Praise for The Gryphon Heist
“There is plenty of international action and intrigue in this heist thriller. Give this suspenseful launch of Hannibal’s Clandestine Service to fans of James Rollins and Tom Clancy who are looking for something new.”
Booklist
“Military pilot James Hannibal puts his experience to solid use in the riveting The Gryphon Heist, a cutting-edge tale that dresses up a classic international thriller in a fresh bow. . . . An ambitious, beautifully realized thriller cut from the cloth of James Rollins and Steve Berry.”
BookTrib
“Mitch Rapp and Sydney Bristow have nothing on Talia Inger—i.e., CIA rookie spy. James Hannibal has crafted a story slam full of mystery, danger, twists, and turns. Breathless with anticipation, I couldn’t flip the pages fast enough. You don’t want to miss this one!”
Lynette Eason, bestselling, award-winning author of The Blue Justice series
“A movie-worthy tale of espionage and intrigue. Hannibal has done it again.”
Steven James, national bestselling author of Every Wicked Man
“Cutting-edge technology and age-old cons collide in this high-stakes thriller from James R. Hannibal. The Gryphon Heist plunges readers into a world where no one can be trusted, nothing is as it seems, and choosing the wrong side could be catastrophic.”
Lynn H. Blackburn, award-winning and bestselling author of the Dive Team Investigations series
“Leap onboard The Gryphon Heist and ride the whirlwind of suspense. Don’t let go!”
DiAnn Mills, author of Burden of Proof, www.DiAnnMills.com
© 2020 by James R. Hannibal
Published by Revell
a division of Baker Publishing Group
PO Box 6287, Grand Rapids, MI 49516-6287
www.revellbooks.com
Ebook edition created 2020
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means—for example, electronic, photocopy, recording—without the prior written permission of the publisher. The only exception is brief quotations in printed reviews.
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data is on file at the Library of Congress, Washington, DC.
ISBN 978-1-4934-2114-5
Scripture used in this book, whether quoted or paraphrased by the characters, is taken from the King James Version of the Bible.
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is coincidental.
CONTENTS
Cover
Praise for The Gryphon Heist
Title Page
Copyright Page
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Author’s Note
Acknowledgments
About the Author
Back Ads
Back Cover
CHAPTER
ONE
VOLGOGRAD, RUSSIA
WHARF DISTRICT
PRESENT DAY
THE CABDRIVER cast a nervous glance at the alley’s unlit streetlamps and blacked-out windows. An old man in a mud-stained coat stumbled out of the darkness and passed through his headlights, muttering in the singsong voice of the permanently delirious. The cabbie honked his horn and shouted at the bum, then turned in his seat with a wrinkled brow. “Vot? Ty unveren?”
HERE? ARE YOU SURE?
Talia Inger smiled, answering him in flawless Russian, refined at the Central Intelligence Agency by America’s top accent coaches. “Oh yes, my friend. This is exactly where I want to be.”
She climbed out and paid him, slipping in an extra five thousand rubles because he hadn’t wanted to drive to that side of town in the first place.
The driver thumbed through the money and gave her a soft, worried smile, as if his next words might be the last she’d ever hear. “You are a nice lady,” he said in his native tongue. “I will stop at St. Peter’s and light a candle for you.”
Talia reached through the open window and squeezed his forearm. “Spasibo.” She took in a deep breath as he drove away. The night air stank of drizzle and old fish.
Glorious.
The entrance to the Som—the Catfish—lay at the base of a stairwell halfway down the alley. Like many of the most interesting places in the world, the Catfish could be found only by those who already knew where it was. The bar had no webpage, no neon sign, just three Cyrillic letters scratched into a black-painted iron door. Talia pulled it open and absorbed the blast of heat, noise, and cigarette smoke that greeted her, then waltzed past the bouncer like she owned the place.
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 the faint red glow of the liquor shelves. Talia pulled out a three-legged chair and checked the clock on her phone. Three minutes until her target arrived. 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 place embodied all her preconceived images of intelligence work.
A seedy bar filled with the refuse of Siberia’s prisons.
A rendezvous with a greedy criminal ripe for the turning.
A shot at several years’ worth of vital counterterrorism intelligence.
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 the shoulders made him look bigger. He thought wrong. Compared to the big gorill
as and lithe jaguars at the bar, Oleg looked like a rat wrapped in a blue leather blanket.
The bouncer 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 sat 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. The overgrown morons around us 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 as he walked away. “Why can it not be both, eh?”
Moments later, he returned from the bar with a bottle of vodka and two tumblers, which he filled well past the customary level. “Zdoróvye.” He tossed his drink back in one gulp.
Talia slid hers aside with the back of her hand. “Nice place you picked. A lot of . . . atmosphere. What kind of name is Catfish for a bar?”
“It is good name. In Volga River, catfish is king. He is 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, Volga catfish, is bigger than mako shark.”
“The Mako. Now that is a good name for a bar.”
“You Americans. No imagination.” Oleg slid the tumbler in front of her.
Talia pushed it aside again.
He frowned. “Fine. Business. What can best forger in Russia do for Vera?”
“The question you should ask is, What can Vera do for you?”
“Okay. I bite. What can Vera do for me?”
“Make your bank account grow.” Talia produced an envelope, fat with cash.
The flaring of Oleg’s nostrils told her she had his full attention. “I am listening.” He leaned across the pocked tabletop, bringing with him the stench of cigarette breath and perfumed hair, and reached for the cash.
Talia snatched the envelope away. “Not so fast. This is one hundred thousand US, a good-faith payment to show that my employer is serious. First I want to know you’re serious as well.”
“What kind of relationship?”
“The profitable kind.”
Oleg 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 and kissed them with a loud smack. “Best in Russia. I am not copy-shop hack making fake passports. I build complete identities. Documents. Digital histories. Life stories. A hundred thousand will buy your boss five identities.” He raised his chin. “In fact, make it ten. I give him new customer discount.”
“Her. 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. She wants copies of the identities you create for others.”
The leer dropped from Oleg’s face. “Perhaps my English fails me. It sound like you want me to betray my clients.”
“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. “Think of it as a bonus. You’ll get paid twice for every identity you create.”
The rat’s Adam’s apple dipped. “A bonus. Yes. I like that.” His fingers crept across the table, seeking her permission.
“Go ahead, Oleg. The money’s yours.” She owned him.
Oleg drew back the lapel of his blue leather jacket and tucked the envelope away. “It is very good deal. But tell your boss I pass.”
As if the statement were a command, all the rough patrons at the bar swiveled their stools to glare at Talia. Others emerged from the booths.
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.” He slapped both hands down on the table. “Like I said. You Americans. No imagination.”
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. One of the Russian gorillas stepped out from behind her and handed the weapon to Oleg.
The rat laughed, 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 the bar—from the only patron who hadn’t turned at Oleg’s signal.
The rat lowered the bottle. “What did you say?”
“My friend, here, is a CIA case officer.” The man kept his back to them, face buried in an untouched drink. “She was trying to turn you into an agent. Get it right.”
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. “Who is this guy?”
Tyler ignored him, keeping his focus on Talia. “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 Russians converged. Talia’s world descended into hairy, nicotine-scented mayhem.
Her first target, the gorilla who’d 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 thick arm caught her in a choke hold. She clawed at it, 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 cat burglar—pumped his dirty blond eyebrows.
Talia pushed him away. “I should have known.”
Finn gave her a self-assured smolder, the one she never knew whether to love or despise. “The count was fourteen,” he said in his Melbourne accent. “Not fifteen. You included me. So—” He paused to level an oncoming attacker with his elbow.
“So, Tyler was right, and I was wrong. Ye
ah, I get it. Do you really have to be here?”
“Someone’s gotta look out for Tyler while he’s looking out for you.”
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 with chair legs and liquor bottles, until Talia reached the bouncer—the biggest gorilla 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.
As she followed, 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?”
A third member of Tyler’s team waited beside a Toyota HiLux pickup. The big Scottish pilot, Mac Plucket, stood by the cab, holding Oleg by the collar of his jacket. Oleg’s kicking feet were a good six inches off the pavement. “Evenin’, lass. Your wee friend here offered me a hundred thousand dollars 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 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 kneeled beside him and shoved the gun closer. “There’s no way a little rat like you pierced my cover. Who tipped you off?”
In place of an answer, blood spurted from the rat’s lips. 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. Someone in the bar must have made a call—likely someone who didn’t want Oleg giving any false identities.
Chasing the White Lion Page 1
