Chasing the White Lion

by James R. Hannibal

  Talia was too far away, but she couldn’t run around the balcony. They’d see her coming and read the play. She walked fast, heels clicking. Once Marco was up those stairs, out of reach, the whole game was over.

  She was close—maybe ten meters—when a stumbling drunk blocked her path. He grabbed her bare shoulder. “Excuse me, pretty lady. You looking for a—” Whatever his intentions, he bought himself a jab to the liver.

  Talia caught his arm to keep him from doubling over and guided him to the rail. “Oops. Are you all right? Maybe you should sit down.”

  By the time she let go, Marco and his guards had reached the steps. Her heart sank. In a last-ditch effort, she drew a breath to shout out. “Mm—”

  Talia swallowed the call.

  Marco had tripped on the first step up to the platform. A stall tactic. The guards stooped to steady him. Marco pushed them away, feigning offense at their condescension to his age. By the time the argument settled, Talia had closed the distance.

  She scrunched her nose, as if utterly surprised to see him. “Marco?”

  “Natalia! Mia cara.” He spread his arms.

  She blew past the guards to embrace him. They kissed each other on both cheeks. He said something in Italian.

  The shortest of Jafet’s men—apparently the one in charge—tugged at her arm. “I am sorry, miss. Your friend has an appointment. He must go, and so must you.”

  “No. No.” Talia swatted at him like a cat. Proximity was the key. “I have not seen this man in years. Who are you to part us again so soon?”

  The guard clenched his teeth, but Marco intervened in a deep voice, soothing and frightening at the same time. “What are you afraid of, my friends? Hmm?” His dark eyes bored into the lead guard. “She is half the size of your smallest man.”

  Talia could see where Val got her talent for reading marks. A short man working security for a mob boss had guaranteed inferiority issues. Marco had poked the lead guard right in the soft center of a sensitive psychological bruise.

  The guard struggled to find a response, and the Italian pressed his advantage. “Would your master deny me one friendly face at my final game, hmm? Natalia is harmless. Leave her with me, and let us get on with this.”

  Before the guard could answer, his radio crackled.

  A South African voice said, “Heads up on the ninth circle. The croupier is inbound.”

  “Copy. Dealer on the way. We will be ready.” The guard frowned at Marco, then turned toward the stairs. “Come. We must prepare the platform.”

  “What about her?” asked the one closest to Talia.

  The lead guard glared back at him, now three steps up, a head taller than the rest. “Do you think we cannot handle a woman in an evening gown?”

  Talia patted Marco’s arm, escorting him up the stairs. “Are we playing poker, Don Marco?”

  “Sì, mia cara. Perhaps the most important poker game of my life.”

  “Then I am glad to be here.” She faked a naïve smile. “I will bring you luck. I hope.”

  CHAPTER

  FIFTY-

  FOUR

  CLUB STYX

  MILOS, GREEK ISLES

  11:28 PM

  THE CROUPIER, an older gentleman with gray hair and spectacles, arrived next to oversee the game and deal the cards, carrying an aluminum case handcuffed to his wrist. He acknowledged Talia with a nod as the men patted him down. “Madame.”

  She nodded back.

  Jafet’s men had taken up posts at the four corners of the platform. Standing behind Marco’s chair and looking out over an obsidian rail embedded with gems, Talia could see all the action below. Val worked the tables with Aku, who always had a full drink in hand. Darcy had drifted out of sight—as expected. If all went to plan, she’d remain behind the scenes for the remainder of the night.

  The croupier placed two trays of chips on the table and pushed them to either end, using a crook-like chip harrow. He set a third, double-layer tray at his right elbow, on Jafet’s side.

  “Jafet’s reserves, I presume?” Marco thrust his square chin at the extra chips. “A show of force. The game is stacked against me already.”

  The croupier only smiled. He let a machine shuffle his cards and then twiddled his thumbs, waiting.

  At 11:38 p.m., fashionably late, Jafet arrived. Marco stood to greet him, and the two met at the midpoint of the table like generals meeting for a parley on the field of battle. Jafet tucked a silver-headed cane under his arm to shake the Italian’s hand. “Marco Calafato, how long has it been?”

  “Too long, Orien. Too long.”

  “Indeed.” As he returned to his seat, Marco checked a silver pocket watch. “I was concerned for your welfare, old friend. I thought we were to begin at half past.”

  Jafet made no excuse. His eyes flashed to Talia, standing behind the Italian. “I see you managed to bring a good luck charm, despite my best efforts to keep you all to myself.”

  “This is Natalia, whom I view as a goddaughter. We met by chance on the balcony.”

  “Chance, eh?” Jafet did not buy it. The look he cast at the lead guard told Talia the man’s job might be forfeit. But then he chuckled. “I’ll allow it. What is victory if no one from the losing side lives to tell the tale?”

  At the not-so-subtle hint Marco would not survive the night, Talia laid a protective hand on his shoulder.

  The old Italian gave her fingers a reassuring pat, never taking his eyes off his opponent. “Thank you, old friend. Besides, I need her to shield my cards from the roving eyes of your men.”

  “You wound me, Marco. I would not cheat tonight—not with what lies at stake.”

  “Honor itself?”

  “Just so. And with the stakes affirmed, it is time to begin.”

  They played five-card draw, the simplest and fastest of poker forms. Marco won the first three hands. Jafet took the fourth, with a larger pot than the first three put together. All the while, the two reminisced. Their rivalry had spanned nations and continents—around the Med and beyond. Sicily. Corsica. Barcelona. Bern.

  Jafet’s eyes burned with increasing heat, particularly when discussing those cities where his organization had lost ground. But the general flow of the pot to his side of the table seemed to keep his anger in check.

  Soon that flow became a flood.

  Marco lost one hand after the other. In some, he folded after the first bet, taking minimal hits. But in others, he pushed too far and fell short of Jafet on the call. As his pile of chips dwindled to a breaking point, Talia glanced at the island below to check on Val.

  The grifter had pulled Aku to the east bridge, away from the tables. They were arguing—not a heated exchange, but an exaggerated discussion, like teenagers on a third date. Talia watched their lips. In her head, she could hear Val driving the script.

  Take one picture of me from the top. Just one.

  Why? You’ll hardly be visible in the crowd.

  A girl wants what a girl wants. Please, Aku. One picture. Get the whole club in the shot.

  Aku looked up at the eighth-level balcony. Annoyed but malleable. More than a little tipsy. After a little more encouragement from Val, he set off across the bridge.

  A rhythmic splash of chips drew Talia’s focus back to the game. Jafet was looking straight at her. “Your good luck charm is distracted, old friend. She is failing at her purpose.”

  Marco remained cold, his expression unmoving. “Luck is a figment of the imagination. Poker is a skill, a learned balance of risk and reward.” Marco’s eyes, beneath that heavy brow, looked down at the pot. “It seems you are taking the ultimate risk. You’ve put me all in.”

  The dealer scooped all Marco’s chips into a neat pile near the pot, and Jafet sat back, laughing without restraint. “You were all in the moment you left Campione. You made a play. I saw it coming. I call.” He laid his cards on the table. “Three aces. Two kings. Full house.”

  Marco held his cards to his chest. “I am afraid I’m not follow
ing. What play do you speak of?”

  In answer, Jafet reached into his jacket. Talia tensed, but all he drew out was a miniature tablet. He laid it on the table, started a video application, and nodded for the croupier to slide the device over to Marco with his crook.

  On the screen Aku walked along the eighth-level balcony. Talia checked the same spot and saw the Kongaran. The video was live.

  Jafet snapped his fingers, and his short lead guard mumbled into his radio. Two guards converged on Aku. They caught him a few paces short of the steps to the platform.

  The Kongaran struggled and protested. “A picture. I only wanted a picture.”

  “I don’t believe him,” Jafet said, addressing Marco. “After all, he is your man.”

  “My man?”

  “Networks, Marco. The old analog methods you used to best me in Bern and Sicily became obsolete while you languished in retirement. The future is digital. It constrains us, creates choke points, and my network in Club Styx has the best decryption software money can buy.” He pointed at Aku with his cane. “Earlier this evening, my sensors tracked a five-million-dollar payment from the account you used to cover your chips to an account belonging to that man—your assassin. Since then, my security force has watched his every move.”

  Aku’s jacket started beeping. One of the guards held his arms while another dug a black orb with a flashing red LED out of his breast pocket. The beeping quickened. The guard’s eyes widened, and he threw it out under the dome. The ball exploded with red sparks and a puff of gray smoke, eliciting a shocked Ooo! from the crowd.

  “Not mine,” Aku said, struggling against his captors. “It was not mine!”

  The guards dragged him away.

  Jafet leveled a silenced pistol at Marco’s head. “Midnight is upon us, old friend, and you have played your full hand. Your time is up.”

  “Have I?” The Italian laid his cards face down on the green felt and checked his pocket watch. “Your clock must be off. There are still five seconds to midnight. Three . . . Two . . . One.” He snapped his fingers.

  With a synchronous boom, blue flashes erupted throughout the club. Smoke filled every alcove where the guards had stood.

  The crowd cheered and clapped, thinking the display must be a continuation of Aku’s fireworks. They seemed not to notice or care that when the smoke cleared, the guards were gone.

  Jafet cared. He glanced around, as if expecting his platform guards to have gone up in smoke as well. They hadn’t. His eyes narrowed at Marco. “What have you done?”

  “Some of the old ways still work, Orien. The shell game, for instance. It is all about misdirection.” Marco nodded at the mini-tablet that had played the live video of Aku. “You wasted your attentions on the wrong cup, and it has cost you.”

  Jafet’s bronze complexion had turned red. “Whatever trick you’ve played has cost me nothing. A few grunts, perhaps. I still have you under my gun.” He tapped his full house with a manicured fingernail. “I’m still holding the best hand.”

  “Are you?” Marco flipped his cards. All hearts. Ace. King. Queen. Jack. Ten.

  Jafet stared at the cards, as if a wish and a hard look could change them, then glared at the croupier. “Those are not as they should be.”

  The Frenchman refused to meet his gaze.

  “I will deal with you shortly, as soon as I put a bullet through our guest’s head.” He thrust the pistol out, finger tightening on the trigger. “Goodbye, Mar—”

  “Yeah. Okay. No problem.” The croupier interrupted Jafet’s big moment. His accent had switched from French to Moldovan.

  Jafet gave him a quizzical look, turning the gun sideways. “What?”

  The crook-shaped chip harrow flashed out and hooked the mobster’s wrist. The gun went off. The lead guard, on Talia’s left, let out a gurgling cry and clutched his throat. He dropped to his knees, blood seeping between his fingers.

  Pell—the croupier—twisted the harrow, and the gun flopped onto the pile of chips.

  At the same time, Talia stepped back to her right, elbow flying. She caught the second guard under the chin and his head snapped back. He collapsed, unconscious.

  The last two guards each took a step toward the fight. Pell’s hand came down hard, upending the double tray of chips. They flew into the air and exploded with a peppering of blue, green, and yellow pops.

  As the guards drew back, covering their faces, Pell freed a gray composite gun taped to the bottom of the double tray and threw it to Talia. She caught it by the grip, slid her finger into the trigger guard, and put two rounds into each man.

  Jafet raised his hands. “How?”

  “These are my successors, Orien.” Marco raised his voice so everyone under the dome could hear. “You’ve met Natalia.” Val came walking up the steps, accepting a second weapon from Pell. “And this is Valerie. Your friends at the Jungle know them as the Macciano Sisters. You speak of the future, Orien? These two are the future. And they are taking your seat at the table.”

  Every eye in the club watched Val and Talia claim their places at Marco’s shoulders, standing tall in their black and red evening gowns. And every eye watched them empty their magazines into Jafet’s jerking form.

  CHAPTER

  FIFTY-

  FIVE

  CLUB STYX

  MILOS, GREEK ISLES

  JAFET FELL BESIDE HIS MEN, and the crowd of lost souls screamed and shouted in dismay. Talia took full advantage of the confusion. Walking to the railing, she pointed a finger of condemnation at the onlookers below, turned her palm upward, and clenched her fist.

  The River Styx exploded into the air. Walls of water crashed down on the gaming tables from all sides, knocking guests off their feet. By the time anyone looked up again, the sisters were gone.

  The girls, Pell, and Marco carried Jafet’s limp form into the eighth-level surveillance room, now void of security guards. They dropped him ignobly on the floor. On a few screens in the bank of monitors, drenched souls fought over chips. On others, armed soldiers in gray-green tactical gear marched guards and workers through the utility tunnels.

  Two men in similar gear were there to greet her. The older one, the Agency’s man embedded in the Special Tactics Squadron at Incirlik Air Base, inclined his head toward the monitors. “Once we secured the outer perimeter, we restored the cameras for our own use.” He held out two tiny boxes with alligator clips. “I believe these are yours.”

  Talia accepted the boxes and dropped them into her clutch. “Major Ruiz. Good to see you again.”

  “Nyx. Always a pleasure.” One corner of his mouth curled into a smile, making the black and gray stubble on his chin catch the light. “The men still talk about that business in the Black Sea. And they loved tonight’s fireworks display.”

  “Well, I can’t take all the credit. Our team is”—she turned to introduce Val, Pell, and Don Marco, but they had left—“shy, apparently.”

  At her feet, Jafet groaned and squirmed. The vapor from more than a dozen nonlethal P3Q rounds was finally wearing off, Tyler’s own diabolical blend of pepper spray and 3-quinuclidinyl benzilate. The ocular pain and shock of the pepper spray made the paralytic coma effect of the 3Q more predictable and nearly instantaneous. She gave him a poke in the ribs with a toe. “Shut up, you.”

  The younger soldier knelt to bind and gag the mob boss. “Wait,” he said, pausing to blink as he cinched the zip cuffs tight. “This is Nyx? The Nyx?” His eyes traveled up from Talia’s spiked heels to her sparkling onyx earrings.

  She frowned down at him.

  Ruiz slapped him upside the head. “Quit drooling.” He lifted the man to his feet by the strap of his tactical vest and shoved him toward the hallway. “Go get Samuels and Bedford and carry this scumbag out to the boat. And make sure his people don’t see him. Can you handle that?”

  The kid was halfway out the door by the time he answered. “Yes, sir.”

  A one-shouldered shrug lifted the barrel of the major’s M4 carbine.
“Sorry, Nyx. Price of fame and all that.”

  Ever since her first intersection with Ruiz, stopping the launch of hypersonic missiles from a secret base in the Black Sea, Talia’s legend in the Special Forces community had grown. Most of the stories had no basis in truth. The men had dubbed her Nyx after the Greek goddess of night—strangely, the mother of the ferryman who’d brought her team into the club. The sudden realization of this connection made Talia blanch.

  Jafet tried to roll over.

  Talia placed a heel between his shoulder blades to keep him still. “What’s to become of our friend here?”

  “He’s wanted in several nations for a host of crimes, including murder. Once it gets out that we have him, there’ll be a massive food fight. Nice of you to spare his life, Nyx. But if the Russians or Egyptians get ahold of him, he’s toast.”

  “Their call. How about we wait awhile, though? Keep him on ice for a bit.”

  “Oh. We will.” Ruiz rested a boot on Jafet’s rear end and leaned in, earning a pained grunt. “Dude had his hand in all the wrong cookie jars. We’ve got weeks of intelligence to pull from his twisted little mind.”

  On the monitor behind him, a pair of soldiers dragged an unconscious Aku across the outer dock. Talia nodded to direct Ruiz’s gaze. “What about the Kongaran?”

  “We’ll drop him on his boat between the dummy containers, like the drunk bum he is. His men will never see us, and Aku will never remember the last hour. Tell your buddy Tyler I took care of the rest. My man in the Royal Thai Rangers is at his disposal.”

  “Will do.” She shook his hand and turned to go. “Thanks for everything.”

  “Anytime, Nyx. Godspeed on the next phase of your op.”

  CHAPTER

  FIFTY-

  SIX

  MAE SURIN JUNGLE HIGHLANDS