Chasing the White Lion by James Hannibal (best free e book reader .TXT) 📗

trick without a gun of her own. Talia had sacrificed the South African’s pistol—a Heckler & Koch .45—to solve a cosmetic issue. The blood matting her hair was a dead giveaway that she had not come for a nice evening out. She and Pell had found a faucet in one of the utility rooms, but the water did more harm than good to the updo Val had given her. In the end, she dismantled the .45 and used its recoil spring as a hair screw to rearrange the style and cover the mess.

The gun would have done her little good anyway. The thugs guarding the staircase to Jafet’s poker table weren’t rocket scientists, but they weren’t idiots either. She couldn’t exactly waltz past them with an eight-inch .45 sticking half out of her clutch.

“Hurry up.” Talia tapped her foot on the lift floor, willing the machine to rise faster. Her hiccup in the tunnels had left her running late.

Marco was not yet in view, but Talia had no trouble getting eyes on Val on the gaming island far below, hanging from Aku’s neck like a glittering red stole. The Kongaran raked in a pile of chips at the roulette table. Val laughed and clapped. At least she was having a good time.

Darcy, too, was still in play.

Talia picked the chemist up at the edge of her vision, coming in from the other side of the island and heading straight for Val. The two timed their switch to perfection. Darcy hit Val and the mark in the narrow space between the poker and craps tables, wiggled between them, and came out the other side with a different clutch. If all had gone well, she had also left behind a gift for Aku.

The lift bumped to a stop at level 8. Tyler had predicted Jafet’s men would bring Marco out into the open as close as possible to his private table, suspended from the dome by iron bars and attached to the balcony by an orange rhyolite staircase. He was right. At 11:26 p.m., four guards escorted the former Italian crime boss out of a passage less than twenty meters from the steps.

Talia was too far away, but she couldn’t run around the balcony. They’d see her coming and read the play. She walked fast, heels clicking. Once Marco was up those stairs, out of reach, the whole game was over.

She was close—maybe ten meters—when a stumbling drunk blocked her path. He grabbed her bare shoulder. “Excuse me, pretty lady. You looking for a—” Whatever his intentions, he bought himself a jab to the liver.

Talia caught his arm to keep him from doubling over and guided him to the rail. “Oops. Are you all right? Maybe you should sit down.”

By the time she let go, Marco and his guards had reached the steps. Her heart sank. In a last-ditch effort, she drew a breath to shout out. “Mm—”

Talia swallowed the call.

Marco had tripped on the first step up to the platform. A stall tactic. The guards stooped to steady him. Marco pushed them away, feigning offense at their condescension to his age. By the time the argument settled, Talia had closed the distance.

She scrunched her nose, as if utterly surprised to see him. “Marco?”

“Natalia! Mia cara.” He spread his arms.

She blew past the guards to embrace him. They kissed each other on both cheeks. He said something in Italian.

The shortest of Jafet’s men—apparently the one in charge—tugged at her arm. “I am sorry, miss. Your friend has an appointment. He must go, and so must you.”

“No. No.” Talia swatted at him like a cat. Proximity was the key. “I have not seen this man in years. Who are you to part us again so soon?”

The guard clenched his teeth, but Marco intervened in a deep voice, soothing and frightening at the same time. “What are you afraid of, my friends? Hmm?” His dark eyes bored into the lead guard. “She is half the size of your smallest man.”

Talia could see where Val got her talent for reading marks. A short man working security for a mob boss had guaranteed inferiority issues. Marco had poked the lead guard right in the soft center of a sensitive psychological bruise.

The guard struggled to find a response, and the Italian pressed his advantage. “Would your master deny me one friendly face at my final game, hmm? Natalia is harmless. Leave her with me, and let us get on with this.”

Before the guard could answer, his radio crackled.

A South African voice said, “Heads up on the ninth circle. The croupier is inbound.”

“Copy. Dealer on the way. We will be ready.” The guard frowned at Marco, then turned toward the stairs. “Come. We must prepare the platform.”

“What about her?” asked the one closest to Talia.

The lead guard glared back at him, now three steps up, a head taller than the rest. “Do you think we cannot handle a woman in an evening gown?”

Talia patted Marco’s arm, escorting him up the stairs. “Are we playing poker, Don Marco?”

“Sì, mia cara. Perhaps the most important poker game of my life.”

“Then I am glad to be here.” She faked a naïve smile. “I will bring you luck. I hope.”

CHAPTER

FIFTY-

FOUR

CLUB STYX

MILOS, GREEK ISLES

11:28 PM

THECROUPIER, an older gentleman with gray hair and spectacles, arrived next to oversee the game and deal the cards, carrying an aluminum case handcuffed to his wrist. He acknowledged Talia with a nod as the men patted him down. “Madame.”

She nodded back.

Jafet’s men had taken up posts at the four corners of the platform. Standing behind Marco’s chair and looking out over an obsidian rail embedded with gems, Talia could see all the action below. Val worked the tables with Aku, who always had a full drink in hand. Darcy had drifted out of sight—as expected. If all went to plan, she’d remain behind the scenes for the remainder of the night.

The croupier placed two trays of chips on the table and pushed them