "Ready?" he asked them.

"I'll go. On one condition."

"Wrong answer," Hunt told Taylor, his eyes so dark a charcoal they looked demonic as he glared at her. "And in case you're not as smart as you look, the answer is
no
. Listen to yourself—it didn't take you five seconds to come up with a damn
condition
."

"It's important—"

He walked over and grabbed her by the upper arm. "Come with me."

"What is this? You Tarzan, me Jane?" Taylor asked as he strong-armed her through the living room and down the hallway, and opened the first door he came to, her office.

He pushed her inside and kicked the door shut with his foot, still holding her arm. He flicked on the overhead light and spun her around so they were face-to-face. "Morales is an insane son of a bitch and a dangerous psychopath. I'm smart. I'm wily, I'm experienced, and I'm determined, and it's taken me six years to get this close to him.

"The man believes that the antichrist is alive and well and living in Las Vegas, for Christ's sake! The coordinates on one of the disks indicate the missile is pointing in that direction. He's stockpiled God only knows
how
much sarin gas and other biohazards and chemicals down there. He's been collecting weapons and arms like baseball cards for years. Saving them for October thirteenth at 3:33.
Precisely
. That's less than forty-eight hours."

She gave him a steady look. "I can get you in faster."

"Jesus, Taylor. How can you ask me to put you—a
civilian
—into
that
kind of danger?"

"You didn't ask. I'm offering."

"I don't want
you
within a thousand miles of him. You heard what we said out there. He has a
missile
in that mine. Possibly a nuclear weapon."

"I know, I—"

"He's planning on blowing up an entire city of over a million people in two days. Do you think for a moment that a man who would go to
such
lengths as to duplicate Dante's levels of hell to protect what's his won't have a fucking
army
there to protect it as well?"

"No, but—"

"Have you ever fired a gun?" She shook her head. "Ever
held
a bloody gun?" Taylor shook her head again. "Know what it feels like to be shot? It feels as though an animal is ripping open your flesh with its teeth and claws, and then someone pours acid over the open wound.
That's
what it feels like! You bleed. Real arterial blood. You could
die
!"

Hunt closed his eyes, then opened them again, his face stark. "Jesus bloody Christ, Taylor, don't ask me to—"

She put two fingers over his mouth. "I'm not saying I'm not scared. I'd be a fool if I wasn't. This situation is terrifying. And to be honest, I know I'll be a lot
more
terrified once we get there. But I
have
to go with you. If there's anything resembling a safe, or a combination lock, or a keypad,
anything
—I'm the only one who's skilled and experienced enough to get you through those levels. And with only two of the five disks, I'm guessing you'd need what I can do."

He raked his fingers through his hair. "It won't work."

"Of course it will. Stop being stupid and stubborn. You know damn well I'm the very best there is," Taylor snapped. She wasn't bragging. She
was
the best. And they both knew it. It had taken T-FLAC, with all of their considerable resources, working around the clock, to find her in San Cristóbal. And that was because Hunt had wanted the best of the best.

"You're too bloody independent."

She smiled a little. "You say that like it's a bad thing."

He looked at his watch, his expression grim. "How good are you at taking orders?"

"Usually, not very," she told him honestly. "But in this instance, I'll do whatever you tell me to do."

"No hesitation? No explanations?"

"Yes."

"You better be bloody sure, because once we're there, there won't be time to negotiate or give explanations. I'll be your commander just as I am for my team. I give the orders. You obey them. Immediately. No question."

"I can live with that."

"See that you do. Your complete compliance could very well mean your—or a member of my team's—life or death. Now, what's your one condition?"

Chapter Thirty-three

Thursday, October 12

Johannesburg

South Africa

José Morales kept his head bowed and his bloody back straight as he knelt on the cement floor of the small stone chapel behind his home outside Johannesburg. Everything had been in readiness when he had arrived in South Africa two days ago. While Constantine finalized the last few details to Morales's satisfaction, small matters only, José had gone directly to the chapel. He had knelt before the shrine for hours.

God was pleased. Filling him with power and strength.

José's anticipation level was high, and his euphoria rose with each passing hour. He felt God's presence more powerfully when he was here.

He had not eaten in three days. Had not slept in two. Rhythmically, he scourged his own back again with the short-handled leather whip. "
Solamente Dios. Solamente Dios. Solamente Dios. Solamente Dios. "

Only God.

His voice was hoarse as he repeated the chant over and over for hours on end. The rough hemp of his robe bit like fire ants into his knees. "
Solamente Dios
."

When God granted him another vision, he could rise.

It would be time.

"
Solamente Dios
. "José didn't flinch when the sharp teeth of the metal-studded leather whip bit the flesh of his back, wet and raw, exposed from the repeated lashings. "
S-Solamente Dios
."

Even with only three of the required five disks to guide him, José Morales knew that his God could again lead him through each level of the mine. His God, after all, had given him the skills and contacts to execute the design. His God would help him again—disks or no disks. All he needed was his God. His light. To show him his true path. "
Solamente Dios. Solamente Dios. Solamente Dios
."

He had seen the seven levels in a vision. As clearly as if he'd been right there. In his vision, God had led him to South Africa and shown him the mine. "
Solamente Dios
."

Building it had been an act of devotion, a labor of love, as well as a necessity. In his line of work, he trusted no person. Only God. The devious complexity of the mine provided him with a foolproof place to store the spoils of his labors. Over the years, many lives had been sacrificed so that God's prophecy of his José Morales's, greatness could come to fruition.

"Solamente Dios."

The whip cracked in the stillness.

Tiny bits of metal gouged the torn flesh of his back.

And every pain was offered as penance.

As sacrifice.

"Again," he muttered as the whip slowed. Instantly, agony erupted within. "
Sola
—
Solamente Dios
." Again. And again. "
Solamente Dios. Solamente Dios
."