Several sets of eyes turned her way. Most of the men seated at the bar or tucked into the dark booths were murderers and thieves. Talia didn’t fit the profile, but she didn’t care. She could handle them. She picked the beefiest patron looking her way and met his eyes with a disgusted glare. “Na chto ty smotrish’, izvrashchenets?” What are you staring at, pervert?
He growled and went back to his drink.
The others laughed.
A wooden table near the back sat empty, lit by nothing more than the faint red glow of the liquor shelves behind the bar. Talia pulled out a three-legged chair and checked the clock on her phone. The man she intended to turn would be along at any moment. In the meantime, she was content to sit and wait—to soak it all in. Volgograd, still known to most Americans as Stalingrad, was Cold War Russia trapped in time. For Talia, this was all the preconceived images gained during her studies and training.
A seedy bar filled with the refuse of Siberia’s prisons.
A rendezvous with a potential agent.
A shot at several years’ worth of vital counterterrorism intelligence.
Talia had envisioned Russian dives like the Som when Jordan first recruited her to the Clandestine Service, officially the Directorate. Like she’d told the cabbie, this place—this dank, smoky, dangerous place—was exactly where she wanted to be.
Her fish entered the bar a few minutes later. Oleg Zverev remained true to his file photo, down to the blue leather motorcycle jacket. Talia guessed he thought the padding in its shoulders made him look bigger. It had the opposite effect. Compared to the gorillas and grizzly bears at the bar, Oleg looked like a rat wrapped in a blue leather blanket.
The gorilla at the door stepped in front of him, folding his arms, and for a moment, Talia worried she might have a problem. The rat answered with a sour look. The gorilla chuckled and stepped aside.
“Vera Novak.” Oleg spotted Talia at the table and greeted her with the cover name she’d given him. She stood to take his hand, and he held her fingers far too long while his eyes passed up and down her form. “What a pleasure to finally meet you in person.”
What mass delusion made men from every culture think women enjoyed leers and innuendo? Talia slipped her fingers from his grasp. A little sweat. A little hair product. Gross. She took her chair again and wiped her hand on her jeans under the table. “You can speak Russian, Oleg. I’m fluent.”
“I want to practice my English. Besides, it is safer for us. These overgrown morons can barely speak their own language, let alone another.”
The music blaring from behind the bar—some Russian knock-off of nineties American metal—would cover their conversation, but Talia didn’t argue. “Suit yourself.”
“I will. First round is on me. What do you want?”
“I’m here for business. Not a date.”
The corners of his mouth turned up on either side of his rat nose as he walked away. “Why can it not be both, eh?”
Oleg returned from the bar with an entire bottle of vodka and two tumblers, which he filled well past the customary level. “Pahyekahlee.” He tossed his drink back in one gulp.
Talia slid hers aside with the back of her hand. “Nice place you picked, Oleg. A lot of . . . atmosphere. What kind of name is Catfish for a bar?”
“It is good name. In Volga River—mother river of Russia—the catfish is king, top of food chain, up to five meters long and three hundred fifty kilograms.” The rat took her tumbler, swallowed its contents, and poured two more. When Talia’s flat expression didn’t change, he spread his hands. “Three hundred fifty kilograms, Vera. The Som, the Volga Catfish, is bigger than mako shark!”
“The Mako. Now that is a good name for a bar.”
“You Americans have no imagination.” Oleg slid the tumbler in front of her.
Talia pushed it aside again.
He frowned. “Fine. Business it is. You wanted to meet best forger in Russia? Here I am. What do you want?”
“To make your bank account grow.” Talia produced an envelope, fat with cash, and the flaring of Oleg’s nostrils told her she had his full attention.
“I am listening.” He leaned across the pocked wood of the tabletop, bringing with him the stench of vodka breath and perfumed hair, and reached for the cash. But his fist closed on air as Talia snatched the envelope away.
“Not so fast. This is one hundred thousand US, a good-faith payment to show my employer is serious about this relationship. I want to know you’re serious as well.”
“What sort of relationship?”
“The profitable kind.”
Oleg sat back and let his eyes drift around the bar in poorly feigned disinterest. “I have many such relationships. My identities are best in Russia.” He pressed his thumb and forefinger together in the primo sign. “Best in all of eastern hemisphere. I am not copy-shop hack making fake passports. I build complete identities. Documents. Digital histories. Life stories.” Oleg gestured at the envelope. “I can do this for your boss. A hundred thousand will buy him five identities.” He laughed and raised his chin. “Ten with new customer discount.”
“You mean a hundred thousand will buy her ten,” Talia said. “My boss is a woman.”
The rat raised an eyebrow. “How modern. I cannot wait to meet her.”
“You never will. And she doesn’t want new identities for her organization. She wants copies of the new identities you create for others.”
The leer dropped from Oleg’s face. “Perhaps my English now fail me. It sound like you want me to betray my other clients.”
“Not me. My boss. And don’t think of it as betrayal.” Talia lifted her hand, revealing the full thickness of the envelope—the weight of all that money, and watched Oleg lick his lips. She had the rat salivating now. “Think of it as a bonus. Knowledge is power, and she’ll pay handsomely for it.”
His fingers crept across the table, eyes seeking her permission.
She owned him. “Go ahead, Oleg. The money’s yours.”
Talia let her new pet rat pick up the envelope, watching his Adam’s apple dip as he swallowed.
“My boss wins, your clients win, and best of all, you win. Think about it, Oleg. You’ll get paid twice for every identity you create.”
He drew back the lapel of that obnoxious blue leather jacket and tucked the envelope away. “It sound like good deal, yes?” Then his eyes snapped into focus. He raised his voice above the music. “But tell your boss I pass.”
As if the statement were a command, all the grizzlies and gorillas at the bar swiveled on their stools and glared at Talia. Others emerged from the booths like tigers from a forest.
Oleg laughed, zipped up the jacket, and patted the envelope inside. “Did you think I would not find out who you were, Miss C-I-A? Identities are my business, and Vera Novak does not exist.” He slapped both hands down on the table. “Like I said. You Americans. No imagination.”
Talia tensed, hands inching toward the Glock in her waistband. “How?”
“Keep asking yourself that question. How did little Oleg Zverev outsmart the brilliant CIA agent?” Oleg stood and backed away, taking the vodka bottle with him. He took a swig and grinned. “Let it be the last thought that ever crosses your mind.”
Chapter
Two
VOLGOGRAD, RUSSIA
WHARF DISTRICT
TALIA LEAPED UP from her chair, leveling her Glock.
In the same instant, a meaty hand wrapped the barrel and tore it from her fingers. A Russian gorilla stepped out from behind her and handed the weapon to Oleg.
The rat laughed and spread his arms, holding Talia’s Glock in one hand and the vodka bottle in the other. “Nice try. But you cannot save yourself. This was your last mission, Miss CIA Agent.”
“You mean, ‘CIA officer.’” The correction came from a man at the bar, the only one who hadn’t turned at Oleg’s command.
The rat lowered his arms and looked his way. “What did you say?”
&n
bsp; “The term is officer, not agent.” The man kept his face buried in an untouched drink. “If you must to resort melodrama, at least get your phrasing right. My friend here is a CIA case officer. She was trying to turn you into an agent.”
Talia knew the voice, despite the fake Russian accent. “Adam Tyler. What are you doing here?”
He swiveled the stool, bringing his face into view. The accent vanished. “Looking after you.”
“I don’t need looking after.”
“Hey!” Oleg waved the bottle and gun in the air. “What goes on here? Who is this guy?”
Tyler ignored him. “Are you sure? I count fourteen hostiles. One of them already has your weapon.”
“Fifteen. You’re slipping. And I can handle them.”
Tyler glanced at Oleg. The two shared an incredulous look and asked the same question in unison. “Oh, really?”
“Yes. Really.”
With a grunt, Talia lifted the little table and launched the two vodka tumblers. She swatted one with an open hand, sending it flying at Oleg to shatter on the bridge of his rat nose.
At the same time, Tyler left the stool to bring a closed fist down on Oleg’s forearm.
The Glock fell. The rat clutched his bleeding face and ran for the door. “Kill them, you idiots! Kill them both!”
The gorillas and jaguars converged. Talia’s world descended into hairy, smoke-scented mayhem.
Her first target, the man who had torn the Glock from her hand, caught a knee in the groin, followed by an uppercut that met his face as he doubled over.
Another Russian dived for the Glock, but Tyler soccer-kicked him in the temple, and the weapon slid into the dark space under a booth. Talia had no chance to go after it. A gorilla arm caught her in a choke hold. She clawed at his skin, fingernails slipping on hair and sweat.
As she fought for breath, a figure swept in from her left, swinging a bottle. Talia cringed, but the bottle connected with her attacker’s head, not hers. The sweaty arm went limp.
She grabbed the bottle-swinger by his lapels, jerking his face into the light. “Finn?”
Michael Finn—Tyler’s forever-shadow and daredevil catburglar—pumped his dirty blond eyebrows.
Talia pushed him away. “I should have known.”
The Australian gave her a self-assured smolder, the one she never knew whether to love or despise. “The count was fourteen. Not fifteen. You included me. So—” He paused to level an oncoming attacker with his elbow.
“So Tyler was right, and I was wrong. Yeah, I get it. Do you really have to be here?”
“Someone’s gotta look out for Tyler while he’s looking out for you, right?”
One of the Russians pinned Talia’s arms with a bear hug. She drove her heel repeatedly into the man’s instep, shouting with each stomp. “I don’t . . . need . . . looking . . . after!” The hold loosened. She ducked out and shoved the Russian back over an empty chair. He fell at Tyler’s feet and got a face full of boot.
The three fought their way through the bar, laying out their attackers with chair legs and liquor bottles, until Talia reached the gorilla at the door—the biggest of them all. He crossed his arms and growled, “Where you going . . . little girl?”
Behind her, Tyler knocked out his last opponent, raised a gun, and fired three rounds into the ceiling.
The gorilla stepped out of their way.
Tyler walked past, slapping the weapon into Talia’s hand as he started up the steps to the alley. Her Glock. He must have dug it out from under the booth while she was talking to Finn.
She checked the mag. Plenty of rounds. “You couldn’t have used this earlier?”
“What? And skip all the fun of a full-on bar brawl?”
With Tyler in the lead, they headed for a Toyota Hilux pickup across the street, where a third member of his team waited. The big Scottish pilot, Mac Plucket, stood next to the cab, holding Oleg by the collar of his blue leather jacket. Oleg’s kicking feet were a good six inches off the pavement. “Evenin’, lass. Your wee friend here offered me a hundred thousand ta let him go.”
Talia and the other two climbed into the back of the truck. “And what did you say?”
Mac produced the envelope. “I accept.”
“You forgot the let me go part.” Oleg swung his fists at Mac, never connecting.
“Good point, lad. My mistake.”
“That’s our Mac.” Talia held Oleg in the Glock’s sights as Mac heaved him into the truck bed. “Talk.” She shoved the gun closer. “There’s no way a little rat like you broke through my cover. Who tipped you off?”
In place of an answer, blood spurted from the rat’s lips as bullets riddled his body. More rounds plinked off the Hilux. A black sedan raced up the street with a shooter hanging out the passenger window. The bouncer must have called in reinforcements.
Finn lifted Oleg’s body as a shield. Tyler pulled Talia down and pounded on the bed. “Mac, get us out of here!”
The trees of Volgograd weren’t large, but they were everywhere, lining even the busiest streets. They grew in the empty lots and the train yards, gradually turning a gray former Soviet city into Sherwood Forest. Now the forest whipped past while gunfire splintered every trunk.
Talia rolled over to yell at Tyler. “A pickup truck? This is what you chose for an urban rescue?” They both lay on the bed, keeping their heads below the cover of the tailgate and the dead forger. Talia raised herself on an elbow, emptied the Glock, and dropped down again to change magazines. “Poor turning radius. Limited cover. Limited speed.” She slammed her spare mag home and chambered a round, passing the weapon to Tyler. “Why bring a four-by-four when a lighter, faster vehicle will do?”
The next volley hit the trees to their right. Tyler raised the Glock with one arm and fired blind. Glass shattered. Tires squealed. Talia stole a glance over the tailgate and saw the sedan back off four car lengths, one headlight shot out.
How did he do that?
Using the Glock, he gestured at the road ahead. “That’s why we needed a four-by-four.”
The end of the street came on fast, and beyond it, nothing but a mile-wide stretch of the Volga river. Mac hit the curb at full speed, bouncing Oleg up into the air. The body landed next to Talia with an ugly thud.
She gave Finn a look.
He shrugged. “Sorry, princess. I didn’t have as good a grip as I thought.”
The truck barreled over rough ground, and it took all Talia’s strength and coordination to avoid smacking her head repeatedly into the bed. She could barely speak. “You slowed them . . . down . . . but they’re still . . . coming. Your plan . . . didn’t work.”
“Oh, it’ll work,” Finn said. “Trust us.”
A sharp bend in the river loomed ahead. Mac adjusted course to line up with a dirt berm. The engine surged.
“Mac?” Talia shouted.
“Hang on!” Finn shouted at the same time.
The Hilux roared up the berm and sailed out over the river. Talia went weightless, floating in space with the dead Oleg.
The truck splashed down with water flying high on all sides. Talia groaned and pressed up to her knees and saw Mac climb out through the driver’s window just as the river began pouring in. He cast a sour look at Tyler. “Ya said I’d get to fly on this partic’lar job. Ya didn’t say I’d be flyin’ a truck.”
A motorboat pulled alongside them, piloted by a young black woman, Darcy Emile, Tyler’s chemist and demolitions expert. She helped Mac into the boat first and gave him the wheel before helping the others into the back. “Nice of you all to drop in, yes?” she said to Talia a singsong French accent, handing her a towel.
“Hilarious.” Wiping the river from her eyes, Talia looked warily back at the berm. Where Darcy went, explosives were sure to follow. Something was about to go boom.
She hoped.
Before following the rest of the team, Tyler took the time to strap Oleg into the sinking truck with a set of tie-downs.
“What
are you doing?” Talia asked.
“Keeping options open.”
The Russians had carried enough momentum to drive the sedan to the top but not over. Five men piled out, all armed with submachine guns. Talia pulled Tyler into the boat. “You’ve given them the high ground. If you’ve got another trick up your sleeve, now’s the time.”
“Oh ye of little faith.” He pulled a wet handkerchief from his rear pocket and scrubbed at a spot of Oleg’s blood staining his jacket. “Darcy, you’re on.”
“Wait.” The French woman watched the pack of thugs with interest, as if watching lemurs at the zoo. “I want to see their smiling faces, yes?”
A fusillade of bullets peppered the water, and more than a few poked holes in the fiberglass at the back. Mac revved the engines. Everyone but Tyler shouted at the chemist.
“Darcy!”
“Yes, okay. Here goes.”
With a tremendous foomp, an entire section of the berm rose skyward. Five thugs and one car went flying on a cushion of dirt.
Finn poked Talia in the shoulder and laughed. “I told you it would work.”
Acknowledgments
IT IS NOT trite to give God top billing in the thanks department. It is appropriate and correct. I thank him for life, for salvation, for every day on Earth, and for the doors he has opened that allowed me to be here.
Now to everyone else . . .
I don’t know how many authors can say their spouses read every single chapter the moment it’s finished. But I can. I’ve said it before. Cindy is my first-line editor, my cheerleader, and my shoulder to cry on. Without her, my books would not be possible. She keeps me sane. And she feeds me.
I am so thrilled to join the team at Revell. Andrea Doering, Barb Barnes, Michele Misiak, Gayle Raymer, and the rest are a blessing. I am also grateful to my agent, Harvey Klinger, for his guidance and support on this project. He helped me turn this idea into what it is today.
The Gryphon Heist Page 33
