“Be very careful when you go there. There’s a man who’s pursuing Sikari. He’s former U.S. Army, in fact former military intelligence. Well-trained and ruthless.” He slipped his hand inside his suit jacket and brought out a color photograph. “This is him. His name is Harold Middleton. Be cautious of him at all times.”

Crane glanced at the photo, but when he looked up he stopped listening. He was riveted by the scene on the other side of the car window—another black limo had appeared and was running without lights next to them on the cramped, two-lane residential road. It was keeping perfect and very dangerous pace, its front fenders aligned with their limo’s front fenders. Cold moonlight reflected off the darkened side windows. He could see no one inside. His lungs tightened.

The chauffeur spoke. “I’ve been watching it.” Crane liked the sound of him—there was authority in the voice, a man who knew how to get things done.

The chauffeur floored the gas pedal. The limo’s tires spun and screeched, and the acceleration threw them deep into their seats.

As they left the other limo sucking their exhaust, the chauffeur commanded, “Get out the weapons.”

Crane saw his host jab a button on his plush armrest. A door dropped open behind the driver’s seat. He pulled out an MP5 submachine gun and quickly slid it over the seat to the chauffeur. Then he grabbed the other gun for himself and rested it gingerly on his lap.

“It’s Jana,” the driver said angrily. “I could see her through the windshield. How did she find us?”

“How should I know?”

“It’s your job, dammit! You’ve screwed up!”

Crane was stunned. The chauffeur was questioning the Scorpion. He was giving the Scorpion orders. He was telling him he had failed. And the Scorpion was doing nothing to take back control.

As the limo raced onward, Crane noticed that the window between the front and rear seats had remained open the whole time. The chauffeur had heard everything. Crane thought back quickly, remembering when he saw the man in the tenement foyer and asked whether he was the Scorpion. ‘You’re a smart lad,’ he’d said, and that was all he’d said, which was no answer at all. He had dodged the question.

Crane felt his heart pound. The disguise of chauffeur was perfect to conceal the Scorpion’s legendary secret identity while carrying out business. There was only one answer that made sense—the chauffeur was the boss. Could the chauffeur be the real Scorpion?

The second limo pulled up again and the window on the front passenger side rolled down. Crane looked inside. He caught a gauzy image of the driver—a beautiful woman with long lustrous dark hair dancing in the slipstream. Her left hand was on the wheel. Her right, out of view.