Andrew Kaplan - Scorpion Betrayal

Scorpion climbed onto the rail, the gun in his left hand and his right pressed against the side of the building for balance. He stepped over the gap to the rail of his balcony, sliding his hand forward as he balanced between the two balconies, then, still on top of the rail, he knelt and while balancing precariously, almost losing it, felt for the balcony floor with one foot until he touched it. Once on the balcony, he took a deep breath, transferring the gun to his right hand and peering into the room for an instant through the glass door, then ducking back.

He’d seen two men inside, one a Corsican, by the look of him, the other a black African. The Corsican was positioned, gun raised, against the wall next to the door of his room. The African was holding Najla in the middle of the room, his hand over her mouth, a knife pressed to her throat.

Scorpion knew he would only get one shot, and he needed them alive to find out who sent them. When he was ready, he stepped into the middle of the balcony in a two-handed firing position, aimed and fired, the bullet tearing a hole at the center of a spiderweb of cracked glass and hitting the gunman by the door in the shoulder. With the gun still pointed at him, he tapped the balcony door.

“Ouvrez la porte!” Open the door, he said, aiming at the gunman, who tried to aim his own gun at him, realized he couldn’t with his injured shoulder and indicated the African holding Najla.

“We’ll kill the pute,” the gunman said in French.

“Open the door or the next bullet’s in your head,” Scorpion answered, also in French.

The wounded gunman came over, unlocked the balcony door with his good hand and slid it open. Scorpion took his gun away, shoved him back into the room and stepped inside.

“Put down the gun or I’ll cut her petasse throat,” the African with the knife said, his hand still over her mouth. Najla’s eyes were wide and she looked desperately at Scorpion, who turned and aimed at the forehead of the man holding her.

“Va t’enculer! I don’t give a shit what you do. You and your mec,” he said, indicating the gunman, “will both be dead before her windpipe’s cut. Don’t be an asshole. I want to pay you money.”

“What are you saying?” the African asked.

“Is the man who paid you tall, thin, with a black leather blouson?”

“Go faire foutre yourself! What’s it to you?” the man with the knife said.

“How much did he pay you?”

“Four hundred. Two hundred each,” the gunman said, and sat suddenly on the floor. “I’m shot, you salaud. It hurts.”

“I’ll give you five hundred each,” Scorpion said, lowering his gun and taking out the money, putting it on a table. “Go get a towel,” he told Najla as the African with the knife let go of her and came to the table for the money. As he started to pick up the money, Scorpion pressed the muzzle of the gun onto the top of his hand, stopping him.

“You’re from West Afrique?” he asked the African.

“Senegalaise. What of it?”

“And you? Corsican?” Scorpion asked the gunman, who nodded. “But not of La Brise?”

“How do you know we’re not?”

“Because if you were of la Brise de Mer, you’d be getting paid from someone taking his orders from Cargiaca instead of my old copain, Didier,” he said, moving the muzzle so the man could pick up the money. Najla came out of the bathroom with a towel that she applied as a compress to the gunman’s shoulder wound.

“Cargiaca’s not running la Brise. He’s in Provence, counting his money and mistresses,” the gunman said. “These days, it’s Jacky, if he survives le Belge.” The Belgian.

“Jacky?” Najla asked.

“Jacky le chat. They call him the cat because he’s survived eight assassination attempts. But after last week, who knows?” the gunman said, pressing the towel to his shoulder. “Three of his men were killed in their auto while waiting at a traffic light right on the Canebiere. The Journal Televise said it was riddled with hundreds of bullets.”

“Are they still running heroin through the container terminals?” Scorpion asked.

“Not so much,” the Senegalese said. “My brother works in the container terminal, the salaud. They pay him plenty to look the other way. The containers are mostly for le cocaine and le vert.”

“Le vert?” Najla asked.

“Marijuana,” Scorpion translated.

“Oui, le cannabis,” the Senegalese nodded. “For the heroin, these days they mostly recruit mules by taking a member of someone’s family hostage and cutting off one finger or ear at a time till the mule brings it from Athens to Marseilles. It’s a good business, but because of the fighting between the Belge and Jacky le chat, dangerous.”

“So if I wanted to smuggle something big through Marseille Fos, say big guns, missiles, there’s a good chance it would be hijacked?” Scorpion asked.

“You want to do that, mec, you tell us. We have plenty of copains; we’ll do that for you,” the gunman said. So Didier had lied all the way, Scorpion thought. About Cargiaca and about the douanes at the port making it tough on la Brise’s smuggling. The reason the Palestinian didn’t want to bring the U-235 through Marseilles was the likelihood of it being hijacked.

“About my old copain, Didier, the salaud in the black blouson. What did he want you to do with us?”

“He wanted us to take you both out in the country. He said he would call and tell us where. What happened, mec? He double-cross you on a job?” the Senegalese asked.

“C’est ca.” That’s it. “You want another thousand?”

“I don’t know. You shot me, you salaud,” the gunman said.

“You shouldn’t play with guns. They’re dangerous,” Scorpion said. “When he calls, tell him you’ve got us.”

The gunman’s cell phone rang then, startling them. A thousand euros, Scorpion mouthed, indicating with his gun that the gunman should answer.

“Oui,” the gunman said, then listened. “We have them,” he said, looking at Scorpion. He listened some more, said “d’accord,” and hung up. “Now what?” he said to Scorpion.

“He has a place near Aix. He said to meet you somewhere near there, oui?”

The gunman nodded. “It seems you know this fils de putain.”

“I gave him a thousand euros tonight,” Scorpion said. “If you take it from him, as far as I’m concerned it’s yours.”

“Why? You don’t want the money?”

“A business expense. It’s not good to let people think they can get away with merde. It leaves a bad impression.”

“Anything else?” the gunman said, getting up and throwing the bloody, wadded-up towel on the floor.

“One thing. We never want to see either of you again.”

Later, in the taxi to the airport, Najla broke the silence.

“I’m sorry. I didn’t understand. The next time you say we’re not going back to the hotel, believe me, I’ll listen.” She hesitated. “Thank you.” She looked into his eyes, which was all she could see in his face, hidden in shadow. Scorpion didn’t say anything. “God, you are a stone cold scheisser!” she said, pushing him away.

“None of that had to happen. We can’t afford this. We only have seven days,” he said.

“What happens in seven days?”

“Nothing, if you do what I tell you.”

“I will. I swear,” she said. The taxi made a turn, causing her to lean. She let it bring her close enough to brush against him.

By the time they got to the airport, they had thirty minutes to catch the late night flight to Rome. They checked the luggage and were going through the passport control in separate lines, Najla in the EU queue, and Scorpion, with his South African passport, in the non-EU queue. He had just gotten through when he saw the immigration officer, a woman, signal, and two armed soldiers approach Najla. She turned to look at him as they led her away. He had to decide quickly whether to stay or go. The plane was already boarding.