Gates Of Hades

Chapter Eighteen

Santo Domingo, Dominican Republic

Two nights later

The warm night air brought whiffs of salsa music from the band on the beach sixteen stories below the balcony of Jason's hotel room. He could also hear party voices, although he could not tell if the words were in Spanish or English. He had had a spicy Spanish dinner, the name of which he could not remember but one he suspected he would continue to taste for hours, if not days. He had washed the meal down with several El Presidentes, the light Dominican lager. If he was going to make the early flight out in the morning, he needed to go to bed soon.

But he really didn't want to end the evening. He had never been in a city quite like this. He had been to tropical climates before, in the slums of dusty settlements on the Horn of Africa, where the rodent population outnumbered humans and the smell of rotting garbage and open sewers were strong enough to make the eyes water. If he had been lucky, he had arrived by aircraft, fixed-wing or rotor. More often, he and the members of his six-man Delta Force squad had reached their destination by parachute-HALO

(high altitude and low operations)-at night into leech-ridden Asian jungles where the night brought fever- bearing mosquitoes that filled the moisture-laden air with buzzing, and where cotton uniforms were always damp.

The enemies he had been sent to bring out or leave for others to bury frequently did not live in the resort spas of the world.

Santo Domingo had the same humid air Jason associated with snakes, insects, and rot. But here, the night's fragrance hinted at tropical flowers. Here in the city, he had seen more high-rises than tin-roofed hovels. Cars filled streets lined with high-end shops. People smiled at one another and laughed a lot.

Sort of like an egalitarian St. Barts with a Latin beat.

The band below launched into a samba, and Jason took a sip from the Brugal rum and tonic he held.

The old life was behind him. Instead of risking his ass for a soldier's pay, he was rich. Instead of chasing petty warlords, he sought the major pooh-bahs of world-stage nasties. He could afford good hotels and flew first-class only, thank you.

He thought of the Aztec and the cashier's check he had instructed his Swiss bank to send its owner to cover any insurance deductable. Mostly first-class, anyway.

The bigger the game, the higher the stakes. No matter how high, he'd trade it all for a final five minutes with Laurin, a chance to say a proper good-bye rather than wait for a cup of coffee that never came.

The rum, he guessed, was making him maudlin. High stakes, big money. Had he been asked to, he would have hunted at his own expense the animals who killed the innocent. He had a major score to even. Moslem fundamentalists with a hijacked airplane, a shadowy group who killed those who earned a living in a manner they didn't like. Terrorists were terrorists whether using a bomb or a secret weapon. Jason would take pleasure in eradicating them like the vermin they were.

He patted the money belt, fattened this afternoon by the arrival by diplomatic courier of three passports, each with supporting driver's permits, credit cards, club memberships, and the like. One even had a Dominican Republic entry visa already stamped in it. Mama thought of everything.

Tomorrow he would take a number of flights that would eventually end on the other side of the Atlantic.

Rome, then to Sicily, where Dr. Bergenghetti was currently doing some sort of research, according to Mama. He frowned.

Rome.

It was a city he and Laurin had planned to visit in the spring of '02. She had already begun the planning, looking at hotel brochures, reading guidebooks.

The glass in Jason's hand shattered before he realized how hard he had been squeezing it. He went inside arid wrapped a towel around his bleeding palm, so absorbed in his mental anguish he did not feel the throbbing of sliced flesh.