Hot Ice (46 page)

A Serra worth five million. A Bonheur worth eight. There were two of Emperor Qin Shihuang's life-size terra-cotta soldiers, and a small bust of a sweet-faced young girl. There was a full-size bronze horse, and a collection of Fabergé eggs, millions of dollars worth, scattered on a velvet cloth on a side table.

"No wonder he went to such lengths to keep people out," Taylor whispered in awe as she walked around the room. There must be well over a billion dollars worth of stolen artwork and precious jewels here.

And her fingers itched to touch it all. "I can't believe anyone would go to such elaborate lengths to accumulate all this… magnificence, only to turn around and blow it all to hell and go, Oh! Oh! Oh!" she whispered, sinking to the floor in a boneless puddle beside a beautiful little glass-fronted display case.

She spread her hand on the glass like a pink starfish against the black velvet-lined shelves inside. Shelves filled with bling. Shiny, brilliant, priceless, perfect diamonds in every shape and color. Set in gold. In platinum. In silver. Artistically sprinkled like stars around and between the jewelry were hundreds of loose stones, tossed like glitter against the midnight dark velvet.

Taylor thought she'd have a heart attack right then and there.

All those lovely diamonds blurred into one as her eyes feasted on the set right in front, dead center. The earrings. The bracelet. The—oh, Lord—the necklace.

The czar's Blue Star diamonds.

Her
Blue Star diamonds.

"Come to mama."

She tugged at the fist-sized, flame-red silk tassel attached to the intricate inlaid gold and ivory door handle. The door swung open on well-oiled hinges.

Reaching in, she reverently slipped her very dirty fingers around the necklace and took it out of the cabinet without taking a breath. She draped the ornate platinum setting across her palm so she could admire the necklace close up.

"My God," she whispered. "Even though I've followed her all over the world, I was never really sure she was
real
. Her existence reached mystical proportions over the years."

"Her?"

"Yes. Her." Taylor ran a finger gently over the face of the center stone.
Lord
. "Beautiful. Filled with fire. Strong. Beyond price. Have you ever
seen
anything this exquisite in your life?"

"Yes." Hunt's voice was husky. She thought she felt the brush of his hand, moving lightly over her hair. "As a matter of fact, I have."

She moved her wrist so the light could play across the surface of the necklace. She didn't need her loupe. The center stone was a 51.84 carat Fancy Deep Blue round brilliant. Another sixty carats of smaller but equally exquisite blue diamonds ran up each side, all surrounded by ninety carats of F's. Pure, white, absolutely flawless, colorless stones.

The diamonds contained fire like Taylor had never seen before. Not only were the stones huge and flawless, they represented the finest Antwerp cuts in the history of gems. Exactly and lovingly chiseled so that hundreds of tiny prisms refracted light in a way that nearly made the stones seem to radiate all on their own.

The stones were cool to the touch, yet the luminosity of each perfect stone shone like distant stars against her filthy palm.

"Take a couple of deep breaths," Hunt said dryly as he stood over her. "Want to put it on?"

"Oh yeah," she murmured reverently.

"Those stones are the exact color of your eyes. Only your eyes are brighter and much prettier." He reached for the necklace, and Taylor's fingers automatically closed over it. "You're going to have to let go if you want to wear it, darling."

For the first time, Taylor was more interested in the anticipation of his touch than the feel of the gems in her hand. She opened her fist, and he plucked the priceless work of art out of her hand.

How had this happened? When had his touch—even the promise of it—become paramount to her year's long search for this necklace?

Warm fingers brushed aside her hair, then she felt the heat of his mouth against her nape. Taylor closed her eyes, dizzy with sensation. Senses overloaded by it all. The place. The gems.
Hunt
.

She sucked in a breath.

Most of all—Hunt.

She loved him.

Simple.

Pure.

He fastened the ornate clasp, then lifted her to her feet, turning her in his arms as he did so. The necklace was heavy against her pounding heart as Hunt cupped her face between his palms. His gaze searched her face, then he pressed his mouth to hers in a gentle kiss. Taylor wrapped her arms about his neck as his tongue sought hers.

Lord, yes.

What could be more perfect—

Something crashed loudly beyond the door.

They broke apart.

By the sound of it, all hell was breaking loose outside.

Men shouted.

Shots sounded.

Hunt moved in a flash of sleek, black-covered muscles, weapon in hand even before he straightened. He removed the gun the shaggy guy had given him and handed it to her. "Stay in here. Lock the door if you can. And please. Stay here." There was a brief flash of—
something
in his eyes. "I'll be back for you."

"Yeah. Sure," Taylor said to empty air as the door slammed behind him, leaving her with a big black gun in one hand, and a $75 million necklace in the other.

Chapter Forty-nine

Hunt slammed the door behind him, sizing up the chaos before he stepped into the melee.

Morales's people had arrived in full force. There was no sign of the man himself—yet—but Hunt recognized several others, including that malevolent Greek, Andreas Constantine, currently trying to fend off Bishop.

With a feral smile, he stuck the H&K back into the holster strapped to his thigh. Any fool who used their weapon in here would pay dearly. T-FLAC agents got that—Morales's men did not. A couple of Morales's imbeciles got off a few shots. His own people had their weapons safetied for the duration.

Should a bullet strike any one of the thousands of stacked crates, they'd all go up in a blaze of glory. Well ahead of Morales's scheduled launch. A few stray rounds pinged into the walls, sending large chunks of rock into the fray. But the weapons fire soon stopped as word was quickly passed and reality took precedence over the firepower.

Now, the fight was quieter, but just as deadly. Bone hitting bone.

The thump and thud and scrape of bodies tumbling on the cement as the men moved in for violent hand-to-hand combat.

"
Incoming
!" one of Viljoen's men shouted, lunging as a
Mano
guy raised a small launcher to his shoulder. The terrorist got off a shot seconds before the T-FLAC agent tackled him to the floor in a flurry of arms and legs.

Jesus bloody Christ. They were six thousand feet underground, and Morales's people had brought in
rocket launchers'
?

Insane! But of course they didn't care. They were so dedicated to their cause they were prepared to die down here.

It would be bad enough if a stray bullet hit the crated ammunition. But thousands of those crates also contained biochemicals. And if that wasn't bad enough, in the middle of it all, the missile.

Two thousand feet away, the small rocket slammed into a neat stack of crates containing ammo. The resulting explosion was deafening and instantaneous; the detonation punched Hunt's eardrums. The contents and the heavy wooden containers exploded, debris shooting high into the air. Chunks of metal and wood rained fire on the combatants below.

For several minutes pandemonium ensued as men ran for their lives, pelted from above with flaming projectiles and jagged shrapnel. Acrid smoke filled the air, and the floor became littered with huge chunks of burning debris.

But no sooner had the wreckage landed than the men were back beating the shit out of one another. Hunt let them have at it.

T-FLAC's job was to find the bad guys, break their toys, and kill them, not necessarily in that order. His people would deal with the former. He kept his eye searching for the prize. The person he wanted was Morales.

T-FLAC intel indicated that Morales would want to be close to the action. Not close enough to die for his cause, but close enough to observe the minutiae of the culmination of his lifelong dream. Morales had planned this for years. Hunt knew he wouldn't be satisfied sitting safely in San Cristóbal awaiting news. He'd be right here in the thick of things.

He'd want to do the countdown personally. And press the launch button himself. Which is why Hunt had dispatched a group to find and bring Morales to him. Here. If the head of
Mano del Dios
wanted to witness his creation, then he could bloody well do it up close and personal with everyone else.

There were more bad guys than T-FLAC operatives. Just the way they liked it. Hunt ran like hell, zigging and zagging across the warehouse. Just because guns were verboten didn't mean knives were too. Ka-bar in hand, he kept his eye out for his prey as he moved through the flaming bonfires and bodies. Both dead and alive.

His headset clicked. "St. John." It was one of Viljoen's men who'd been sent to search for Morales. "Find him?"

"Yeah, he has a house on the other side of Blikiesfontein. He was all spiffed up and ready to detonate. Oh, yeah, and by the way? The sick fuck killed his wife."

"He killed his wife?" Hunt repeated, startled.

"I shit you not. Strangled her. We found her in the chapel behind the house."

"Grab a chopper and bring him to the circus," Hunt told him. "I'd hate him to miss the show."

Chapter Fifty