The alarm indicating someone was at the gate sounded, and Shabina nearly jumped out of her skin. She caught up her phone to stare in a kind of dazed terror at the two men sitting in their car, waiting for permission to drive up to her house.
“Get in the shower, Shabina,” Raine said. “Zahra will let them in. I’m armed. I won’t look like a threat to them because I look injured with my pathetic little leg. I can turn on the cameras in here as well. Take a quick shower and come out looking your usual composed self. We won’t leave you alone with them. Whatever they want they can say right in front of us.”
Shabina wasn’t certain she could stand up, but she gave her phone to Zahra so Raine could use it to talk to the two men at the gate.
“Raine O’Mallory here. What can I do for you?”
Two IDs appeared on-screen. One man was Ellis Boucher the other Rhys Cormier, both claimed to be Interpol agents from Paris. Raine immediately took a screenshot of the men’s identifications and went to work on her computer.
“We’d like to speak with Shabina Foster,” Boucher said.
“She’s in the shower at the moment. Let me have our friend ask her if it would be all right for you to come up to the house. Give me a moment, please.” Raine was very good at stalling. She sounded sweet and reasonable.
Shabina managed to make it to her feet. Wrapping her arms around her churning stomach, she hurried to her bathroom,where she allowed the hot water to pour over her, hoping it would revive her. By the time she emerged, dressed in fresh clothes, her hair wet but braided in a thick rope, she felt a little better. She put the dogs on alert but sent them to their stations, three different corners of the room, where they would have the advantage should they have to attack. Daisy was crated for safety.
“Are you armed?” Raine asked Shabina.
Shabina wouldn’t have walked into the room without being armed. She nodded and put in the code to allow the gates to swing open.
“I want a weapon,” Zahra said. “Just in case.”
“In the kitchen, taped under the center island.” Shabina made her way to the front door. Each step felt like she was wading through quicksand. Why would Interpol want to talk to her? It was bad enough that the FBI and Rafferty were looking at her as a suspect, but now Interpol?
She took a deep breath and opened the door, steeling herself to handle the situation.
Both men had their IDs out to show her at the door. She waved them inside but indicated Raine. “You’ll have to show your identification to Raine. She can’t get up at the moment, but she works for the government and will be acting as my official counsel.”
The two men exchanged a look but entered, both looking around carefully to take in the position of furniture and windows and seeking the location of her protection dogs. It was no secret that she had them and that they were always with her.
Raine looked their IDs over carefully and nodded before Shabina invited them to take a seat.
“This certainly is a surprise.” She chose her chair, making certain to present the most difficult target and the angle that wouldnot hinder Raine if she needed to take a shot. “What can I do for you?” She folded her hands in her lap.
Her revolver was tucked into the side of the cushion, only inches from her fingers. She was extremely proud of her voice. Steady as a rock. No trembling. She kept her gaze fixed on both men, noting every breath, every movement. Having Raine and Zahra there gave her a measure of confidence. She wasn’t entirely alone.
“We know that you spent some very unpleasant months with a man referred to as Scorpion,” Boucher opened. “I’m sorry if this conversation is uncomfortable for you, but we’ve been attempting to gather evidence against him and one of his associates.”
Cormier took up the narrative. “Many people we’ve questioned believe Scorpion doesn’t act alone.”
She didn’t move, not even when her stomach knotted and churned. These men were investigators from Paris trying to build a case against Scorpion, and yet warning alarms were shrieking at her. She had no idea why. Both spoke in gentle tones. Both were polite. She kept her hands still and her features composed. So far, they hadn’t asked a question. She’d learned, when she was a teenager, never to speak unless she had to.
“Scorpion works with a master assassin. This man at first was thought to be a myth. When others spoke of him, they did so in whispers. He came to our attention, the stories building a picture of him. He’s been killing for Scorpion for at least ten years,” Boucher said.
Both men watched her closely. Shabina had been in Scorpion’s camps for over six months. They moved constantly. He wasn’t always with them, but his orders were followed. She had never once noticed that he had a special assassin he sent out. He had his cabinet. They specialized in cruelty and murdered often, as didthe mercenaries he left behind to run his camp when he was gone. But an assassin? Scorpion preferred to do his own killing.
It was all she could do not to rub her left wrist, where the tattoo was branded into her skin. The hated scorpion. She kept it covered at all times.
“This man is very familiar with every terrain. He knows the desert and the hills. He knows the cities. He moves with the wind. If one ever catches a glimpse of him, they do so before they die,” Boucher added. “In all the time you were in those camps, did you see such a man? Could you identify him?”
Shabina forced the air to move through her lungs at an even rate. She didn’t want to think about those days or remember any of the men other than the few who had been decent, risking their lives to try to aid her. She remembered them. Their faces. Their names. She kept them and their families in her heart.
She shook her head. “I’m sorry. I have no idea what you’re talking about. All of the men who rode with Scorpion killed. I didn’t notice any one man standing out above the rest.”
Boucher frowned. It was the first time he appeared to be annoyed. “It is said he comes when the sandstorms come. That’s when he strikes, sometimes leaving behind many dead, not just one.”
She shook her head again, but this time she couldn’t keep her heart from racing. She didn’t dare look at Raine. Could he be referring to Rainier? No one knew Rainier was the master assassin Deadly Storms. Not even Blom. Was Interpol looking for Rainier? Why weren’t they asking questions about Scorpion?
“They call him Deadly Storms,” Cormier added. “Had you ever heard this name in the camp?”
