Finn put two and two together. “Ewan . . . Ferguson?”
The man lowered the radio far enough to shield his eyes from the light. “Yes. It’s confusing. Little Thai guy with a big Scottish name. My dad was a missionary. Would you mind lowering that gun?”
The other man muttered something, eyeing the weapon.
Ewan translated. “This is Po, the father of one of the missing boys. He says he’s glad to see an American commando, but he doesn’t want a firefight when we find the children.”
“I’m Australian, not American. And I’m no commando.” Finn let the weapon hang from its sling. “This gun is nonlethal. Without getting too technical, the rounds are mini flashbangs filled with pepper spray. All the same, mate, it’s best to be prepared.” He reached to his back and drew Matilda from his pack. “Sometimes firefights come along whether we want them or not.”
Ewan translated. The other nodded in understanding. The man had seen his share of war and ugliness, Finn could tell. The three converged in the clearing and shook hands. “If you’re not a commando, what are you?”
“I’m a thief.”
Ewan stared at him for a long moment, then started for the trees. “Great. Follow us.”
The jungle turned thick a few meters into the trees. Ewan stumbled along with his torch, a step ahead of Finn. Occasionally, he let a branch snap back to hit the thief in the chest or face. “Sorry,” he said every time. “Sorry about that.”
In contrast, Po moved through the vines and foliage like a ghost, rarely raising a hand to fend off a branch—rarely needing to.
“Is this area dangerous?” Finn asked, blocking a flying branch with his gun.
“You mean in terms of animals or militia?”
“Take your pick.”
“A few of the snakes can kill you, so watch your step.”
Finn shined his light directly at his own boots. He couldn’t see the soil beneath them, let alone any snakes. “Smashing.”
“Militia shouldn’t be a problem other than the kidnappers. In this region our biggest danger is bandits.” Ewan looked back over his shoulder. “You know. Thieves.”
Finn didn’t laugh. “How much farther?”
“At least another half kilometer.” As he spoke, Ewan bumped into Po. The refugee grumbled and said something harsh in Thai.
“What did he say?” Finn asked. “Why did he stop?”
“Um . . . We’re here.”
Po led them in a wide misshapen circle, tracking a five-foot-tall fence of barbed wire strung from tree to tree. He spoke in a low monotone, detached, as if all his emotion were already spent.
“Po believes this is a pen. Not for animals, but for people.”
“You mean children.” Finn found a loose wire and lifted it with the barrel of his weapon.
Po met his eye as he ducked under. “Yes, Thief. Children.” That bit of English, he knew.
They spread out, each with a light, and searched the area. Po held up a foil wrapper with a green and yellow logo—packaging from some kind of junk food. Finn gave him a nod and continued tromping through bushes. Most were tamped down, possibly by animals.
Finn needed better evidence. “Po thinks this was the kidnappers’ first stop with the kids, right?”
“No. The second stop.” Ewan seemed confused that Finn did not already know this information, a hazard of dealing with a communication chain that crossed multiple groups, continents, and languages. “Po found the first one a few days ago. From there he searched in a wide arc and discovered this one.”
“Rightio. You’ve made more progress than I thought.” Finn blinked at the light shining in his eyes. “Lower your torch a bit, would you?” As Ewan complied, he threw out a hand. “Wait. Stop there.”
“What is it? What did you find?”
Finn plucked a brass cylinder from a clump of grass. “Shell casing.” He searched the immediate area for more, but found something else—something that made his stomach turn. “And blood, mate. Smears of blood.”
CHAPTER
FIFTY-
ONE
CLUB STYX
MILOS, GREEK ISLES
10:57 PM
TALIA WATCHED VAL AND AKU SHAKE HANDS, then searched for Darcy. She found her a quarter of the way around the third-level balcony, moving in on their mark.
On all nine levels of Club Styx, Jafet’s men stood watch. Those who worked the main chamber, standing in obsidian alcoves, wore black suits trimmed with red. Those who worked the guest room hallways and utility tunnels wore black trimmed with yellow. Both blended into the décor like creatures in Dante’s circles. But these were not mythical beasts.
They were employees. On a schedule.
Shift change came at eleven, three minutes away. Replacements were already turning up. Darcy bumped into one of the new arrivals stepping off the lift. She poked his chest and made an accusation.
He emphatically shook his head.
Talia got moving.
With an easy pace, she made her way around the circle toward the arguing pair. Darcy saw her coming and advanced a step. The guard, unable to counter his own instincts regarding personal space, backed into Talia as she passed. He muttered an apology. She waved him off and kept walking, with his keycard palmed in her other hand.
Finn would be proud. And the idea that she wanted to make him proud caused Talia to crack a half smile.
The guest halls, founded on magma tubes, had no predictable organization or arrangement. They snaked and wound through the mountainside, branching off at odd angles. Obsidian sections poked through creepy wood wainscoting and silk wallpaper. Talia hoped the map Eddie had shown her was accurate; otherwise, she might walk in endless circles seeking her target room. Darcy couldn’t stall that guard forever.
The intersection ahead matched the map in her mind. She peeked around the corner, and there it was, a door like all the others but with a scan pad. A camera dome hung above the door. Jafet was no fool. Had Finn or Pell done this part of the job, they would have worn a guard uniform easily adapted into evening wear. Gowns didn’t work that way. Talia would have to move in and out of the camera’s view as quickly as possible.
“Come on,” she hissed at the guard behind the door. “Where’s your relief, huh? Go find him. You know you want to.”
As if by telepathic prompting, the guard waiting on the other side opened the secure door and stuck his head out. Talia jerked back. Footsteps. She jiggled the knob on a guest room door, offering a fleeting smile as the guard passed. He paid her no mind, and when he turned at the next intersection, Talia hitched up her gown and made a run for it. She slapped the stolen card against the scan pad and slipped through into the utility tunnels.
The walls back there were raw, chipped obsidian. And the doors were painted iron with thirty-year-old tumbler locks. No cameras. With the guard out of the picture, the rest of Talia’s work as Finn-slash-Pell’s surrogate would be child’s play.
She quick-stepped along the doors, searching for the main breaker room. A lightning-bolt danger sticker marked her target. Talia snorted. An OSHA-compliant mob boss. “Safety first, I guess.”
The clutch Talia carried was significantly lighter than the one she’d given Darcy in trade. Darcy had emptied most of its contents into the river, leaving only a phone, two tiny black boxes with alligator clips, wire cutters, and a bump key.
Talia pressed the bump key into the lock, applied turning pressure, and rhythmically tapped the head with the wire cutters. On the fourth tap, the lock turned. At the same time, something smashed into the back of her head.
Blinding pain.
Talia’s world went dark.
CHAPTER
FIFTY-
TWO
CLUB STYX
MILOS, GREEK ISLES
TIME UNKNOWN
THE BOAT.
The moonlight on the water.
Finn looking down at her. Talia needed him.
No. Not exactly. She needed him to do something.
What was it?
The kids. Hla Meh. Finn had to find the little girl.
“Wake up please.”
Light flashed in her brain. Talia groaned. Pain throbbed at the back of her skull. She tried opening her eyes and shut them again, nauseated by the spinning of the world. Was the boat moving? That couldn’t be right. Talia had left the boat with the team.
Fighting the urge to throw up, she opened her eyes once more. This time, she held them open, but they did her little good. Her world remained dim and blurry. She sat slumped in a chair, neck limp. Attempting to raise her head brought more pain. On a short pillar of black rock nearby, wavering in her double vision, she saw her phone.
The clock.
The time.
The whole mission hinged on Talia clipping Eddie’s boxes to the electrical system to disengage the locks and cameras at the club’s seaside loading dock. Had she gotten that far?
A man in a black suit sat near her, their knees almost touching. He spoke with a South African accent. “Wake up. You’re almost there. I didn’t hit you that hard.”
“Yes, you did.” The dizziness and pain refused to subside. “What time is it?”
“Why do you care?” He laid her clutch on the pillar, followed by its contents—the cutters, Eddie’s black boxes, the stolen ID card, and the bump key. The fifth item he set down had not come from Talia’s clutch. He laid a handgun on the pillar behind the rest, out of reach. Her inability to focus prevented Talia from determining the make or model.
After letting her squint at the weapon for a time, the man drew one final item from his belt and leaned forward to rest his elbows on his knees. Light glinted off steel. A knife. Talia felt the cold tip against her cheek, but she didn’t have the strength to pull away. “Please.”
“Please tell you the time? Please don’t kill you?” He laughed. “I saw you slip into our utility hall from the monitor room. I’m sorry, my dear, but none of my people look this good in a dress.”
“Just . . .” Talia shut her eyes and opened them again. No matter how hard she tried, she couldn’t make the room stand still. “Just looking for the ladies’ room.”
“That old line? My goodness, I am dealing with an amateur.” He let out a sigh, as if bored by her bravado. “If there’s anything Mr. Jafet hates, it’s unanswered questions. Before I let you die, I need to know what you were up to.” He pulled the knife away and twisted it back and forth, letting the light bounce off the blade. “By hook or by crook, as it were.”
Talia didn’t like his phrasing. “Let me die?”
“You’ll want to before I’m done.” He pressed the knife against her cheek again. “Now, before I open the first of what could be many, many wounds, I’ll give you one last chance to confess your sins.” He pushed the tip up, not enough to break the skin, but enough for Talia to feel its sting. “Ten.”
The gun. She couldn’t get it to hold still in her vision long enough to make a play.
“Nine.”
Why would God let this happen to her? Had he brought her all this way to fail?
“Eight.”
Talia closed her eyes and opened them again. No change. Where was Tyler? Wasn’t this the moment where he always swept in to save her?
“Seven.”
Her heart began to pound. Her body tingled, going numb. The more she fought to regain control, the more control fled from her.
“Six.”
Maybe she could scramble, go wild. Maybe she would get lucky.
Lucky.
The idea sounded so utterly ridiculous in the urgency of the moment. Talia almost laughed. She no longer depended on luck, right? Her baptism had made that clear to the world. But what then? If a Christian didn’t concern herself with luck, what did she depend on? Herself? That’d been Talia’s answer these last few months, despite what she’d said to Val.
“Five.”
Her own words came back to jab at her—the story of Christ pulling Peter up out of the water. Talia had battled through storms of late with sweat and bullets instead of faith, never once leaning on God, never once taking his hand and watching him calm the seas.
“Four.”
She heard Conrad’s voice from a few nights earlier. You are strong and courageous, my child . . . Joshua, like you, was strong and courageous, not on his own, but because God was with him.
“Three.”
The knife turned. She could feel her captor’s muscles tensing through the steel.
Dear God, I trust in you. Hla Meh and the other children are in your hands, not mine. I trust you have a plan for them. I trust in you, God. I’m leaning on you. Amen.
“Two.”
Something changed.
The dizziness evaporated. Talia opened her eyes. Her vision cleared.
“One.”
A small whisper inside said, Go!
Talia wheeled her left hand up to knock the knife clear—not far, but enough to move. Her right hand went to the gun. She scooped it up by the barrel and lurched clear of a sweeping cut.
The chair fell backward.
The South African lunged, trying to prevent her from turning the gun around. It was a smart move, his only move, and Talia saw it coming. She spun left to dodge the stabbing blade and smashed the butt of the pistol into his temple.
The man collapsed in a heap.
Talia wasted no time in sweeping her tools into the clutch. She stumbled to the door and snuck a look into the tunnel. The utility room where she’d been caught was only two doors down. But before she could make a move, a shadow darkened the corner at the end of the hall.
Talia pulled back and closed the door to barely a slit. The man approaching the utility room looked like a guard. Almost. She pushed out into the hall. “Pell?”
The dizziness returned. Her shoulders fell back against the sharp edges of the obsidian wall.
“Talia.” He ran to her side and put an arm around her waist to hold her up. “I was looking for you.”
“I got . . . delayed.”
“I can see that. You all right?”
She blinked twice. No double vision. At least she could still see. “I will be.” God had answered Talia’s prayer. He must want her to keep going.
Pell helped her off the wall, and the two ducked into the room with the unconscious security man. “Your work?”
“He started it.”
Double rows of folding chairs hung on rolling racks against the wall. Pillar-style obsidian tables were stacked four high in the corner. The room, now that she could see clearly, looked more like a storage room than a holding cell. “I . . .” She touched the bump on the back of her head and winced. Blood darkened her fingers. “I don’t think he told anyone about me. Not yet.”
Pell kicked the fallen chair aside and lowered her into the one still standing. He worked the man’s belt loose. “I take it you never breached the utility closet?”
“Negative. Are we too late?”
“Let’s just say we’re cutting things a mite close. We’d better get cracking.” Pell rolled his unconscious friend over to secure his wrists and found a radio handset had been lying underneath him. He stared at the radio for a moment longer, then looked up at Talia. “This little mishap may work in our favor. Tell me about his accent.”
“South African. I’m sure of it.”
The chameleon’s own accent morphed to match. “That’s a good start, miss, but tell me more. Tell about his inflections, the depth of his tone. Tell me every detail you can remember.”
CHAPTER
FIFTY-
THREE
CLUB STYX
MILOS, GREEK ISLES
11:23 PM
A LIFT CARRIED TALIA up to the eighth-level balcony. On the way, she took a long breath to fight the nausea from the blow to her head. Thirty-seven minutes. She had to endure thirty-seven more minutes and either save Marco or die trying.
With Pell in play and armed with the tools to handle the utility closet, Talia had returned to her original m
ission—intercept Don Marco and join him on his way to the 11:30 poker game with Jafet. A date with death.
“Jafet plans to kill him,” Tyler had told her. “He’ll do it at midnight, befitting his self-image as a dark lord, at his private table overlooking the club.”
“Why so public?”
“Many moons ago, Marco was Jafet’s biggest rival. A lot of people remember, and Jafet will want an audience of lost souls to witness his final victory and spread the word. But don’t worry. He won’t get a shot off. You’re going to kill him before he gets the chance.”
That would be a trick without a gun of her own. Talia had sacrificed the South African’s pistol—a Heckler & Koch .45—to solve a cosmetic issue. The blood matting her hair was a dead giveaway that she had not come for a nice evening out. She and Pell had found a faucet in one of the utility rooms, but the water did more harm than good to the updo Val had given her. In the end, she dismantled the .45 and used its recoil spring as a hair screw to rearrange the style and cover the mess.
The gun would have done her little good anyway. The thugs guarding the staircase to Jafet’s poker table weren’t rocket scientists, but they weren’t idiots either. She couldn’t exactly waltz past them with an eight-inch .45 sticking half out of her clutch.
“Hurry up.” Talia tapped her foot on the lift floor, willing the machine to rise faster. Her hiccup in the tunnels had left her running late.
Marco was not yet in view, but Talia had no trouble getting eyes on Val on the gaming island far below, hanging from Aku’s neck like a glittering red stole. The Kongaran raked in a pile of chips at the roulette table. Val laughed and clapped. At least she was having a good time.
Darcy, too, was still in play.
Talia picked the chemist up at the edge of her vision, coming in from the other side of the island and heading straight for Val. The two timed their switch to perfection. Darcy hit Val and the mark in the narrow space between the poker and craps tables, wiggled between them, and came out the other side with a different clutch. If all had gone well, she had also left behind a gift for Aku.
The lift bumped to a stop at level 8. Tyler had predicted Jafet’s men would bring Marco out into the open as close as possible to his private table, suspended from the dome by iron bars and attached to the balcony by an orange rhyolite staircase. He was right. At 11:26 p.m., four guards escorted the former Italian crime boss out of a passage less than twenty meters from the steps.
Chasing the White Lion Page 20