Chasing the White Lion, James Hannibal [ebook reader macos .TXT] 📗

elephant, putting Okoro within a comfortable range for the big Nitro Express. It wouldn’t be long now.

Gorev’s rifle needed only a minor shift on its bipod to adjust for the new angle. After checking the chamber, he inched forward and pressed his shoulder against the stock. He moved his eye to the scope and waited until Okoro rose to a knee and lifted the elephant gun.

A shot rang out across the valley.

The family of elephants lumbered off into the trees.

Okoro teetered to one side and dropped.

Gorev had fired first.

He kept the Ballista trained on Okoro. One of the poacher’s men rushed into the scope’s view and picked up the Nitro Express—the ruler’s scepter. Gorev fired again.

The next man, the last of the poachers, understood. He left the scepter where it lay and tore off through the scrub, surely to tell others what he’d witnessed. The new blood, Boyd’s handpicked replacement for Okoro, would encounter no resistance when he moved in to take over the operation. For all Boyd’s entrepreneurial brilliance, Gorev doubted whether he knew how to send such a message.

CHAPTER

NINE

CIA HEADQUARTERS

LANGLEY, VIRGINIA

“GOODMORNIN’, SKINNY.” Luanne, the full-figured barista of the CIA’s very own internal Starbucks, rested a hip against her counter. “What’s new?”

Talia gave her a thin smile. “No skinny for me, today. I need the good stuff.”

“I don’ know if I can allow that.”

“It’s just one drink.”

“Mmm-hmm. Like I ain’t heard that before.” Luanne twisted the steel cup in her hands, wiping it out with a dishrag. “Look, honey. I give you one with the good stuff today, one tomorrow”—she raised her eyes to Talia’s—“and the next thing you know, my little Skinny looks like Frank Brennan.”

“I’ll never let it go that far. I don’t have the cheek structure for the mustache.”

“Funny, but you know what I mean. You’re on the edge of a sugary, slippery slope.”

“Look, I don’t pay you to talk.” Talia tapped a finger on the counter and gave her a wink. “I pay you to pour.”

“You hardly pay me at all.” Luanne shot a glance at her tip jar, then threw the rag over her shoulder and went to work on Talia’s leaded white chocolate mocha. “So what in the world’s got you turnin’ to the caffeinated dark side?”

“Something happened in the field.” Talia slipped a dollar bill into the jar. The conversation had reached a gray area. Luanne worked inside the CIA. She’d been vetted, but Talia could only say so much. “Someone may or may not have tried to have me killed.”

Luanne didn’t miss a beat. “Oh, is that all?”

She shoved the steamer down into Talia’s full-fat milk and raised her voice above the hiss. “You know where you work, right? This ain’t the Department of Agriculture, although I hear it’s pretty cutthroat over there.” Luanne poured the milk. “This is the C-I-A. Just ’cause someone tries to kill you ain’t no reason to go mopin’ around, drinking high-calorie death coffee.” She worked the syrup bottle, pumping squirt after squirt of flavored sugar into the cup. “In this business, when someone tries to kill you, you track ’em down and kill ’em right back . . . or at least lock ’em up.”

“This is different.”

“No it ain’t. You only think it’s different.” She sprayed a small mountain of whipped cream into the cup and pushed the finished product across the counter.

Talia said nothing. She stared down into the softness of the cream.

“Listen, Skinny. You know you’re gonna take my advice before it’s all said and done. Why not save us both the time and get started now?”

The coffee would go on Talia’s running tab. She picked up the cup, feeling its warmth, and turned to go. “I wish I could.”

“Mmm-hmm.” Luanne turned as well—hips first, head second. “Go on then, girl. Wander off mumblin’ and grumblin’ into your big ol’ dessert. But when you’ve settled things, I expect you to come back so I can have my ‘Told you so.’”

TALIA AND HER BIGOL’ DESSERT took an elevator six floors down to the black marble halls and clear cubicles of REED. But before heading to Russian Ops at the heart of it all, she turned down a nondescript hallway. At the end was a door, marked by a brass plate.

OTHER.

One corner hung a nanometer south of level.

Inside, Frank Brennan lounged behind his desk with a fragment of donut in his hand and a large napkin tucked into his collar. The napkin had failed to catch all the powder, leaving his plaid shirt dusted white.

“You’ve got a little something . . . ,” Talia said, circling a finger around her entire blouse. “And also . . .” She moved the finger to her upper lip, indicating his bushy mustache.

Brennan shoved the last of the donut home. “Thanks.” He whipped the napkin from his collar and made a failed attempt to clean up. The smears of white made a nice abstract pattern, shifting the focus away from the pit stains. “Welcome back. I’m glad you’re not dead.”

Had the broom-closet office shrunk even more in the two weeks Talia had been away? She glanced at an empty workstation in the corner. “I see they haven’t replaced me.”

“No one can replace you.”

“You’re sweet.”

“As sweet as the creepy uncle you only see at Thanksgiving.” Brennan rubbed the remaining powder out of his mustache. “I assume you and Tyler had a chat. How much did he tell you?”

“The whole story.”

“He never tells the whole story.”

“Okay.” Talia lifted the box of donuts from the corner of Brennan’s desk. The day was just getting started and only two remained. “He told me enough. And before you start, I haven’t bought into the whole Oleg’s tip came from the Agency thing.”

“That’s fair.” He took the box away from her. “Hands off. You don’t work here anymore.”

“I was going to throw them away.”

“Over my dead body.”

“Exactly what I’m trying to prevent.” Talia glanced over her shoulder, checking the door. “To be clear, you and Tyler think Jordan is Archangel.”

A hard stare was all the confirmation