Scorpion Christian Cantrell (free ebook reader for ipad TXT) 📖

You insult the Prophet Muhammad. You don’t even do me the courtesy of covering your head.”

Reflexively, Quinn reaches up and touches her hair.

“And then you have the audacity to threaten my family?”

“I’m not threatening your family, Tariq.”

“You’re not threatening my family? Tell me, what would you do if a Middle Eastern man came into your country, followed you into a Starbucks or your gym or wherever you go, and when you didn’t answer his questions, showed you photos of your children next to a picture of an eviscerated baby? How would you react?”

Quinn holds up her hands in a halting gesture. “Please. I realize how this looks, Tariq. I do. But I want to be very clear that I am not, in any way—”

“And you wonder why the world hates you so much. How would you like it if we parked aircraft carriers off the coasts of California and New York and fired Tomahawk missiles into your country every time something happened that we didn’t like? Or if we sent Navy SEALs into Washington, D.C., in the middle of the night to kill or kidnap whomever we pleased. Or if we put Americans in secret prisons, and denied them legal representation, and tortured them. Even if you didn’t respect your own government, how would you feel about ours?”

“The United States and the Sultanate of Oman are allies,” Quinn says. “We would never—”

“I’m not talking about Oman, Ms. Mitchell. I’m talking about the world. I’m talking about our Muslim brothers and sisters. Look at you. You don’t even know you’re doing it. You are so arrogant and so entitled that you don’t even know how the rest of the world sees you. You don’t even know why everyone hates you so much.”

“Tariq, all I’m doing is investigating a murder. All I want is to—”

“Get out of my hotel and don’t ever come back. If I see you in here again, I’ll have you taken down into the basement, where we have a soundproof room, and I’ll give you a reason to hate Muslims. Do you understand me?”

Quinn has gone from apologetic to terrified. She could have waited until Interpol agents arrived in Sohar, and they could have all done this together, but she didn’t want to give the killer another seven hours to run. She can see now what a mistake that was—how far out of her depth she really is. Tariq is waiting for a response, and Quinn barely manages a nod.

“And just to be clear,” he adds, “I am threatening you.”

That is all Quinn can take. The rapid flash of fear; the talk of dead children; being seven thousand miles from home in a strange country; the fact that she has no fucking clue what she’s doing. It is all just too much. The only thing she can think to do is cover her face with her hands.

“What’s the matter, Agent Mitchell?” Tariq asks with mock concern. “Does the truth hurt?”

And then, for the second time today, Quinn Mitchell sobs.

“I hope you’re not expecting me to feel sorry for you.”

She has no idea what’s going on around her anymore. Trying to suppress what is inside her with deep and deliberate breathing takes all her concentration.

“Poor, poor American. Poor CIA agent. The murderer who can’t catch the murderer.”

She wonders why Tariq hasn’t gotten up and walked away. Is he still there just to mock her, or has he summoned men in tight suits and wires in their ears to grasp her by the arms, lift her out of her seat, and escort her outside? Or worse, into a side room, and then down the back stairs and into the basement.

“I’m sorry,” she finally says from behind her hands.

“What’s that?”

Quinn cycles through one final breath, then uncovers her face.

“I said I’m sorry. I did that all wrong. You want to know why?” She leans forward, removes the cocktail napkin from beneath a bottle of water, and starts trying to clean up her face. “Because I have no fucking clue what I’m doing.” She addresses the snot on her top lip first, then finds a dry piece of napkin to begin soaking up tears. “I don’t belong here. I’m not a field officer. I’m not any kind of officer. I’m an analyst. I’m supposed to be back in Langley, sitting in a cubicle. But somebody got the brilliant idea to send me out after an international murderer. Probably because my daughter died, and they thought that would incentivize me or something.” She sniffs and blinks and finds that she is not done with the tears just yet. “But all it’s done is turn me into a complete fucking mess. And all I want to do is catch this motherfucker so I can go home and drink an entire bottle of wine by myself and curl up in bed and not wake up for week.”

“Then why are you chasing bodies?” Tariq asks her.

Quinn was expecting stunned silence. Maybe even just a tiny bit of sympathy. The one thing she was not expecting from Tariq was advice.

She swaps the wad in her hand for the second cocktail napkin. “What?”

“I asked you why you’re chasing bodies,” Tariq says again.

“What else am I supposed to do?”

“If you keep following the bodies, then bodies are all you are ever going to find. That’s not how you catch a killer.”

“What am I supposed to follow? I don’t have any other leads.”

“You don’t need leads. You already know exactly why he’s doing it.”

Quinn looks up. “What do you mean?”

“I mean you may not know how someone can do the kinds of things he does, but you know exactly why.”

“The money,” Quinn says.

“The money,” Tariq repeats. “If you want to know where he’s been, keep following the bodies. But if you want to know where he’s going, follow the money.”

In addition to being a bloated, blubbering mess, Quinn now feels like a complete moron. It isn’t like the oldest investigative cliché in criminal justice history never occurred to her. It’s