Chasing the White Lion

by James R. Hannibal

  Tyler walked past her to the sliding door of the lower deck and cracked it open, letting in the cool sea air. “That’s an ethanol fireplace. You should always ventilate the room when you use one.”

  “Tyler, I’m serious. I’m going. And I’d like to take Finn and Mac with me.”

  He didn’t answer.

  Val gave her a long look that told Talia exactly what she was thinking, then descended a short stair to her bunk. The door slammed shut. Two beats later, Talia heard a muted shout from beyond.

  “Flip . . . flop!”

  Tyler lowered himself into a recliner across the living room, facing the sliding door. The way his mind worked was not lost on Talia. Hers worked the same way. Tyler had secured one point of entry, and when prudence necessitated the opening of another, he positioned himself to keep tabs on it. “We talked about this. One hundred percent committed. That’s what we agreed upon.”

  “Those were your words, not mine. And that was before I had a set of coordinates.”

  He raised an eyebrow, looking her way. “For the kids?”

  “For a spot in the jungle where we know they were held.”

  “That’s a huge distinction.”

  Talia hugged a pillow to her chest and fell back against the cushions. “Yeah. I know.”

  They both sat there, with only the hiss of the fireplace and the soft splashing of the waves.

  After a while, Talia broke the silence. “You never told me the story.”

  “Which story.”

  “You know the one.”

  In an airport in Italy, a lifetime ago, Tyler had hinted at the history between him and Don Marco. That’s a story for another day. So far, another day hadn’t come.

  “Humor me,” she said. “I’ve waited six months to hear this tale, and now Don Marco’s life is at stake.”

  He sighed, and for a few long heartbeats, Talia thought he wouldn’t cave. But then the story began. “Don Marco is Val’s father. That much, you know from recent events. And if she’s spoken of him, you also know he was once a brutal crime boss.”

  “Orien Jafet’s rival in the Mediterranean region,” Talia said.

  Tyler nodded. “Back then, he was simply Marco. I wasn’t lying when I told you the locals in Campione d’Italia gave him that title for all his praying. And Marco the crime boss was my final assignment as an assassin.”

  Talia sat up. “But my dad—”

  “Came first in the timeline. Think of the contract on Marco as an outsourcing job, brokered by the Agency on behalf of elements within the Italian government. But after what I’d learned—after I realized Archangel had betrayed both your father and me—I wanted out.”

  “So you refused the assignment.”

  “Not quite.” Tyler offered a thin smile. “I changed the terms. I hunted Marco down at a castle in the hills above Salerno, dragged him into the woods, and gave him a choice. Repent or die.”

  Ultimatums weren’t Tyler’s style. “You’re saying you threatened to kill Marco if he didn’t convert?”

  “I was a new Christian, but not so ignorant. No, I chose utter honesty. I admitted leaving the game and promised to let him live. But I told him another assassin would come calling. Instead of demanding his conversion, I offered to become his advocate.” Tyler left his seat and walked to the fire, kneeling to warm his hands. “I asked him to renounce his ways and retire. Faith was not a requirement. But God had prepared the way. Marco’s demons had caught up to him long before I arrived. He was ready.”

  “And after his repentance, you ran interference for him with the powers that be.”

  Tyler nodded. “I fended off two more assassins before the Italians came to the table. I convinced them Marco’s permanent retirement accomplished the same operational goals as his death. With additional benefits.”

  Talia could see what he meant—any case officer could. A man like Marco was a treasure trove of intelligence. “What happened then?”

  “I set him up with some friends in Campione d’Italia, and he never left.” Tyler let out a sorrowful laugh. “Until today, when I still managed to become his grim reaper. May God and Val both forgive me.”

  She didn’t know what else to say. Talia hadn’t known how much of Tyler’s spiritual blood he had staked on this one job, intermediate to his ultimate goal of catching Archangel. How could she abandon him now?

  Tyler let out a long breath. “I know you want to go after those kids, Talia, but you’re central to every piece of this con. I need you here. Finn or Mac, I could spare. Maybe.”

  Finn or Mac. The thought hadn’t occurred to Talia. Faith. Lean. Isn’t that what Tyler was trying to teach her? She didn’t have to be the one to go. “Okay. What about both?”

  PRAYER—DEEP PRAYER—BECAME SLEEP, which became waking again, all before the sun rose. Talia did not wait for the others to get up. She left Darcy lying as still as a corpse and crossed the hall to the opposite berth.

  A single bunk was set against the bulkhead on one side, and a pair stacked on the other. Mac lay facedown on the single, with one arm hanging to the floor and one big foot sticking out from beneath the covers. Talia turned to the pair and recognized Eddie’s steady snore from the top bunk. That left the lower bunk for Finn.

  She gently shook his shoulder. “Finn. Finn, wake up.”

  The thief sat up, ducking to avoid banging his head on the upper bunk. “What? Who?”

  “It’s me, Talia. We need to talk.”

  He yawned and rubbed his eyes. “What about?”

  “Not here.” She grabbed his hand to help him out of the bunk, but for a reason she couldn’t explain, she didn’t let go until she had him out on the upper deck.

  Finn left her side and walked to the stern rail. “What’s so pressing it couldn’t wait until morning?”

  She told him about Ferguson—about his lead on the children. “I want you to head out to Thailand early and rendezvous with Compassion’s man on the ground. Try and get to the children now, in case we never make it to the Frenzy.”

  “A shortcut,” he said, looking out at the water.

  “If that’s what you want to call it, sure.”

  “Shortcuts never work out like you hope.” He turned, resting his hips against the rail. “Why me? Why don’t you go?”

  “Tyler made a good case for keeping me on task with Club Styx. And . . .” Talia dropped her eyes to her bare toes. “I prayed about it. I think God wants me here.”

  “Which means he wants me to drop into a Thai mountain jungle?”

  She shrugged.

  “Great.”

  The moon had set, and with no big-city lights to wash them out, the stars were bright in the predawn sky. Before Talia could come up with more reasons for him to go, Finn spoke again. “You’re needed here, but I’m not. That’s what you’re saying. Like Val said when I messed up in Prague, the team doesn’t need me.”

  Her hand was on his again. Talia didn’t remember putting it there. Finn rolled his over and held her fingers. Even with pillow hair and reddened eyes, he had the looks to melt a woman’s heart. Talia had seen those looks in action with fan girls and snow bunnies at his daredevil events. So often, a haughtiness came with them, but not now. Looking up at him, she saw only Finn’s vulnerability—his need to be wanted.

  “I’m . . . I’m not saying that at all. I’m saying those kids need you more. Will you go?” She squeezed his hand and pressed closer. “For me?” Maybe it was the sea breeze. Maybe it was the electricity in the starlight. Every romantic experience of Talia’s lifetime told her that was the moment to kiss him. Yet a small voice said, Not yet. She let go and backed away.

  Finn did the same. “Right. Yeah. I’ll go.” He walked to the stairs to head below. “For the kids. And I’ll see if I can get Mac to go with me. We’ll fly commercial, first flight out.”

  She watched him go, not sure what to say. “Um . . . Thank you. And Finn?”

  He glanced over his shoulder from the top step. “Yeah?”r />
  “Be careful.”

  CHAPTER

  FORTY-

  SIX

  THE CATACOMBS

  MILOS, GREEK ISLES

  THE TEAM SPENT THE FINAL MINUTES before go time—what Tyler called zero hour—in a Mercedes van, surveilling the entrance to an ancient Christian crypt known locally as the Catacombs. Spotlights illuminated a church façade carved into the hillside bedrock.

  “Incoming.” Talia raised a set of binoculars as a town car eased to a stop. The door opened and closed. “Single male. African. Maybe. This might be our warlord’s negotiator.”

  Without speaking, Eddie held out a tablet with a photo of two men in the African bush, sporting AK-47s.

  She pointed to the man she’d seen.

  Tyler gave the photo a glance. “Confirmed. Mr. Aku has arrived. Say a prayer, folks. We’re on in five.”

  The usual butterflies played in Talia’s gut, but she felt better about Jafet and Club Styx than she had about Atan and the German Silver gag. A day of planning at the boat and a video chat with some old friends had left her feeling prepared. Still, she prayed for help with the dangers and the unknowns, for comfort for the children in Thailand, and for Finn and Mac. By now the boys were flying low over some of the densest foliage on the planet.

  “Did you have to send Finn and Mac?” Tyler asked when Talia opened her eyes, as if he’d been listening in on her conversation with God. “I was only spitballing when I said I could spare them. Now I have to take Mac’s piece of the job, and we still haven’t heard from Pell about covering for Finn since offering him the job this morning.” He stared her down for a couple of heartbeats, then cranked the motor and put the van into gear. “This is not optimal.”

  Eddie’s tablet buzzed. “Uh oh.”

  “Uh oh, what?”

  “You know that whole bit about not hearing from Pell?”

  Tyler stepped on the brake and turned in his seat. “Spit it out, Eddie.”

  “I . . . just heard from Pell. A blizzard in Vienna delayed his flight. He landed in Athens five minutes ago, three hours late.”

  “We’re done, then. Without Pell, we don’t have the numbers.”

  Val grabbed the back of his seat. “What? You can’t call this off. You’ll be signing Marco’s death warrant.”

  “And we do have the numbers,” Talia said. “I can cover Finn’s role. I have the time.”

  Darcy raised her hand. “Or I could do it, yes?”

  “No.” Talia gently pushed the chemist’s hand down. “You’re throwing the locks and setting the detonators. It has to be me. I have the skills. I learned B&E at the Farm.”

  Tyler lowered his chin and gave her his Really? look. “You’re talking about the equivalent of a weekend learning annex course versus Finn’s PhD.”

  “It’ll be enough.”

  He closed his eyes, either thinking or praying. When he opened them again, he put the van into drive. “Eddie, tell Pell to hurry up as best he can. We’re pressing forward.”

  TYLER AND EDDIE DROPPED Talia, Val, and Darcy off at the church façade. As the boys drove away, the girls took the worn limestone steps down into the Catacombs.

  Darcy had chosen a white satin evening gown, while Talia had gone with black. Both dresses were simple and elegant. Val shimmered between them in red sequins. At the shops, she had justified her selection with psychobabble about shallow hypnosis and color associations.

  “I don’t believe you,” Talia had countered. “I saw the grin on your face when you tried it on.”

  Val hadn’t argued.

  Their clutches were red, white, and black as well, but of the same style and material—slightly large for a fancy evening out and completely interchangeable.

  A raised walkway passed above the flooded limestone deep in the tombs. Red lights below the waterline cast a wavering glow on rows of columns on either side. Silhouettes watched from the darkness beyond, skeletons in the alcoves. Talia pulled her wrap about her shoulders. The air had grown cold.

  “With a little help from yours truly,” Eddie said, offering a final briefing over the comm link, “the TACRON team found their way onto the Terrorist Watchlist. The top of the Terrorist Watchlist. They never left the States. And they won’t be talking to anyone for quite a while.”

  Like any five-star establishment, no one entered Club Styx without a reservation. Jafet’s neutral sanctuary worked via tight access control. Earlier in the day, Eddie had stolen TACRON’s digital reservation package, and Val had passed the confirmation number to a fishmonger at the Milos street market. In exchange, she received a greasy paper bag with four tokens. Talia could feel her token burning like a coal in her clutch—not a pretty picture considering the rest of its contents.

  The deeper they walked into the Catacombs, the worse the comm signal became. “Remember,” Tyler said through the static. “You’re heading into an extinct magma dome, a natural EM barrier. The only sig . . . going i . . . r out must pass thr . . . Jafet’s monitored network. We can’t talk . . . one . . . nother. We . . . an’t coordin . . .”

  The static took over.

  Talia removed her earpiece and tucked it away. “That’s it for SATCOM coordination. From this moment forward, every action we take is on a schedule. Our lives and Don Marco’s life all hang on the ticking of the clock.”

  She fell silent. Up ahead, a wooden boat drifted up to the path, punted by a stolid figure in a leather overcoat and fingerless gloves.

  “Those are the most sunken eyes I have ever seen,” Talia whispered to Val.

  “Makeup,” the grifter whispered back. “Jafet has a flare for the dramatic.”

  Talia spoke for the group, using a code phrase from the reservation package. “Mr. Charon, I presume?”

  The ferryman kept his gaze fixed on oblivion and held out an open palm.

  She dug out the token, a golden drachma, and placed it in his hand. He offered a slow, deliberate nod, and she stepped into the boat, taking a seat on a bench of quilted black velvet. Val and Darcy gave up their drachmas and did the same.

  The boat drifted through the columns, well off the tourist path. The red lights faded behind. And as Talia’s eyes adjusted, the skeletons in the alcoves took on more definition. A few were complete, set into the plaster, bone fingers splayed as if reaching for the passing souls. Most were not so well put together. Skulls, lying askew on piles of shanks and femurs, stared at her with empty eye sockets.

  Val shivered. “Nice place. Lovely decor.”

  The cold had not affected Darcy. She glanced in every direction like a child on an amusement ride. “I like it.”

  Presently, they passed into a tunnel, and the air grew warm again, as if a furnace waited at the far end. The darkness became complete. Talia had to clutch Val’s arm to counter the vertigo. More to settle her nerves than to correct his dramatic detail, Talia thrust her chin at the ferryman. “Not to be a stickler for detail, but the ferryman’s price was an obolus, one sixth of a drachma.”

  To her surprise, he answered. “I get that a lot. Blame it on two thousand years of inflation.”

  “He speaks,” Darcy said.

  “I do now, for we have crossed into my domain.”

  Light returned to the tunnel, orange and flickering, and the black walls gave way to a huge domed chamber. Sporadic flames burst from torches on carved arches and lava-rock bridges, and occasionally from the water itself. Guests sat at tables along seven stories of obsidian balconies. And at the center of it all, on an island of gaming tables, the most adventurous and foolhardy among them drank and gambled.

  The ferryman punted past the island toward a half-moon dock. “Enjoy Club Styx, wandering souls. Seek me out when you are ready to return to living lands.” A smile touched his thin lips. “Should that time ever come.”

  Hard to say at this point, Talia thought. She palmed her phone and glanced at the clock. The readout switched from 10:29 p.m. to 10:30. Zero hour for this mission. At midnight, or zero plus ninety to us
e Agency terminology, Stage Two would be over, one way or another. Ninety minutes. The team had ninety minutes to draw out the ruler of this thematic underworld and kill him.

  CHAPTER

  FORTY-

  SEVEN

  TEN THOUSAND FEET

  MAE SURIN JUNGLE

  MAE HONG SON PROVINCE, THAILAND

  A SPEED BUMP OF WET AIR BOUNCED FINN, chute pack and all, up from the floor of the rickety prop plane he and Mac had rented for the night. Flying in the wee hours over Thai mountain ridges was no better than driving up a rocky jeep trail. “Any chance of finding smooth air?”

  “No.”

  Finn waited through two more bumps for the Scotsman to offer any form of elaboration. None followed. Mac had never been a verbose man, but the terse answer likely had to do with the level of concentration required to keep the little T-41 Mescalero upright in the rough air, so Finn didn’t press. “Alright, then.”

  They had found the plane at a fly-by-night skydiving operation in Chiang Mai. It met their requirements—copilot and passenger seats ripped out and door widened for jump operations. Airworthiness was a secondary concern. The souped-up Cessna 172 had started life as a Royal Thai Air Force trainer and still sported the original olive drab paint job. Looking out at the wings and struts, Finn could see several poorly matched spots where the owner had painted over fifty years of corrosion. He made it halfway through a sigh, only to be bounced off the floor again. “Okay, now you’re doing it on purpose.”

  Mac pointed at a portable GPS display suction-cupped to the dash. “We’re approachin’ the drop zone, lad. Yer up.”

  “Roger. I’m off comms.” Finn pulled his headset cord from the aircraft jack and plugged it into a Motorola handset. He dialed the UHF frequency Talia had given him. “Ewan Ferguson, this is Nightflyer. Come in, please.” Ewan Ferguson. Another Scotsman. What sort of purgatory had Talia thrown him into? “Ewan, this is Nightflyer. How do you read?”

  The radio crackled. “Nightflyer, I read you.” He didn’t sound Scottish, although the aircraft noise and the weak signal made it hard to say for sure. “I am at the drop zone.”