Scorpion by Christian Cantrell (novel24 .txt) 📕

Just as Quinn begins to consider other options, there are two quick raps on the thick steel door, which is subsequently pushed inward with some obvious effort. This is the first time anyone has been to see her, so Quinn immediately taps a code into her handset, kills the projector, and pushes her chair back as she stands.

There are four men outside the room: a clearly perturbed Eberlein, two almost excessively Scandinavian armed guards, and the man Quinn has been chasing all over the world.

Standing right there.

As though he weren’t some sort of aristocratic, sociopathic serial killer. Like he might actually be a human being instead of an apparition that can only be captured on surveillance footage long after he has escaped, and whose interactions with the physical world are detectable only through the bodies and the blood and the anguish he leaves in his wake.

Like she didn’t, finally, just catch the motherfucker.

—

“Ms. Mitchell,” Eberlein announces with poorly disguised disgust. “Allow me to introduce Mr. Ranveer.”

In the wake of the director’s imperial flair, Ranveer steps into the privacy room and begins scanning. He is gripping a small metal case that Quinn can tell carries some serious weight, and it does not escape her notice that it is in his left hand. Her eyes dart across his waist and she sees that his oversized metal watch is on his right wrist.

Quinn knows that he is looking for more doors, one-way mirrors, cameras. Dark muzzle-sized holes in the tall white walls. She can tell that he is considering the furniture, calculating its value as either a weapon or a shield. As cautious as he is being, it occurs to her that he is probably far safer at the moment than she is—that if something were to go down right now, he would be everyone’s top priority. Ranveer is, after all, the only one in the room holding a case full of money.

The sharp, falcon-like eyes finally find Quinn, and she feels the cold in the room suddenly soak through all the layers of her clothes and into her skin. He is steadfast and placid while she struggles to keep herself still against the chill closing in around her and the fear rising up from within. He does not conduct his threat assessment by looking her up and down, but by holding her gaze and watching her eyes for changes over time. Quinn is shivering on the inside, but on the outside, she projects all the resolve of an immovable object.

The appraisal is terminated by a curt and decisive nod. “Ms. Mitchell.”

“Mr. Ranveer,” Eberlein injects, “I wish to reiterate that you—”

“I understand,” Ranveer interrupts. “Your services have been impeccable. You may leave us.”

His British English is perfect, and Quinn is trying very hard not to find the man charming. Eberlein is clearly relieved by his client’s graciousness, and when Ranveer offers his hand to the director, the fastidious man performs a pitifully obsequious bow as he receives it. Quinn tries to see if any Swiss francs or euros change hands, but it doesn’t look like it. There’s probably an affluence threshold beyond which passing cash is considered tacky.

“Thank you, Mr. Ranveer. We will be right outside should you require anything at all.”

Eberlein gestures impatiently at the guards, tugs at the door, and all three men give Quinn one final look of contempt through the narrowing gap. It closes with a surprising report that settles nicely over the thick layer of tension already accumulating throughout the bright white room.

Quinn has considered this conversation frequently and repeatedly, but now that her man is actually standing right here in front of her, the situation seems to defy all of her rehearsals. Instead of working from a script, she decides to clear her mind—to take it one line at a time and accept that the situation will likely be fluid.

“Thank you for agreeing to see me,” she says, then immediately regrets starting out with a conciliatory cliché. She knows she does not have much leverage at the moment, but that is certainly not what she wants to convey. Nor is it the opening move she suspects a more experienced officer would choose.

“Of course,” Ranveer replies.

“Please, have a seat.”

Ranveer sits in the chair opposite Quinn and sets the heavy case down at his feet. She notices that he grips the table with both hands to confirm that it is indeed bolted down.

“My name is Quinn Mitchell. I work for the Central Intelligence Agency.”

She waits for a reaction, which comes, eventually, in the form of another shallow nod.

“I’m investigating a series of murders that I think you might know something about.”

“I understand,” Ranveer responds flatly.

She watches him for a moment while she tries to work out what kind of game he is playing. He did not have to agree to see her, so surely he must have something more to offer than stretches of awkward silence punctuated by polite platitudes. It occurs to Quinn that he may simply be waiting for her to reveal what she knows. That he may be here to extract information from her. Quinn begins to wonder if perhaps he is the one who laid the trap—if instead of him being alone in a room deep underground with her, it is the other way around.

“Mr. Ranveer, can you account for your whereabouts over the last four weeks?”

“I think you already know the answer to that.”

Quinn is startled by the killer’s willingness to dispense with all pretense. His forthrightness induces a new wave of panic since, if he walked in here ready to confirm her accusations, he obviously expects to walk out on his own terms.

“Yes,” she finally says. “I’m pretty sure that I do, but I’d like to hear it from you.”

“Ms. Mitchell,” Ranveer says, shaking his head, “these are not the right questions.”

Quinn tries to stifle a look of surprise. “What does that mean?”

“It means there is no point in discussing what we