Hot Ice (48 page)

Taylor sat on the plush burgundy velvet sofa, holding the gun with both hands. It was a lot heavier than she'd expected. She'd never fired one, but figured if someone came through that door, she'd aim and pull the trigger. At this distance, she couldn't miss.

The problem with guns and knives was, if you didn't have a
clue
what you were doing, and someone else
did
, they could take the weapon away and use it on
you
. She made a mental note to find a shooting range when she got home. A skill she hadn't found necessary before now seemed of incredible importance. Not just for her, but because she knew one thing with absolute certainty—any bad guy she killed couldn't kill Hunt.

She had no intention of leaving this room. And she wouldn't open the door for anyone other than the good guys. She knew she'd be useless out there anyway. She couldn't fire the gun with any accuracy, and she wasn't handy with her fists. In her line of work, she hadn't had to be proficient at either.

She'd had some experience with hitting and punching as a kid. But she hadn't enjoyed it when people hit her back, and had avoided physical confrontation ever since.

No, she'd stay put. Hunt had told her he'd be back, and she believed him, as much as she feared for him. The seconds ticked in slow motion as she listened to the violent sounds on the other side of the door.

Please be okay.

The door didn't
have
a lock, but she considered having a door to close a plus. Who did Morales shut out when he was down here in his lair? She figured he didn't get many visitors. Not unless they had a good seven or eight hours to run the gauntlet of sick, Dante-inspired levels.

She'd dragged a heavy marble-topped table in front of the door. It was the best she could do. So far nobody had tried to get in.

She'd spent her time inspecting everything in the room. It almost took her mind off what was directly beneath her feet. And the activity gave her something to do other than wonder where Hunt was and what he was doing. Well, she had a pretty good idea of what he was doing—she just didn't want to think about it. Not when it caused her chest to tighten and a lump to clog her dry throat.

There were some
very
fine baubles in here. Many of which were, or had been, on the lists of Consolidated Underwriters. Taylor looked around for something to carry some of them in and found a handy black alligator briefcase. It wasn't big, but she knew how to pack.

The selfish bastard had all this incredible, priceless artwork down here for his eyes only. She tried to decide between the ruby Fabergé and the twin, smaller, more delicate diamond and translucent emerald enamel pair on plinths of rock crystal. Exquisite. All three, she decided. The little ones would tuck into corners. Two were from the same Russian museum. The third—she couldn't recall where
that
had been stolen from. She remembered seeing the photograph in the book of stolen items.

She hoped Hunt and T-FLAC returned everything to their rightful owners, and shoved Morales in that stinky river of
whatever
for the rest of his natural life. No, on second thought, she wanted Morales to die—slowly and painfully. Maybe in the propeller blades like poor Piet Coetzee.

She couldn't believe the son of a bitch didn't give a damn about destroying all of this beauty when his missile took off. He must have been hiding the things he had stolen down here for years. Not only was he an evil, deranged terrorist, but he was a selfish bastard for hiding these treasures away and keeping them to himself.

She patted her chest where the Blue Star diamonds nicely warmed her skin under her LockOut suit. She'd report in to Consolidated when she could. But for now, the Blue Stars were hers.

From the sounds of it, the raging battle out there seemed to be winding down. Just knowing that men were beyond that door killing one another, however, freaked her out. She knew Hunt and his men were professionals, that they dealt with stuff like this every day. But, damn it, she'd heard that enormous percussion bang minutes after he'd left. Forgetting that she'd promised to stay put, she'd flown out of that door so fast she was a blur.

A fire raged in one of the stacks. She had a moment of concern as the flames and smoke made visibility difficult and she heard men coughing and gagging. She reminded herself, as she scanned and tried to identify the men, that she'd paid attention earlier as Hunt and his guys had discussed the incredible ventilation and air-conditioning system Morales had installed in the mine to keep the temperature so moderate and the air fresh.

Where was Hunt?

She'd narrowed her eyes against the smoke, tracking from left to right, eliminating this figure then that, until she recognized his broad back. As soon as she saw him, alive and well and sprinting across the warehouse, she'd returned to the room, shut the door, and leaned against it for several seconds, breathing a prayer of thanks.

But that had been a while ago, and her concern was building to yet another heart-tugging crescendo as she paced the floor, no longer seeing the priceless artifacts.

How odd. The only person she'd ever worried about before was Mandy. Now her stomach was in a knot of anxiety over Hunt. As good as he was, as professional as he was, he was still flesh and blood. He
could
be killed.

The thought scared her. Terrified her.

She couldn't begin to imagine a world without him in it.

She knew they had no future. People like them
didn't
. That was a given. Neither of them was a picket-fence, two-point-whatever-children kind of person. She wasn't going to be a Brownie mom and bake cookies, and she couldn't imagine Hunt spending a Sunday afternoon mowing the lawn.

She adored kids.
Other
people's. But she didn't have a burning urge to produce any of her own. She was only twenty-seven. There was no rush. When or if the time came, she'd do something about it. If the time never came, she was fine with that too.

What she wanted was more time with Hunt.

She was in love with the maddening man.

How could she be so in love with him when their entire "relationship" had been no relationship at all? Actually, she was stunned to find herself thinking the L word at all. She'd never even considered the possibility for herself.

She wasn't a quiet-walks, learning-about-each-other-over-leisurely-meals kinda girl. She'd never expected to feel this all-encompassing sensation of needing him more than she needed breath. It was too fast.

But maybe that was good, she thought now. Maybe she was destined to fall in love the same way she lived her life—risky. All or nothing.

Still, she wanted time for slow lovemaking in a big bed. Hell, she'd like fast sex on the floor, for that matter. And she wanted to hear him laugh again. How could a man laugh so seldom?

She
could make him laugh.

Something—someone crashed into the door, startling the hell out of her. Heart in her throat, Taylor jumped to her feet, leveling the nose of the gun at the middle of the door.

"Taylor? It's Savage—
Catherine
—open the fucking door! Hurry!"

Taylor raced to drag the heavy table out of the way so Savage could slip inside. "What the hell took you so long?" Savage snapped, dragging another woman through the door behind her.

Taylor glanced at the angel-faced blonde who looked as though she'd gone ten rounds with a prizefighter. "Who's your friend?"

"This," Savage said savagely, shoving the woman in front of her, "is the head of Black Rose."

From the look of Savage's knuckles,
she
hadn't been reticent about hitting someone. But Taylor didn't feel any sympathy for the woman whose nose Savage had broken. She was a bleeding mess and clearly less than half conscious as Savage kicked her to the floor. The woman's eyes rolled as she slumped to the museum-quality Chinese silk area rug and lay still at Savage's feet.

"What are we supposed to
do
with—Shit, watch out!"

The younger woman suddenly sprang to her feet as if catapulted from a cannon. Taylor took an instinctive step back out of the way, but the woman wasn't going for Savage—she was coming at
her
. With a feral shriek, the blonde powered into Taylor, knocking her off her feet.

Holy crap!

The gun went flying as they thudded to the floor in a tangle of arms and legs. Taylor didn't enjoy fighting, but she didn't intend to let some strange woman beat up on her without getting in a few punches of her own.

She pulled back her arm, brought up her elbow, and smashed it into the woman's broken nose. The blonde bucked, gurgling on her own blood.

Sick to her stomach, Taylor shoved at her. "Are you just going to stand there?" she yelled at Savage. "This is your job, not mine!"

The blonde still had a lot of fight in her. She raked her nails down Taylor's throat above the necklace. Taylor kneed her in the side, and they both rolled, smashing into the marble-topped table that had been barricading the door. Taylor's head hit the wooden leg and she saw stars. "Savage, damn it! Get over here and help—"

Savage lunged as the terrorist staggered to her knees and lunged for the discarded gun on the floor near the door. Savage tried to reach the weapon first, but the blonde got hold of the gun. She smiled then, a grotesque bloody mask, as she leveled the gun squarely at the center of Taylor's chest from three feet away. She was not going to miss.

Chapter Fifty-three

José Morales stood calmly amidst the chaos, waiting for Hunt. Dressed in a natty black suit, crisp white shirt, and old school tie, the terrorist looked like a gentleman on his way to the office. Except for having his hands secured behind him, his ankles hobbled, and a phalanx of heavily armed T-FLAC operatives surrounding him.

Hunt was twenty feet away when his earpiece activated. Double click. Daklin himself transmitting. An excellent sign. "We're clear," Daklin told him.

Jesus—Hunt glanced at his watch—two minutes shy of 1500 hours. "With time to spare. Good job," he said with classic understatement.

A local T-FLAC operative jogged to meet Hunt halfway. The man handed him a small black handheld device with a small screen on it.

Hunt paused to glance at it. Bloody hell. Here it was. Here was the real secret to Morales's stronghold. This, coupled with the disks holding the combinations, was what made it possible for the terrorist to enter the secret passages. "Where did you find it?"

"On the wife's body. We checked it out. Too powerful for any household electronics. Hell, too powerful for just about anything."

"Does he know we have this?"

The man shook his head.

Hunt suspected that
Maria Morales
had been the woman feeding them information over the last few months. He stuck the device in his weapons belt and strode forward to face Morales.

"Your launch has been deactivated," Hunt said by way of greeting.

Morales smiled. "Do you think so?"

Hunt knew so; Daklin was
the
best. "You think not? We'll all wait together. See what happens in the next thirty-six minutes. In the meantime, you can have a ringside seat as we dismantle your life's work.
Mano del Dios
is no more, Morales."