Scorpion by Christian Cantrell (novel24 .txt) 📕

coordination with Interpol investigating a series of extremely brutal murders, the most recent of which occurred just seven kilometers from this hotel.”

“I understand.”

“And we have reason to believe that this man is involved.”

“I see.”

“And that he stayed here. In your hotel.”

Nothing. Doesn’t even blink.

“Is it possible you were a little hasty before? Would you like to see the image one more time?”

“That won’t be necessary.”

Quinn places her handset down on the glass surface in front of her. The table is composed of two independently supported sections that, when she initially sat, registered simply as abstract blobs—something approximating opposing commas—but that she now realizes constitute a yin-yang symbol. An unconventional one, though. Given that the piece is fully transparent, it is impossible to tell which role in the symbol’s duality her side plays versus Tariq’s.

“Have you ever heard the saying We know what we are, but know not what we may be?”

“I have not.”

“It was first attributed to the Prophet Muhammad, and it is believed that—”

“Allow me to save us both some time,” Tariq interjects. As he leans forward and his gray-brown eyes bore into hers, Quinn is transfixed by their clarity. “I am not susceptible to CIA mind games, and I am not going to give you any information on any of my guests. The coffee and the water are on me. Safe travels, Ms. Mitchell.”

The manager stands, and Quinn is so stunned that her gaze does not adjust, and she subsequently finds herself staring at a well-tailored crotch. In her experience, being spoken to in such a way elicits one of two diametrically opposed reactions in her, and she often does not know which until she opens her mouth.

“Tariq,” Quinn says, then a moment later raises her gaze. “Sit back down. I’m not finished.”

Tariq gives her an intensely inquisitive look. There is nothing dismissive or mocking about it—just pure perplexity that the American woman whom he has just told, in his own way, to fuck off has the balls to come at him again.

“That must be why they sent a woman to do a man’s job,” the hotel manager says. He lowers himself back down, this time not bothering with the trouser hitching. “Because you do it like a man.”

Quinn can see that she has not intimidated one curly hair on this man’s head, and that he only sat back down because, unless another international serial killer happens to be due sometime soon, this conversation is probably the most interesting thing he will do all day. Regardless of the reason, she still has his attention, and she has yet to make her final move.

She picks her handset back up and swipes to the next image. She does not look at it herself, because the first time she saw the autopsy photo of the nine-month-old baby boy on a stainless-steel surgical table beneath harsh white spotlights, she nearly vomited. So instead, she flips it around and watches Tariq. She cannot tell if his expression changes or if it is just the pounding of her heart that’s affecting her vision.

“This is the real reason I’m here,” Quinn says. She wonders if Tariq has gathered a long enough sample of her voice to realize that it is now quivering. “You should know that the man who you’re protecting did this. This is how he can afford to stay in places like this and buy people like you.”

Tariq is still looking down at the handset. Quinn senses there could be an opening, so she jams in a wedge.

“People involved in drugs or organized crime or espionage—they understand the risks. But that’s not the business this guy is in. He appears to be killing people for no reason whatsoever. He’s killing children. This guy’s not some type of high-class assassin, Tariq. He’s just a psychotic murderer.”

Tariq raises his eyes from the handset, and as he watches Quinn, she searches his expression for something that still is not quite there. It is as though he has chosen to call—not to fold, not to raise, but to stay in the game long enough to see what she’s really got.

So Quinn goes all in. She swipes again, and this time, she finds what she’s looking for. This time, Tariq’s expression changes.

“Where did you get that?” he asks her.

This nine-month-old baby boy is very much alive. He is sitting on his mother’s lap and is overjoyed by her undivided attention. One outstretched hand is on her cheek and the other is over his mother’s mouth as she playfully gobbles at the chubby fingers.

Another swipe.

This time, it is Tariq holding the baby boy. They are on a beach, and Dad is dressed in a white oxford and jeans rolled up to his knees. Quinn notices that he is wearing a different watch in the photo—a metal one. His wife has thick, wavy black hair and wears a flowing white dress. Her sandals dangle from her hooked fingers by thin leather straps.

Quinn considers swiping again, but she can see that she does not need to.

“I asked you where the fuck you got those.”

Instinctively, Quinn gives it right back to him. “I work for the C-I-fucking-A,” she says. “That’s where I got them. In fact, I have hundreds of these. I know that your son, Omar, is two and a half now, and that your wife, Aasimah, is twenty-four weeks pregnant with your first daughter. I can even tell you what she’s thinking of naming her, in case you didn’t know.”

“Are you threatening my family?”

Quinn instantly drops the smirk. “Of course not.”

“Then what are you doing?”

“I’m trying to make you realize that every single one of these victims left families behind that loved them just as much as you love your family. Just as much as I…Just as much as everyone loves their families.”

The hotel manager’s demeanor has transformed into something disquieting. He shakes his head in what Quinn interprets as an amalgam of rage and astonishment.

“You people make me sick.”

“Tariq, listen—”

“You come into my country. Into my place of business.