She glanced at Crane and he felt a shiver—from her beauty and from what he saw as a fanatic’s fire in her eyes. Captivating, terrifying. Then she lost all interest in him and instead focused on the other two men in the vehicle. Something about her gaze as she looked at the driver registered disappointment. She hesitated only a moment then lifted a machine pistol. Perhaps an Uzi, perhaps a Mac-10. As Crane gasped and cringed, a firestorm sprouted from the muzzle and, like amplified hail, the bullets slammed in the windows, flicking loudly but ineffectively off the armored sheet metal and bulletproof glass. Dismay spread on Jana’s face and she wrenched the wheel to the right, forcing their limo into a grassy shoulder, where it bounced to a halt.

Jana’s vehicle vanished into a cloud of dust.

“How did she find us?” the driver snapped.

“Followed him?” The man in the backseat glanced at Crane, who noticed that he held his pistol firmly in a steady hand. He wondered if he was about to die.

The driver spun around and snapped, “You can never underestimate anyone in this. Never.”

The man beside him said, “What do we do about him?”

The driver considered. “Mr. Crane, there’s a train station at the end of that road there. You see it?”

“Yes.”

“You can get a train that will take you back to Paris. I’m afraid we have other concerns.”

“Yes, of course.”

“Follow the London lead. But be careful. Whatever you do, be careful.”

Crane climbed out of the limo, which rocked out of the soft shoulder and made a U turn, the opposite of the direction Jana had sped in.

The reporter, now shaking and breathless from the incident, began hiking toward the road. His reporter’s instinct gave him an important message: The woman had been intent on killing the Scorpion but the frown of disappointment when she saw the men in the limo told him that neither man was, in fact, that reclusive character.

Anyone with common sense would walk away from this story. It was beyond dangerous, but somewhere deep inside him he, the Crane, loved that. He was ugly, but his mind and spirit were beautiful. His curiosity was inflamed, and like a lover in the first fiery flush of requitement, he would see himself skinned and beheaded before he would let go of this amazing story.

He pulled out his cell and ran down the street. In the distance, police sirens screamed. He ignored them. His mind was on London and what he would find there.

3 - DAVID HEWSON

3

DAVID HEWSON

Felicia Kaminski was playing Bach—Partita number two in D minor, the Chaconne, some of the most difficult solo violin music ever written—when the man with the gun burst through the door.