Val shook her head. “It’s all right. Honestly, I wasn’t going to ask for it back, not after today. I took that coin from my father’s safe when I ran away, along with the first cash I ever stole. In a way, that little piece of gold represents my entire life of crime.”
“This coin was in Marco’s safe?” Talia swallowed, suddenly afraid to drop it. “It’s real, isn’t it? I mean, not just real gold. This thaler came from Maximillian’s lost treasure.”
“I didn’t know what I had until years later, when an old collector in Venice told me its history. I used to imagine that single coin would help me track down the rest.”
“So the game we ran on Atan—”
“Was me acting out the fanciful dreams of a lost teenager. Yes.” Val sat up. “Wait. Atan.”
“What about him?”
“He bought our coins, which counted as one of our deals for the Frenzy. He also told us earning too much would get us unwanted attention from the White Lion.”
Talia knew all of this. But they didn’t have enough reserves left from the Club Styx job to threaten Boyd, so the point was moot. They couldn’t force a meeting. She frowned. “So?”
“So, I’ll need my coin back.”
Talia narrowed her eyes. “I thought you didn’t want it.”
“Don’t give it to me. Sell it to me.” Val went to the deal panels and worked the screens. On the scoreboard, the link symbol between Panther Eight One and Panther Eight Two broke.
Talia’s slate buzzed, as it had during the deal with Atan. Val had made an offer. She raised her eyes to the grifter. “You think this will work?”
“It’s worth a shot.”
With a light touch of the ACCEPT button, Talia took the deal. She passed the Bavarian Thaler to Val. “One gold coin in exchange for a meeting with the White Lion, like handing a drachma to the ferryman for the chance to meet Death.”
On the living room TV, the scoreboard gremlins siphoned more than thirty-four million out of Val’s account and dumped it into Talia’s, leaving Val with ten million—exactly what she needed to cover her ante. Talia’s account had grown to the high side of seventy-eight million.
The White Lion’s account had grown as well, but not by nearly as much. Talia now had him beat by a comfortable twenty million, assuming the deal stuck. Boyd was not merely a Frenzy competitor. He was also the referee. Would he allow this little maneuver?
She didn’t have long to wait for the answer. The slate buzzed again—a private message from the White Lion.
Talia let out a quiet laugh. “He wants to meet. The Atrium. We’ve got him.”
CHAPTER
SEVENTY-
FOUR
JUNGLE ATRIUM
TWIN TIGERS COMPLEX
BANGKOK, THAILAND
THE ELEVATOR OPENED onto a glass walkway, etched to emulate a stone path. With the maze lit below, Talia felt like a messenger to Olympus entering a garden high above the world of men. A near perfect memory of her schooling also left her keenly aware that in every mythology, such places were guarded by monsters.
“Tyler, are you seeing this?” she whispered through her teeth. Her comms crackled, but she received no answer. Eddie had warned her the signal from the repaired transmitter-receiver might not reach the Atrium. No audio or video transmissions. Talia took her glasses off. For now, she was on her own.
A stream fed by a four-story waterfall ran beside the path. Something rustled the foliage beyond. Talia fought the urge to touch the weapon holstered at her back, hidden by her blouse—her Agency-issued all-composite Glock. The time for nonlethals was over. She turned in a circle. “Hello?”
“What is your game, Miss Macciano?”
Talia didn’t see the speaker. “I don’t understand.”
Boyd strolled out from behind the waterfall on a steel-grate walkway, two stories up. He crossed his arms, crumpling the vest and tie of a gray three-piece suit. “You heard me.”
Talia played her part, feigning surprise. “Livingston Boyd. The energy-stock wunderkind. So, you’re the White Lion.”
“In the flesh. But I think you knew that.” He nodded to her left. “Careful.”
A snarling huff punctuated the warning. Talia jumped to the other side of the path. Across the stream, only a few meters away, a full-grown lion shook its white mane, tracking her every move with blue eyes. “Boyd, what is this? You’re feeding me to your cat?”
“Relax. He won’t cross the stream. There’s an ultrasonic fence. The Japanese circus that sold him to me trained him well. I named him Lionel.” Boyd shoved his hands into his pockets and shrugged. “I couldn’t help myself.”
Talia took a step. The lion matched it. She took another. The lion did the same, placing each paw in Boyd’s synthetic grass with silent purpose. He licked his lips. She swallowed. “How long has it been since Lionel ate?”
“Two days. Keeps him active. I wouldn’t want him passed out in a meat coma when I have guests.” Boyd walked along the winding steel grate track, passing between the umbrella boughs of monkeypod trees. “I asked you a question. What’s your game, Miss Macciano? Mine is cutthroat.”
“As in billiards?”
“As in everything.” He came to a stop above her, where the walkway made an S turn over the path. “I grew up online. Massive multiplayer fantasy games. Resource management simulations. Whatever the arena, cutthroat was the winning strategy. Make alliances. Break alliances. Wipe out the noobs and take their stuff.”
Lionel sat on his great haunches, looking up at his master as if hoping for a treat.
Boyd didn’t give him so much as a glance. “I found the same applies to the world’s markets—black, white, or gray. My game is cutthroat, Miss Macciano. And playing cutthroat has made me billions.”
“Your parents must be proud.”
“My parents still live in Cardiff and think I’m a stockbroker. I’m biding my time until I can stick them in a home.” Boyd rested his forearms on the rail. “So, you ended the partnership with your sister and nearly doubled your money. Betrayal? Collusion? Are you merely vying for my attention, or are you gunning for my title?”
Talia didn’t like the way his new position forced her to tilt her head. It robbed her of any awareness of her surroundings. She backed a few paces down the path, grateful Lionel didn’t follow. “You tell me.”
Boyd snorted. “Sorry. No time for guessing games. In less than fifteen minutes, my proxy will arrive at our off-site warehouse with my biggest buyers. I have thirty or forty million dollars coming in over the next hour. Do you?”
“I still have cards to play.”
“Are you referring to the stock you hijacked from Rudenko?”
Talia held her poker face.
“Yes, I know about the hit on Rudenko’s shipment. I know everything that happens at the Frenzy, Miss Macciano. Everything. You may be interested to know the stock I’m selling this evening is similar, and much higher in volume. You can’t win.”
Similar stock. High volume. Boyd had the children, after all. “If you’re not worried about losing, why did you call me up here?”
“Curiosity.” Boyd descended a spiral stair to the glass path, fingers caressing the rail. Lionel let out another guttural huff, perhaps disappointed the Englishman remained out of reach—a bite-sized beef Wellington on the move. “In years past, Frenzy competitors who came this close wound up lying in pools of their own blood. But you piqued my curiosity.”
“How? Is it so surprising to see a pair of women outsmart Atan, Rudenko, and Jafet, or best the White Lion at his own game?”
“I like your confidence, but no. I’m intrigued by your strange mash-up of do-wrong and do-right. You killed Bi Fan and Larson. You shot—” He laughed. “Forgive me. You executed Orien Jafet on behalf of Marco Calafato.” He threw his arms out to the sides. “The Marco Calafato. Word on the Jungle net is you and your sister are his daughters, and I believed that word. But then I heard a different rumor.” Boyd glanced at the foliage near
Talia, as if another big cat might appear, stalking her.
But it wasn’t a cat.
The huge bodyguard who’d killed Riku Ishimoto emerged from the trees and fake boulders, leveling the same Desert Eagle .50-cal.
Boyd made a simple hand gesture, as if introducing an old acquaintance to a new one. “This is my associate Mr. Gorev. A friend of his told us you’re a CIA spy.”
CHAPTER
SEVENTY-
FIVE
GRAND BAZAAR
TWIN TIGERS COMPLEX
BANGKOK, THAILAND
VAL ARRIVED AT THE GRAND BAZAAR with ten minutes to spare. Atan and Rudenko were already in place, putting the final touches on their bays, and Boyd’s master of ceremonies had all his people and decorations set just so, ready for the incoming flood of wealthy customers.
The fountain flowed with a spattering rush. The catering carts sizzled. The air hung thick with the scent of Mediterranean delights. On any other night, Val might have reveled in the glittering gold of this high-end den of thieves. But Aladdin’s Cave had lost its luster. A new awareness in her heart peeled back the veneer to show the gold for rusty, painted tin.
The night had lost its luster for Rudenko too. Val stayed out of his sight line, but she kept tabs. Confused workers ducked and dodged around his bay, shielding themselves against a torrent of abuse. Every so often, she heard a sad, airy squeak.
“Eddie, why are Rudenko’s bay workers holding armloads of chew toys?”
“Yeah, that.” The geek came through with static, but readable. “I swapped the registry numbers in the cargo database as a backup to the train heist. Don’t worry. When this is over, I’ll make sure”—he paused as if reading from his computer—“Beikbān Happy Pooch Dog Toys . . . gets their delivery.”
The Bluetooth signal from Eddie’s damaged hockey puck had faded to nil as Val reached the Grand Bazaar. But he had provided a solution. While the cell jammer in the maze was still up, Boyd had shut down the one in the Grand Bazaar to accommodate his guests. Val had found her original SATCOM earpiece taped to one of the many hard-shell cases delivered to Talia’s bay. She’d found something else as well—a remote detonator.
Boyd’s MC, wearing a sequined tux, stomped into the bay, surveyed the empty eight-by-eight cages, and jiggled the lock on one of the cases. “Open these crates. Fill your big empty cages with whatever it is you are selling. My guests are arriving soon.”
“You mean the White Lion’s guests?”
“Yes, yes. Whatever.” Gone was the goodwill earned by the tips she and Talia had given him. In the elevator the day before, if he really had expressed a hope the two would survive the game, he certainly regretted it now.
“I can’t help you. My sister and I dissolved our partnership. This is her bay, and these are her wares, not mine.”
This bought her a one-eyed squint. “Really. And where is your sister, may I ask?”
“With the White Lion. Go ahead and disturb them. I’m sure he won’t mind.”
His mouth fell open and snapped shut again. After another heartbeat of glaring, he marched away, thrusting a finger at one of the caterers. “Leave the champagne alone, you idiot! We start with the red. Always the red!”
She watched him stomp past Atan’s bay, and the Albanian caught her gaze. He grinned and waved a hand over his central display, a red table with a pile of gold coins.
“Atan has our spare change on display along with his pharmaceuticals. Talia’s cargo is in place. We’re all set.”
“COPY, VAL.” Tyler kept vigil at the edge of the plaza below, waiting in the shadows with Finn, Mac, and a Thai army colonel dressed in black body armor. “Hang tight.” He turned to the colonel. “Wait for my signal as well. If you and your men rush in early, you’ll blow the whole thing.”
CHAPTER
SEVENTY-
SIX
JUNGLE ATRIUM
TWIN TIGERS COMPLEX
BANGKOK, THAILAND
BOYD FINGERED THE WAXY LEAF of a rubber plant. “The reach of my Jungle syndicate is unending—a product of limitless crowdsourcing and years of acquisitions unchecked by laws.” Without taking his gaze from the foliage, he tilted his head, indicating his bodyguard. “I acquired Mr. Gorev, for instance, from a former client. Mr. Gorev had a unique skillset and one excellent contact which I desired. Now he works for me.”
“How efficient.” Talia shifted her weight, a subtle movement to keep Boyd in sight but refocus her energy toward the bigger threat—the bodyguard and his hand cannon. “And I suppose you had this former client liquidated to make Mr. Gorev a free agent?”
“Oh no. According to Mr. Gorev—the horse’s mouth, as it were—the credit for his previous employer’s liquidation belongs to you. Isn’t that right, Anton?”
“Da. Back then she was Natalia Wright, security consultant.”
The pieces slammed together in Talia’s eidetic mind, drawn by the cover name she’d used in the mission to stop Pavel Ivanov six months earlier. The Russian’s unmistakable voice. His stance. The slight cant of his Desert Eagle—unique to Airborne Spetsnaz. Talia hid her shock behind a flat expression. “Alexi Bazin. You changed your face. It didn’t help.”
The bear growled.
“Aww, friends reunited,” Boyd said. “This is . . . special. Unending reach, Miss Macciano. Or should I say, Miss Inger?”
The use of her real name cracked Talia’s hard stare.
Boyd saw the change and grinned. “Yes. Talia Inger. CIA. You changed your appearance, but not enough. Suspicious, Anton put out some feelers. A Jungle cobra in Volgograd linked you to the CIA cover name Vera Novak.”
“But you didn’t take his word for it.”
“No need. As I said, unending reach. My Agency contact, courtesy of Anton, gave me your identity and advised me to kill you. But I’m still wondering, which is the real Talia Inger?” Boyd stretched out his hands, wrists pressed together. Beside him the white lion began to pace again, watching her with hungry eyes. “Are you the dutiful spy, ready to take me in? Or are you the ruthless killer who took out Orien Jafet, looking to become queen of the Jungle.”
Talia didn’t hesitate. The team had everything they needed. “The dutiful spy, I’m afraid.” She raised three fingers to her temple in a mock salute—a signal to the darkened drone hovering outside. Her other hand moved closer to her Glock. “I’m here to bring you in, Boyd. We all are.”
EDDIE’S CALL CRACKLED in Val’s ear, perhaps affected by the jammer still running over in the maze. “Val, Talia gave me the go sign. You’re on.”
The patrons of the Grand Bazaar had arrived en masse. A small crowd of Asian businessmen surrounded Rudenko, all quite unhappy. Atan, on the other hand, seemed quite popular. The pile of gold coins and his rainbow of pharmaceuticals had drawn a crowd.
Perfect.
Val palmed the remote trigger and walked out to the central fountain. “Copy that, Red Leader. Three . . . two . . . one . . .” She pressed the button. “Boom.”
A blue-white flash and a storm of sparks erupted from Atan’s bay. The buyers reeled back. Boyd’s security men converged, all talking into their radios at once.
UP IN THE ATRIUM, Bazin’s radio buzzed with urgent chatter. He took his gaze off Talia to answer, and the barrel of the Desert Eagle drooped—a small opening, but all the opening Talia needed.
She drew the Glock and fired, running sideways into the miniature jungle. The light crack of the Glock and the Desert Eagle’s hefty boom shook the Atrium. His rounds split the air where Talia had been standing a moment before and thwacked into the foliage. She kept shooting. Bazin’s body jerked twice and he dropped out of sight.
One down.
Waist deep in rubber plant leaves, Talia shifted her aim to cover Boyd, but he was gone.
CHAPTER
SEVENTY-
SEVEN
GRAND BAZAAR
TWIN TIGERS COMPLEX
BANGKOK, THAILAND
DARCY’S EXPLODING COINS caused co
nfusion in the Grand Bazaar but no lasting panic. The crowd in Atan’s bay parted. Boyd’s guards dragged the protesting Albanian into the promenade.
Val moved behind the fountain, out of his sight line, to avoid the inevitable She did it! She turned her attention to the stacks of crates in Talia’s bay. “Eddie, Phase Two.”
“I’m sorry. Who did you call?”
She sighed. “Red Leader. Phase Two. Hurry up, before we lose the moment.”
“With pleasure.”
With a ripple of bangs, the stacks of hard-shell crates toppled, lids falling open. Drones poured out like bees from a broken hive. The sight hardly fazed the crowd of hardened black-market buyers. Most only backed up a little as the drones fanned out among them.
The MC helped maintain the calm. “All part of the festivities, ladies and gentlemen. A demonstration of one of our top merchant’s wares.” He cast a wide-eyed glance at Val, and she gave him a reassuring nod.
“He wants a demonstration?” Eddie said. “I’ll give him a demonstration.”
The TACRON spider drones with their ball cameras and the sphere drones with their rocket payloads rose to the arched ceiling. The gun drones hovered at eye level and did coordinated flips, earning a smattering of applause.
Val frowned up at one of the cameras. “Stop playing, Red Leader.”
“Yeah, yeah. A few more seconds. Targeting, sorting, and . . .”
The gun drones opened fire.
What might have been a bloodbath under TACRON’s original design became a surreal, but less disturbing scene for Val. The team had loaded the drones’ magazines with P3Q rounds. Most of the guards and patrons collapsed in one collective faint. A smattering survived the first salvo, including Rudenko. He ran for the bridge.
“Re-sorting. Re-targeting.”
The drones fired again. The remainder dropped. Rudenko fell sprawling beneath the huge Frenzy scoreboard.
UP IN THE ATRIUM, the white lion clawed the air, testing his ultrasonic fence. Big cats and gunfire didn’t mix.
Chasing the White Lion Page 29
