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  “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.”

  “ ‘Then I saw an angel coming down from heaven, holding in his hand the key to the bottomless pit and a great chain,’ “ Morales quoted. “Revelation 20:1.”

  Right, Hunt thought with an inward chuckle. Your angel is defiantly holding the key. “See those men loading the crates into the railcars behind you?” Hunt motioned over Morales’s shoulder. The tango didn’t turn to look. But the sound of boxes being loaded was unmistakable. They were making good headway. Better yet, if this device they’d found on Mrs. Morales helped them navigate through sheer rock face.

  “The carts,” Hunt pointed out unnecessarily, “are almost full.” Dressed in Level Four hazmat gear, Navarro’s team were loading the biochemicals and toxins first.

  “The train, as you might observe,” Morales pointed out genially, “is facing a rock wall thirty feet thick.”

  “There you go, underestimating T-FLAC again.” Hunt pointed the remote-control device, depressed several buttons until he found the right one, and smiled as the entire wall slowly, inexorably, slid aside to reveal the tracks down the tunnel.

  Morales spun to look at Hunt, a mask of horror on his face. “How is this possible? From where did you obtain that device?”

  Hunt held it up. “This? Your lovely wife Maria had it in her pocket when they found her.” He jerked his head. “And take a gander to your right—those are your people being led away in the custody of my people. Check and mate. Game over.”

  There was a double beep in his ear. “A second countdown has just been activated. Same time,” Daklin snarled, “different tune.” The line went dead.

  Well, fuck.

  Without warning, the floor started shaking. A few seconds later a mechanical, grinding sound joined the hellacious noise of thousands of neatly piled wooden crates crashing to the cement floor. The shattered crates spewed their contents: weapons, ammunition, and machine parts, all of which rolled beneath the feet of the men still fighting.

  Morales’s smile widened.

  “What have you done, you sick fuck?” Hunt snarled over the noise, wrapping his hand around Morales’s throat.

  “The top of my little mountain is opening for the launch.” Morales’s eyes gleamed brilliantly as his excitement and anticipation rose feverishly. He was oblivious to the manic activity around him. To the smoke. To the small fires burning about his warehouse. To the men piling his crates near the railcars. To dozens of men still locked in mortal combat.

  “Here is a call for the endurance of the saints, those who keep the commandments of God and hold fast to the faith of Jesus,” Morales shouted over the din. “And I heard a voice from heaven saying, ‘Write this: Blessed are the dead who from now on die in the—’ “

  Hunt grabbed Morales by his hair and jerked his head back. Light glinted on the blade of the Ka-bar as he pressed it to Morales’s carotid. “How do we deactivate the second launch sequence?” He sliced a little deeper. Blood stained Morales’s shirt collar. “Now.”

  “It cannot be turned off,” the head of Mano del Dios said complacently. Pleased with himself, and unfazed by the cold steel at his throat, he smiled again. “There is a fail-safe system in place. Nothing can stop the launch. God’s command shall prevail. ’For this slight momentary affliction is preparing us for an eternal weight of glory beyond all measure, because we look not at what can be seen but at what cannot be seen; for what can be seen is temporary, but what cannot be seen is eternal.’ 2 Corinthians 4:17-18.”

  A double beep in Hunt’s ear. “Daklin?”

  “Need Taylor ASAP,” Asher Daklin said tightly. “There’s another fucking keypad behind the control panel.”

  Hunt released Morales. His heart thudded with dread. Jesus. So close. “Bring Taylor ASAP to the south entrance. She’s in the room on the northeast quadrant,” he snapped into the lip mic, talking directly to his team. “All of you. Stay with her. Haul ass. Now. Go, go, go.”

  He gave José Morales a cold look. “Will you tell us how to deactivate the missile?”

  “ ‘Discipline yourself, keep alert. Like a roaring lion your adversary the devil growls around, looking for someone to devour.’ 1 Peter 5—“

  Hunt pulled out his H&K and pushed it under the man’s chin. “What is the deactivation code?”

  “I am not afraid to die.”

  “Too bad.” Hunt pulled the trigger. As Morales slumped to the floor, Hunt glanced at Viljoen, standing nearby, his own weapon drawn. “I just hate fucking unresolved issues, don’t you?”

  Fifty-four

  Taylor crouched in front of the missile.

  Behind her, Hunt, Asher Daklin, Bishop, and Francis Fisk waited. Her heart pounded like a drum inside her chest. She shook out her hands to get rid of some of the nerves and drew in a slow, deep breath.

  Some of the guys had come to get her in Morales’s secret room. She’d been hit on the head and had just regained consciousness a few minutes before they burst in and practically dragged her here.

  She was damn sure, pretty sure, almost certain, that Savage had been the one to hit her. It didn’t make sense, and she didn’t have time to try to figure it out. Savage had saved her from being shot by the Black Rose terrorist . . . hadn’t she?

  Her head throbbed where she’d been struck. When she’d come to, the blonde terrorist was dead. Savage was unconscious and bleeding beside her, a big knot on the back of her head . . . and somebody’s blood on her.

  None of which mattered right at this moment.

  Concentrate, she told herself firmly.

  By some miracle, someone had brought her tools from where she’d left them so many hours ago outside the wind tunnel. That was the only good thing about this situation. Everything else pretty much sucked.

  The area surrounding the base of the missile was a tight fit, a circular cavern carved out specifically for the base and armature of the metal monstrosity. With five of them in there, it was hot, it was crowded, it was tense.

  Taylor could block out all that. It was the other occupants of the claustrophobic space that made the hair on the back of her neck prickle and her mouth go bone dry.

  The rough rock floor was awash with snakes.

  They were small snakes, Daklin had pointed out mildly when she first saw them and shrieked like a girl. Yeah, sure they were little. But there were thousands of them. Black snakes, green snakes, and yellow snakes.

  Live, venomous, creepy-crawly snakes.

  One slithered over her instep. She shuddered, then froze. “Ah, geez—”

  “Got it.” Bishop reached between her knees from behind, plucking the yellow serpent off her foot. He tossed it aside. “I told you I’d keep them off of you. And,” he muttered under his breath, “I’m hoping St. John didn’t see where I just had my arm.”

  Hunt had assured her that the flicking tongues couldn’t pass through the LockOut fabric. She almost believed him.

  “Focus, people,” Daklin said softly directly behind her. “I changed the trajectory in accordance with coded RF pulses.” He was talking to Hunt, who was behind her. “We bypassed two out of the four circuits, receiving and decoding, steering control. I didn’t give a shit about the transmitting, command, and fail-safe detonation controls—”

  “North Atlantic?”

  More soft murmuring and mumbo jumbo behind her.

  “It’s a CDL2009,” Taylor said, more to herself than the men watching her. There was only enough room for one person to be directly in front of the panel. She was point man, or rather, woman.

  She tried to forget that three feet away from her nose was the slick white metal skin of the missile. She tried hard to forget that i
f she didn’t open this keypad and get to whatever Daklin needed inside—

  Seventeen minutes. That’s all she—they—had.

  Seventeen minutes.

  Now it was up to her.

  The keypad was six by eight inches and centered in a dark gray titanium door approximately one foot square in a shallow indentation in the side of the missle. Bits of what Daklin had defused and discarded were scattered on the floor with the snakes.

  “Give me your earpiece,” she said to anyone. “Hurry.”

  “Don’t freak,” Fisk said softly, laying his headset on her left shoulder. “This is the cord, not a you-know-what.”

  Taylor was grateful for the heads-up. She quickly twisted the tiny earpiece open, then used the amp inside to press directly against the keypad, sticking the other end into her ear. “With me, Francis?”

  He’d enter the numbers into his wrist PDA as she heard them and called them out. “There’s nobody I trust more to do this than you, Taylor. I have your back.”

  She went to work, listening for the sound of the tumblers falling into place as she danced her fingers across the pad.

  At this point she didn’t even notice how fast the men around her were plucking the snakes off her. She was a hundred percent focused. She frowned. This wasn’t that hard. The tumblers clicked away. She listened, rearranged the order, and was done.

  “How much time do we have left?” she asked, memorizing the last number.

  “Don’t worry about it,” Hunt said, directly behind her.

  “Are we in?” Daklin demanded, incredulous, as she tossed the earpiece aside.

  “Surprisingly, it wasn’t that hard.” Taylor shifted, ready to move aside so Daklin could take her place. She punched in the numbers in the correct sequence, then waited for the door to pop.

  It didn’t pop—it exploded open, releasing a spray of fine white powder directly into her face.

  Blinded by whatever had hit her, Taylor screamed as somebody grabbed her from behind, pulling her back onto the floor.

  “Keep your mouth and eyes shut!” Hunt shouted. “Shut, goddamn it. Get me something to irrigate with . . .” His voice faded as he spoke—yelled—at someone. Then it grew loud again as he crouched over her. “Keep everything closed.” He blew across her face. Blew again. And again.

  “Anth—” Somebody started to say and was cut off.

  “Here’s a rag, use it to—”

  “No. I don’t want to risk rubbing it into her skin. Good girl, keep your pretty eyes and mouth closed for a bit, all right, darling?”

  Me, floor—snakes! she wanted to point out. The puff in the face had startled her, but it had been more air than substance, and it smelled a lot like baby talcum powder. She tried to sit up, to figure out what she was doing lying down, but her muscles wouldn’t cooperate. Hunt seemed very tall as he loomed over her. One minute he was standing, the next, without appearing to have moved, he was crouched down beside her. She liked that about him. He moved so— She frowned.

  Hunt said, “Lie still,” in a commanding voice.

  She lay still. The LockOut was skintight. Hunt wouldn’t allow a snake to get inside her clothing.

  “Navarro?” Hunt said, and then, “Jesus, fuck, then where the bloody hell is he? Tell him to rendezvous, south entrance . . . Now, goddamn it! Taylor’s been hit with . . . I don’t know. Yeah. Fine. Less than minutes.”

  Hunt picked her up, which was a big relief, because she itched all over just thinking about all those snakes.

  “Nothing to worry about, love,” Hunt told her calmly as he walked. “Just keep everything closed until Navarro checks you out. I don’t think it’s hers.”

  She guessed he meant the blood. “Sava—”

  “Shut up,” he said, sounding annoyed.

  She shut up.

  “Navarro? Talk to me.”

  She frowned, trying to concentrate on Hunt’s voice. She could feel it resonate against her chest.

  She liked it . . .

  She loved him . . .

  She felt dizzy and sick to her stomach. Hot. Cold. One minute she’d been fine— She shuddered. My God . . . Had Savage shot her? Frowning hurt, she discovered. The thought slipped away in a whirling mist. She’d never been sick a day in her life. Never.

  She didn’t like it.

  She blinked her eyes open. They stung a little, as though she’d been crying—had Hunt made her cry? She didn’t remember.

  If not now, then later, she thought as a man swam into her vision.

  Devil eyes came toward her, his hair mussed up. He had lovely hair. She tried to smile. Tried to tell him . . . something. “Hi, Daklin.”

  He scowled at her, but his voice was soft, “Hi, honey, howzit going?”

  Her vision dimmed. “Not so hot.”

  “Put her down over here. I want that washed off ASAP.”

  ASAP was a great word. “A sap.”

  Hunt laid her down on something hard. She whimpered, and he pulled her back against his chest, then sat down with her in his arms. Much better.

  “Think I want two fucking patients,” Daklin demanded, spritzing something cool on her face. It felt good. “What happened?”

  Good question. Her lips felt thick. Unresponsive. And it was getting harder to breathe. She had to get help. “H-Hunt . . .” She needed Hunt now. Right now. Something was horribly wrong.

  She whimpered. Horrified at how pathetic she sounded. She tried to shake him off. He held her tighter.

  Someone held her face still. Cold water poured over her head and chest. “Hang on, honey, let me get this crap off you, okay?”

  She tried to frown. Why was it that none of her muscles worked? “Not—” She couldn’t remember what she was going to say.

  Her head flopped against Hunt’s chest and she heard the rapid pat-thud-thud of his heart under her ear.

  “Was she hit? Keep spraying her with that,” Daklin instructed someone.

  “The blood’s not hers,” Hunt said, sounding grim. “She does have cuts and abrasions . . .” He faded out.

  “. . . have to tell you the severity . . . cutaneous and inhalation—anything up to . . . anthrax . . . sake!”

  Her tongue felt fuzzy, her brain muddled. Suddenly Hunt was moving at superhuman speed and everything blurred and blended sickeningly.

  She blinked to clear her vision, frowning as she attempted to wrap her mind around the fact that she must be underwater, as everything undulated in a wavy back-and-forth motion that made her sick to her stomach.

  “Tell me where you hurt, darling.”

  She gritted her teeth. She’d tell him if she knew, but then maybe not. The task of speech was so overwhelming, and the pain so vast . . .

  “I hate to point out the obvious, pal. But you’re bleeding like a stuffed pig yourself.”

  “A scratch. Stay with me. Damn it . . . hell. Stay . . . chopper . . . ASAP . . .” His voice sounded terrified. “Bloody hell, open your eyes!”

  Hunt. Hunt. Hunt. She wanted to comfort him, opened her mouth. Nothing came out but a whimper. Oh, God, that couldn’t be good, could it? She tried again, forgot what she’d been trying to do as her brain went cottony. But she felt so far away. Spinning into a huge echoing void. Falling through the earth at a million miles an hour. She felt so small. So lost.

  Seven levels of hell. Hot.

  Violent tremors coursed through her body, shaking her muscles and hurting her bones. The three-headed dog blew fire on her, singeing her skin with the heat of its breath.

  Other hands on her. Helping Hunt turn her over. A laughing voice. Not Hunt’s, for sure. “She’s very well accessorized, I see . . . out of the LockOut?”

  Every touch hurt her skin.

  “Jesus, don’t cry,” Hunt said raggedly, and Taylor felt the warmth of his fingers brush the acidic tears off her cheek. “Hell, yes. Let’s strip her. That shit’s all over her. See what we’re dealing with here. Navarro, find something to keep her warm, she’s going into shock.”

>   Rough hands yanked down the zipper on the front of her cool spy suit. Don’t, she wanted to say, but nothing came out except deep, bone-jarring shudders that shook her body and made her teeth chatter. She tried again. Important. “Brief . . . case. Don’t leave—”

  “Christ! She’s going into convulsions!”

  Fifty-five

  It was an operation of monumental proportions. The railcars being loaded were hastily uncoupled, leaving just the engine. Hunt was carrying an unconscious Taylor. There were a dozen men being triaged before going topside. Savage was one of them. She’d been shot in the shoulder and was unconscious.

  Hunt barely spared her a glance as she too was loaded into the railcar. He fixed his gaze on Taylor’s colorless face, her blue-tinged lips . . . Jesus bloody Christ. It could be anything. Anything!

  Double click on his headset. “Give me some fucking good news,” Hunt snapped.

  “Thanks to Taylor, we’re clear,” Daklin told him jubilantly. “The missile has been neutralized and formally put out of business.”

  Hunt closed his eyes for a second as relief swamped him. “Daklin did it,” he told the others.

  A cheer went up. A brief show of relief before everyone got back to work.

  Navarro started up the electric engine. “Good news indeed. And thank God Morales at least had the foresight to make his own access and egress swift. It’s a hell of a lot faster getting out than it was getting in.”

  While they traveled through the tunnels in the railcar, Hunt kept her on his lap, her head against his chest, her breathing shallow. Daklin messed with Hunt’s bleeding side until he told him, in no uncertain terms, to leave him the fuck alone. The only person he wanted to be receiving medical attention was Taylor.

  Her confused state, the heat of her skin, and the convulsions scared the hell out of him. Scared Daklin too. And, if anyone, Daklin would know just how scared to be. There were so many biotoxins. So many lethal biotoxins in that hellhole.

  The possibilities were infinite, for Christ’s sake! Hunt went over every single possibility. None of them were good.

  Twenty minutes later they were at the surface level.