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

One thing I’ve learned in all my years here is that you never know what might end up saving your life.”

Quinn smiles. Straightens herself in her chair. Brushes something off her knee that wasn’t really there.

“I wanted to thank you,” she says.

“For what?”

A subtle gesture to her left. “For getting me out of the whole Elite Assassin thing.”

“I didn’t so much get you out of it as get someone else into it.”

“Who?”

“For the time being,” Van says, “you’re looking at her. But temporarily. We’re still vetting other analysts.”

“Well, I appreciate it,” Quinn says. “And I also wanted to apologize.”

“Quinn—”

“No, I do. I know you wanted me to do it.”

“I thought it might have been good for you,” Van says. “I still do, to be honest. But that’s different from wanting you to do it. I don’t want you doing anything you’re not ready for, or that you’re not comfortable with.”

“I just feel like I need something…predictable.”

“Wouldn’t that be nice,” Van says. “After everything I’ve seen in my career, predictability is a concept I’ve given up on.”

“Well, more predictable than chasing a serial killer all over the world.”

“Fair enough,” Van says. “So, what’s your plan?”

“Advanced Analytics,” Quinn says. She tries to say it with confidence, but she knows it comes out more as an apology.

“Advanced Analytics,” Van says. “Your old job before you moved to counter-terrorism, right?”

“But with some management responsibilities,” Quinn says. “A team lead.”

Van nods in a way that Quinn knows is meant to appear neutral, but that in its excess of objectivity comes across as all the more judgmental.

“What?” Quinn asks.

“Nothing,” Van says. “I think that’s fine.”

“Fine?”

“If that’s where you feel you need to be at this point in your career, I fully support you.”

Quinn has never been anything but deferential toward any of her bosses, but she feels as though she is being provoked. “What exactly do you mean by at this point in my career?”

Van shrugs. “I mean that you’re, what? Halfway through your career?”

“So?”

“So if you want to spend the second half in Advanced Analytics doing a job you’ve already done—doing a job you already know you’re good at and that, frankly, you can do in your sleep—then I guess that’s the right decision.”

“It’s not exactly my old job,” Quinn objects. “I’ll be a team lead.”

“Sorry,” Van says, though she does not sound it. “My mistake.”

“You make it sound like Advanced Analytics isn’t important. This agency couldn’t function without them.”

“But they can function without you,” Van says.

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“It means when you retire, do you want to look back at your career and realize you spent it doing a job any number of other people could do? Or do you want to retire knowing that you did something only you could’ve done?”

“Like what?” Quinn asks. “What can only I do?”

“That’s up to you, isn’t it?”

“No, seriously,” Quinn says. “No more bullshit, Vanessa. Tell me what you think I should do.”

“It doesn’t matter what I think.”

“It does to me.”

“Why?”

“Because I respect your opinion. Because…” Quinn hesitates, then commits to what she wants to say. “Because I don’t have anyone else to talk this through with. Because all I have are my own obnoxious, self-pitying, exhausting thoughts, and to be perfectly honest, I haven’t exactly been a very good advocate for myself over the last few years.”

“Quinn, I’m the one who should be apologizing to you,” Van says.

“For what?”

“For not being there. Through everything.”

“That’s not your job,” Quinn says. “And you were there.”

“Not like I should have been. Not like I wish I’d been.”

“Well, good news,” Quinn says. “You can be here for me now. You can tell me what to do.”

Van leans back in her chair. “You really want to know what I think?”

“Yes,” Quinn says. “I want you to be completely honest.”

Van’s eyes drop momentarily to her laptop as she gathers her thoughts. But before she can begin, something changes on the plasma glass wall, and Quinn can’t stop herself from looking.

“What is that?” she asks.

It is a man’s hand. Index finger severed. Numbers tattooed, but in relief: black blocks with flesh-colored digits. A bright green background. Not as much blood as Quinn would have thought. Probably bled out from somewhere else.

“I’m sorry,” Van says. She leans forward and snatches the remote off its cradle. “Let me turn this damn thing off.”

“Wait,” Quinn says. “It’s six.”

Van’s thumb hovers above the inductive surface. “What is?”

“The number on the missing finger,” Quinn says. “It’s six.”

“We figured,” Van says. “It fits the sequence. Some kind of countdown.”

“It’s not a countdown.”

“How do you know?”

“Why would a countdown start at seven and go down to three?”

“Tattoos are a very personal form of expression,” Van says. “Who knows what kind of meaning it might have.”

“Exactly,” Quinn says. “They are very personal, and it does have meaning, but it’s not a countdown. It’s a prime.”

“A prime,” Van repeats. “As in number?”

“One of only two with digits in consecutive descending order.”

“Interesting,” Van observes. “What’s the other?”

“Forty-three.”

“Huh.”

“Who is this?”

“Not sure yet. Just came over the wire this morning. Probably a false positive.”

“What do you mean?”

Van places the remote back into the cradle’s magnetic grasp, then checks her laptop.

“It got swept up by the case bot because of the numbers, but they were already there, so I seriously doubt our guy’s responsible.”

“Who killed him, then?”

“Coroner’s calling it some kind of deranged self-mutilation-slash-suicide.”

“Why?”

“Because he was in the last place on the planet anyone could possibly be murdered.”

“Where?”

“In the middle of a v-sports arena,” Van says. “Surrounded by hundreds of cameras. With millions of people watching. Live.”

Quinn stands and walks toward the wall. The other images have scaled and stacked themselves to make room for the new evidence.

“Why is the background green?”

“Chroma-key. Green screen. The players wear VR headsets, but the audience wants to see the action from a third-person perspective, not first-person. So they play in these huge arenas that are painted entirely green so everything but the players can be replaced with a virtual environment.”

“Everything green becomes invisible,” Quinn says.

“Exactly.”

“And everyone inside is