Ken Douglas - Scorpion

“ At least it wasn’t one of your Middle East terrorist friends. They give up their mothers the second someone shines a light in their eyes.”

“ No, no, he’s IRA, those guys never talk. They won’t find him,” he said.

“ I hope you’re right.”

“ I’m right,” he said, sweating. “Come on, put the gun down.”

“ You stole my cocaine.”

“ Bullshit.”

“ That’s why you stopped by your apartment.”

“ I stopped by to pick up the rum and my neighbor. He followed me over in your surprise. The poor guy had to take a taxi back.”

“ What are you talking about?”

“ Go look out the front door. It should be parked behind my Mercedes by now.”

“ You didn’t,” she said, lowering the gun.

“ I did.” He grinned.

She dropped the gun on the bed, put on her dress, and ran to the front door. “Kevin, it’s gorgeous.”

“ Is the color all right?” It was bright red.

“ It’s great.” She approached the new Porsche convertible.

“ Now say you’re sorry about sticking that cannon in my face,” he said.

“ Oh forget about that,” she said, turning toward him. “And get your clothes on so we can take it for a spin.”

“ About the bomb,” he said ten minutes later as they approached the light before Western Main Road, “do you think that way is wise? You’ve been pretty lucky with a rifle all the other times.”

“ Senator Rowland’s car went off a cliff,” she said.

“ That’s different,” Kevin said. “You were supposed to make that one look like an accident.”

“ I can’t shoot Ram,” she said, downshifting. It was a risk telling him. She hated to show weakness, but he had a right to know why.

“ There’s too much at stake,” he said.

“ I didn’t say I couldn’t kill him. I just can’t shoot him. I’ve tried. I had him lined up with the crosshair between his eyes, but I couldn’t pull the trigger. He’s a friend. Like a wise old uncle. I know him. I like him. I almost admire him. It’s not like the others.”

“ We can’t back out now,” he said.

“ I know that. That’s why I want to use a bomb and a timer. I’ll be long gone. It’ll be out of my hands.”

“ There’s someone here that can do it. I can have you fixed up by tomorrow evening. I didn’t want to use him, because he’s so close to home. But now I guess I don’t have any choice.”

“ Good,” she said. “Then we don’t have a problem.”

“ You’re looking fit, Warren,” Broxton said, holding out his hand. The handshake was strong, but not overpowering. Warren Street was a man who was sure of himself and his place in the world.

“ And you. I’d ask about the flight, but I know about that.” The ambassador gestured toward two bamboo style chairs away from his desk. Broxton smiled. The office had a tropical flavor to it, and the bamboo furniture, the parquet floor, the indoor plants and of course the floral prints, all conspired to camouflage the century old oak desk that Warren took everywhere his office happened to be.

“ A bomb,” Broxton said. “Too small to bring down the aircraft, but large enough to poke holes through the sealed baggage compartment and through the plane’s skin. We were lucky. The pilot was great.” He decided not to tell Warren about the accident and the car chase. Warren was a great friend, but he was also a great worrier.

“ Who would do such a thing?”

“ Someone who doesn’t care how many people he kills,” Broxton said.

“ Have you made any progress?”

“ Not really. A Colombian picked up during a drug bust wanted to deal. Miami heard what he had to say and called in the FBI. They believed the story and State issued an invitation to the prime minister to visit Washington where they laid it all out.”

“ And?” Warren asked.

“ As long as the government went after the users and the dealers, the drug cartels didn’t care, but when Prime Minister Ramsingh started going after the money they decided he had to go.”

“ So they’ve hired a professional, someone like Carlos the Jackal?”

“ They’ve hired Scorpion,” Broxton said.

“ I’ve never heard of him.”

“ Since Carlos’ capture the Scorpion is number one on the assassin’s hit parade. No political affiliation, an equal opportunity killer. He’s taken out a right wing presidential candidate in Uruguay and a left wing one in Chile. He’s even killed in the United States.”

“ Who?” Warren asked.

“ Senator Rowland.”

“ That was an accident,” Warren said.

“ It wasn’t,” Broxton said.

“ How do you know all this?”

“ Couple of guys from Langley came to the office and filled me in. Until then I’d never heard of Scorpion and I certainly never thought of major drugs going through Trinidad. I was just a lowly DEA guy back from a year in Mexico.

“ So why you? Is it because of me?”

“ Sure it’s because of you. When Ramsingh turned down American protection they went scrambling around for someone they could send in that wouldn’t attract too much attention. Someone that could hang out where Ramsingh does, go to the same parties, attend the same functions, meet the same people, that sort of thing, and when they found out how close we are, well, all of a sudden I filled the bill.”

“ You have backup of course?” Warren said.

“ If I do, they didn’t tell me, but who knows? You know how they are.”

“ And you’re supposed to prevent this Scorpion from assassinating the prime minister?”

“ That’s what they said.”

“ How are you going to do that?” Warren asked.

“ I don’t know. I’ll figure something out, but it won’t be easy after what happened on the plane,” Broxton said. Then he told Warren about the silver flask that he’d mistaken for a knife.

“ So you’re not very undercover,” Warren said when he’d finished.

“ Not at the moment.”

“ I’ll have Dani throw a party. You can meet Ramsingh under different circumstances, cozy up to him, make him like you.”

“ Thanks,” Broxton said. Then he asked, “How is she?” He dreaded the answer. Sooner or later they were going to have to talk about the story on the front page of the Guardian.

“ Just watch.” Warren picked a video tape from the bookcase. He went to a bamboo cabinet, opened it to reveal a portable television and a video player inside. He slipped the tape into the player and punched the play button.

Broxton was drawn into the beauty that was Danielle Street. Flowing blonde hair the color of honey mixed with straw, sparkling blue eyes, flawless skin, like a child’s, and her beguiling smile.

The camera cut away to reveal a small black child in her lap. The little girl had her hair in braids and wore a bright smile, her wide brown eyes stared up at Dani. The background could have been a village anywhere in Africa. The camera panned over villagers going about the daily business of living. Broxton saw a man herding scrawny cows in the background, a woman pounding grain with a mortar and pestle, another sat with her and they were talking. They seemed happy.

The camera left them and came back to Dani.

“ What you see behind me,” she said, “is a village that works. People here contribute. They help their neighbors, grow their own crops, tend their own cattle and raise happy children like Amanda.” She bounced the girl on her knee and the child giggled. “But it wasn’t always that way. Before Save the Children got involved there were no crops to tend, no cattle to herd, no happy children. Amanda was sick and wasting away, her parents had no food or shelter, they’d already lost two children and Amanda was close to being the third. Then you helped through Save the Children, but we can do so much more. So if you’re not one of our sponsors, please help. You can do so much for just pennies a day.”