Talia rolled her eyes. “Eddie . . .”
“Okay, okay. I’m coming.”
“SSO Gupta’s virus permeated the account,” Tyler said. “It replicated itself and latched on to all outgoing files, including a new photo of Talia at the Frenzy, which Bazin sent you when he sought confirmation of the tip. The virus is dormant, but SSO Gupta can activate it at will. Would you like a demonstration?”
Jordan had no answer. She looked away.
The FBI commander raised a hand. “I’d like a demonstration.”
“So would I.” Across the street Senator Ramirez raised a hand as well, a skilled politician distancing herself from a bad association. “I’d like one very much.”
Eddie unlocked his tablet and tapped the screen twice.
Immediately, Talia heard quiet laughter—the deep, disturbing laughter of the White Lion. Voices chanted, The law of the Jungle, kill or be killed. They came from Jordan’s direction.
One of the agents reached into her pocket and drew out a smartphone. He put it to his ear and shook his head.
Jordan’s flat expression twisted into a smirk. “That’s my phone. No virus.”
It was a desperate move. Talia gave her a look of exasperated disappointment and nodded to the agent. “Try the other pocket.”
He did, and pulled out a second device, screen flashing. Free of the heavy coat, the laughing and chanting filled the square. Eddie tapped his tablet, and the phone went dark. The deep, laughing voice, dying, had one final statement to make.
Game over.
The FBI commander spun Jordan and shoved her toward one of the sedans. “I’d say that’s plenty definitive.”
CHAPTER
EIGHTY-
THREE
RUSSIAN EASTERN EUROPEAN DIVISION
CIA, NEW HEADQUARTERS BUILDING
LANGLEY, VIRGINIA
A BLUE LIGHT FLASHED from one of REED’s black marble pillars.
Manila cardstock sheets marked with red and orange classification stamps covered every stack of paper and were taped over every computer screen.
All work had come to a screeching halt.
When the parade of black-uniformed officers—the Agency’s Security Protective Services—arrived, Trevor announced their coming with the call, “Uncleared! Uncleared!” like a medieval crier calling Unclean! as a leper enters the village.
Such measures had not been taken at the Directorate since the fall of Harold James Nicholson twenty years earlier.
The security officers carried sealed and marked file boxes out of Jordan’s office for delivery to the FBI. Talia’s fellow case officers had done the boxing and sealing, since Security Protective Services personnel were not cleared for Directorate operations—hence the extraordinary measures during their visit.
Talia had received a great big hug when she stopped for coffee on the way in. Luanne came around her counter to give her the squeeze. “I didn’t know, honey. Your own boss? What have we come to?”
“But I did just as you said. I locked her up.”
“And for that, your coffee’s on the house.” Luanne pulled away and winked. “So is the ‘I told you so.’”
Brennan lowered his broad girth into a chair near Talia. He set a box of donuts on her desk, laid an old-school briefcase in his lap, and settled in to watch the show.
“Waiting for your new office?” she asked.
He chuckled, digging into the donuts. “Waiting for a new era to begin. A tough era. REED enjoyed success under Jordan, but at what cost? She made deals with more than one devil. She took an easy road.”
“And we’ll take the hard one?”
Brennan gestured at the parade of boxes with a sour cream glazed. “Starting with cleaning house. This isn’t over.” He took a bite, continuing as he chewed. “Jordan used to say a recruited agent or asset was the puppet, the case officer was the strings, and—”
“And the section chief was the puppeteer.” Talia casually slid the box away from him. “I remember. In this case, Bazin served as the strings for controlling Ivanov and Boyd.”
Brennan slid the donuts back to the edge. “But Bazin can’t be her only set of strings. Jordan had others, perhaps in this building. We’ll take our time unraveling the mess.”
He finished his sour cream glazed, picked up a Berliner, and turned to Talia, chair squeaking in protest. “Which brings me to another matter. Someone has to take over Other.”
He couldn’t be serious. “Don’t even think about it. I’m not ready for a desk job, especially that desk job.”
“Easy, tigress. That job belonged to me until a few hours ago.” He took another bite, jelly catching on his mustache. “But no, don’t worry. I had a different victim in mind.” Brennan glanced at the upper level of acrylic offices.
Trevor was up there, taking a seat at his premium-real-estate desk. The REED veteran seemed to feel their eyes tracking him and looked down. His hand went to his bow tie, straightening it. “What?”
“Nothing,” both Brennan and Talia said at once.
She lowered her voice. “Trevor?”
“He’s a homebody. Hates the field. But he’s dedicated. Chief of Other will be a step up for him.”
“In title only.”
The last security officer in the parade walked out of Jordan’s office, carrying the stickman and tightwire desk toy. The little man fell off as he closed the door. He didn’t notice, and kept on walking, leaving it lying on the floor.
Brennan heaved himself up from the chair and bent to recover the figure. “That’s my cue. One more thing. I’d like to take you and Gupta out to dinner tonight. An Armenian place. Fantastic blackened-pumpkin-noodle-something-or-other. Conrad turned me on to it.”
Talia didn’t trust the wicked cant of his mustache, jelly-stained or not. She sensed a practical joke. She couldn’t go anyway. “Rain check? Eddie and I have plans tonight. There’s something I need to do, and I need Eddie there for both moral and technical support.”
BILL AND WENDY FAILED to sufficiently hide their looks of absolute terror as they set the table for another meal with Talia’s crew. She had asked permission to bring them over again, along with Conrad.
“The police came to the house,” Wendy whispered to Talia when the two were alone in the kitchen. Talia caught Tyler glancing over from the living room. Wendy’s whispers had always been louder than she knew. “They said you were in trouble.”
“I know. And I’m sorry. There was a mix-up at work. It won’t happen again, I promise.”
Tyler shot her a look that said, Don’t make promises you can’t keep.
She picked up a bread basket and followed Wendy into the dining room. “Well, I certainly hope it won’t happen again.”
Before the meal began, and after the prayer, Talia let her nervous parents off the hook. She rang her glass with a spoon, echoing the phrasing Bill had used a week earlier. “I have a presentation to make.” She pushed her chair back, hugging the red box. “I should have accepted this amazing gift the moment you offered.”
“So you will?” Wendy asked. “Accept, I mean.”
Talia nodded.
Wendy gasped and clasped her hands, beaming.
Relief brought color back to Bill’s cheeks. “We’re so glad. And we understand why you had to think about it. We sort of ambushed you.”
“Maybe, but it should have been a no-brainer.” Talia walked the box to the head of the table. On the way, without looking, she smacked a roll out of Mac’s hand. “I spent so many years spurning the love you showed me. I spurned God’s love in self-imposed isolation. But you”—she smiled at her parents and then turned to face the team, looking each of them in the eye—“all of you helped me learn to lean.” Her gaze fell on Val last. “You helped me realize we’re never alone in our struggles, even our failings.”
After embracing her parents and Jenni, Talia opened the box. On top of the adoption papers sat a special pen Franklin had engineered for the signing. Nothing technical, a
mix of tungsten carbide and titanium. Strong and lasting. The engraving on the side read FAITH AND FAMILY.
Talia lifted the pen to sign, but Bill stopped her. “We . . . can’t actually sign here. My first presentation to you was symbolic. To make it legal, we have to go to a notary public.”
“Taken care of.” Talia snapped her fingers. “Eddie?”
The geek left his place at what he called the kids’ table and joined them, carrying a leather backpack. He drew out a stamp and a seal embosser and rubbed his hands. “Ready to rock.” At the question in Bill’s eyes, he shrugged. “What? I took an online course.” But as he bent to review the papers, he sneezed.
A big sneeze. The sneeze of a monster cold refusing to let go of its victim.
Talia pulled her mother clear of the spray. “Gross, Eddie.”
“You can’t say ‘gross’ when someone sneezes.” He dabbed his nose with a handkerchief. “It’s offensive.”
She couldn’t help but laugh. Good old Eddie. “It’s not offensive. Don’t be such a snowflake.”
“You’re the snowflake.” Eddie wiped Franklin’s now somewhat less special pen on his jeans and handed it over. “Now hurry up and sign the forms so we can eat.”
AUTHOR’S NOTE
Real Heroes
I JUMPED FOR JOY, right there in the airport, wearing my best business suit. A TSA security guard gave me a sidelong glance, but I didn’t care. Compassion International had said yes, and I had the same rush I’d felt years before when *REDACTED* from *REDACTED* tapped me on the shoulder and offered me a special assignment.
With Compassion International’s permission to give them a starring role in a spy novel, I had an opportunity to contribute to God’s special ops team. Allow me to explain, and when I’m finished, I hope you’ll consider being a part of this team too.
Let’s talk about unconventional warfare.
Authors are prone to exaggeration, but in this case, the comparison is valid. Unconventional warfare is multipronged and synergistic. Likewise, Compassion combats child poverty along multiple avenues like health care, nutrition, education, spiritual development, and confidence building. They serve the whole child.
Unconventional warfare is quiet warfare. Compassion operates in the background through local churches—more than 7500 in 25 countries at the time of this writing. The local church remains the focal point of love and help in the community. The glory goes to God, not Compassion.
And like any good unconventional warfare team (Talia, Tyler, and company included), Compassion leverages the power of personal relationships to achieve a strategic objective. Through sponsorships, they are defeating global poverty one child—one relationship—at a time.
Unconventional warfare. God’s special ops. Real heroes with a major impact.
You can be part of the team.
Becoming a Compassion child sponsor is not just about giving $38 a month. Through the exchange of letters, sponsors build a one-on-one relationship with a child. This love fosters a sense of self-worth and identity that is foundational in the child’s battle against poverty and makes them less susceptible to tangible threats like human trafficking.
I write escapist fiction about pretend heroes. The lives Talia and Tyler save are in our shared imagination, yours and mine. But Compassion child sponsors change real lives. They save real lives. A child sponsor is a real hero. If you’re ready to become one of these heroes today, visit www.compassion.com.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
GOD IS GREAT. God is good. And he demonstrates this to me daily. My ability and opportunity to write are the direct result of God’s goodness. Thank you, Lord.
There are, of course, many others to whom and for whom I’m grateful.
I’ve said it many times. My wife Cindy is my first-line editor, my cheerleader, and my shoulder to cry on. She keeps me on task and quietly shakes her head when I hand her a chapter with a spectacled bear (long story, different series). I love her, and cannot write (or live) without her.
Revell is staffed with amazing professionals. I am blessed to have Andrea Doering, Barb Barnes, Michele Misiak, Brianne Dekker, Karen Steele, and the rest. I’m also blessed to have an agent like Harvey Klinger. As with my other characters, he had a hand in Talia’s genesis.
Some unnamed folks helped me with the Agency scenes. They’re in undisclosed locations, shaking their collective heads. An old military buddy, Brian Andrews, became my boots-on-the-ground in Bangkok. Dr. Jeremy Evans became my go-to counselor. Thanks to all of you. And thanks to Steven James and DiAnn Mills, who’ve given so much of their time to mentor me. Come to think of it, DiAnn’s critique group members helped with this book as well. It pays to have folks willing to read your work aloud and tell you when it’s terrible.
Finally, there are the usual suspects behind my novels: Todd and Susie, John and Nancy, Chris and Melinda, Seth and Gavin, Danika and Dennis, Rachel and Katie, James and Ashton, Nancy and Dan, Steve and Tawnya, Randy and Hulda, and the Barons. So many encouragers. I love you all.
JAMES R. HANNIBAL is no stranger to secrets and adventure. A former stealth pilot from Houston, Texas, he has been shot at, locked up with surface-to-air missiles, and chased down a winding German road by an armed terrorist. He is a two-time Silver Falchion Award winner for his Section 13 mysteries for kids and a Thriller Award nominee for his Nick Baron covert ops series for adults. The author of The Gryphon Heist, James is a rare multisense synesthete, meaning all his senses intersect. He sees and feels sounds and smells, and hears flashes of light. If he tells you the chocolate cake you offered smells blue and sticky, take it as a compliment.
TABLE OF CONTENTS
Cover
Praise for The Gryphon Heist
Title Page
Copyright Page
Contents
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Acknowledgments
About the Author
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