Chasing the White Lion by James Hannibal (mind reading books .TXT) 📕

“I am impressed, Miss Macciano.” Atan’s eyes tracked Finn and then Mac as they stepped off the boat behind Talia. “Very few have battled Janos and lived to tell about it. None were women, and none have ever taken both his guns.”

Talia only shrugged.

“There was one more. The policewoman. Where is she?”

The chemist peeked out from behind the fiberglass wall of the pilothouse.

Atan shifted his aim. “You had a rifle. Come here, slowly, and lay it on the dock.”

Darcy did as commanded, and Atan nodded. “Good. Now. We will retire to your van, where you will return my money.”

“That’s it?” Finn asked. “And then you’ll let us go?”

“We shall see.”

ATAN HAD PARKED the other van behind a utility shed, out of view of the control station. He and Janos kept their guns trained on their captives. Talia still had her Glock, and she knew Mac always kept a blade available, but neither of them made a move. The Albanians positioned them all with their backs against the shed.

“How did you know?” Val asked.

“How does the fox know to be wary of the snake? Or the wolf, the sable? Instinct.”

That was a stretch. Atan had stayed on the hook through 90 percent of the con. Talia would have laughed at his drama if not for the guns pointed at her teammates. “So what gave us away?”

“The more I thought about it as we drove away, the more I worried the coins were too good to be true. And the timing of the police boat’s arrival was . . . suspicious.” He raised an eyebrow. “But most of all, you lost me with the ridiculous accent.”

Before Talia could say I told you so, the Albanian continued. “I pride myself on my ear for authenticity.” He pointed his gun at Val and then Finn. “Real New Yorker. Fake Australian.”

Finn’s eyes went wide. “You can’t be serious.”

“Give it up, Mr. Scrug, or whatever your name is. Your true origins are obvious. I’m guessing”—the Albanian tilted his gun to the side—“American Midwest? Iowa? Perhaps Illinois?”

After a long pause, the Aussie tensed his jaw, apparently deciding there was no point in arguing with the mark. “Nebraska.”

“Do not despair.” Atan lowered his gun, letting Janos keep them covered. “As I said before, I am impressed. You had me until the end, and you stole from Malcom Smythe, which endears you to me. Simply make reparations, and all will be forgiven.”

Val leaned against the shed and crossed one ankle over the other. “What reparations?”

“Return my half million, and add to it everything you stole from Tyler and Smythe.”

Mac rocked forward. “That’s our entire take, you greedy—” A stab of Janos’s revolver pressed him back, shutting him up.

“Not all the money is for me. Consider the extra million a buy-in.”

Val’s mulligan, the encore to the brush-off, had worked. Talia made sure. “A buy-in to what, exactly?”

“To a special organization, Miss Macciano. Anonymous. Global. Ruthless. I am your ticket in, and until you advance to the next level, a portion of all you and your sister provide will go to me. In return, the organization will offer your crew opportunities beyond anything you ever imagined.”

As Val had hinted on the jet two days before, the plan hinged on Atan not falling for the German Silver con. Instead, he’d fallen for the larger play—offering the team a personal invite into Boyd’s organization.

Atan tucked his gun away and gave them all a crooked smile. “Welcome to the Jungle. Take care you are not eaten.”

CHAPTER

THIRTY-

SEVEN

VILLA VÁCLAV

RIVER VLTAVA

PRAGUE, CZECH REPUBLIC

“OKAY.” TYLERFOLDEDHISHANDS on the lodge’s gothic dining table. “Where do we stand with Boyd’s syndicate?”

The blaze in the two-story fireplace at his back seemed a bit much, not to mention the coats of arms above the mantel—stags, lions, eagles, and all manner of manly creatures. Talia had warned him months before that the whole leader-at-the-head-of-the-table thing was an archaic tradition best left to wedding parties and Mad Men reruns. “It makes you intimidating and unapproachable.”

Tyler had answered with a nod. “I know.”

Eddie fielded his question. “Atan supplied Talia and Val each with a digital entry code. They’re in the Jungle now.”

“As panthers?”

“No,” Val said, seated to his right. “But not as field mice either.” In the poor lighting of the electric candles set in an antler chandelier, Talia found it harder than usual to read the grifter’s expression. “The extra million Atan used as our buy-in took us straight to the hawk level. As of now, you’re looking at Hawk Four One Eight and Hawk Four One Nine—probationary members.”

“Probation’ry,” Mac asked. “What’s that s’pposed to mean?”

“I guess we’ll find out, won’t we?”

Cowed by her tone, he looked down at his empty place mat, but Mac’s dejection did not last long. Conrad, aided by the fake Winston, arrived with the food. They each pushed a cart, starting at either end of the table.

“Dinner is served.” Conrad set a plate and bowl in front of Talia. “Braised sirloin in white sauce with minced pork dumplings and a side of rabbit goulash.”

She inspected the offering. “That is . . . a lot of meat.”

“Welcome to Bohemia, my dear.”

The fake Winston took the seat across from her. He looked so familiar, yet he did not introduce himself even as the meal wore on, as if taunting her to figure out his identity for herself.

“Give up yet, do ya?” he asked twenty minutes later, pushing a touch of Cockney into the question.

Talia dabbed her lips with her napkin and sat back. “So I do know you.”

“We’ve met, if that’s what ya mean. But ya don’t remember where, I can tell.”

He had strawberry-blond hair. Freckles. But those details seemed wrong. “You have a name?”

“Pell.”

She felt Tyler watching them, enjoying the show. The phrase You don’t remember rarely applied to Talia. It unnerved her. “How about a hint.”

“Awright. How ’bout this.” The Cockney manner vanished, replaced by a drab expression and an equally drab Eastern European accent. “Yeah. Okay. No problem.”

Sunglasses. A driver’s cap. Blond hair.