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  THE SCORPION’S TALE

  By

  Wayne Block and Gregory Denaro

  SMASHWORDS EDITION

  The Scorpion’s Tale

  Copyright © 2009 by Wayne Block

  All Rights Reserved.

  PUBLISHED BY:

  Wayne Block & Gregory Denaro on Smashwords

  This book is dedicated to:

  Joseph R. Block, Irving Block, William (“Bill”) P. Harris, Jr.;

  John (“Jack”) Francis Harris; Joseph Ganguzza; Charles (“Chuck”) Olson;

  Dale Matza; Rigaberto (“Rick”) Echemendia; Luke Sturgill;

  Rose Denaro and Steve Levine.

  Many thanks to:

  Annemarie Harris-Block; Alexandra Block; Ilyssa Block; Shari Block-Jason;

  Lee Gale; Steve Friedland; Alan Hirschfield; Tony Lembeck; Carol Kenin-Levin; Rebecca Castillo; Helen Gynell; Collin Olson; Tara Hoskins; Adrienne Denaro; Gregory A. Denaro; Madeline Denaro; Katherine Mukhar; Nasri Mukhar;

  B.J. Robbins; Joseph Denaro; Jack Denaro; David Peckins; David Schreiber;

  Ileana Barbara, Rosa Peraza and Valerie Barkley de Pearson.

  PROLOGUE

  1977

  James leaned against the worn castle wall awaiting the arrival of his father. Alongside him stood his five half-brothers. It was a rare occasion when their father participated in his experiment, but today was special. Today was the culmination of the years of pain they had endured since birth.

  James tried making eye contact with the other boys but each avoided his stare. Like James, they were each sixteen years old. Unlike James, they were tense, nervous, and on edge. Joaquin, James’ mentor, held a revolver containing five bullets, as did each of the other five mentors. Their students would be led to a preselected location on the island, guns in hand, for their final task. Each had grown up on the island, and from an early age they were pitted against each other in contests of strength, cunning, and skill. James had never lost. He was the best among the original twelve males born sixteen years earlier. He remained the best of the six who were still alive.

  The father finally arrived. James didn’t know his true name; he was simply called “Father.” He was a singularly unimpressive man; clean shaven with an unflattering comb-over of greasy brown hair. He was slightly under six feet tall and very thin, with white, pasty skin. His black, lifeless eyes were complimented by a jagged scar running almost into his right eye where his father, in a fit of rage, had smashed a beer bottle into his face.

  Father nodded toward the mentors who then handed a revolver to each boy. James stared at his gun. He firmly gripped the handle in his palm and gently ran his fingers along the bullet chamber. The gun felt good in his hand.

  The experiment’s rules allowed for only one survivor. That survivor would then be released from the island, unleashed into the world as the perfect assassin. James intended to be that man by changing the rules. His mind tracked in slow motion what he was about to do. With only five bullets he could chance no miss. As his father began to speak to the group from a second floor balcony, James’s gun arm became a blur. Five perfect shots left five dead challengers.

  The mentors, immobilized by the unexpected breach of etiquette, allowed the precious moment James needed to retrieve two fallen weapons. Five more perfect shots. In less than a minute, James had executed his brothers and their teachers. His father, speechless and frozen, mouth agape, could only watch in horror as James raised his gun and fired two shots into his skull. Through dying eyes, James’ father finally saw the long anticipated result of his sixteen-year experiment: The birth of the ultimate killer.

  CHAPTER ONE

  2009

  He followed her at a cautious distance, careful not to arouse suspicion. Dressed in khaki pants and a light sweatshirt, shouldering a black, Jansport backpack, he looked like any tourist photographing the beautiful landscape at the top of this Cervinian mountain. Every few minutes, he discreetly glanced at the young woman to ensure she had not wandered from his line of vision, even though the only way down was the gondola. He was able to identify this strikingly beautiful woman by her long, flowing auburn hair. It was exactly as it had appeared in the photographs her uncle had provided his employer, the Don of the Sicilian Mafia. This young woman was targeted for execution, and the Don had paid him two million dollars to prevent the assassination and to kill the assassins. It was pleasantly ironic that he, the Scorpion, the world’s most feared and dangerous killer, now found himself in the role of protector.

  From the Plateau Rosa atop the mountain, the Scorpion panned the mountainside with image stabilizing binoculars scouting for locations from which he might expect a sniper attack. It was late in the day and there weren’t many visitors remaining on the mountain. He had also prepared for a surprise attack from close range. A silencer-equipped Gemtech SOS .45ACP was tucked into his waistband and his Ka-Bar combat knife was sheathed in one of the many oversized pockets stitched into his custom made khakis.

  The killing of a fellow assassin didn’t bother him; in fact it was exhilarating. The challenge of matching wits with the acclaimed “LeReaux,” was rarely encountered in his career. Professional assassins often had cryptic aliases. Even though the Scorpion knew that LeReaux had the contract for the hit, he had no idea what the man looked like. Even if he did, he knew that LeReaux, a master of disguise like himself, could assume any identity and strike at a moment’s notice from anywhere. It was LeReaux’s decision to execute the woman on the mountain that confounded the Scorpion. He would never have chosen such a public place, because he couldn’t guarantee his escape from the mountain. Unless the Scorpion’s intelligence information was incorrect, which it never was, he knew the attack was imminent. The lower they descended on the gondola, the more difficult it would be for LeReaux to escape undetected.

  The Scorpion heard the last call for the final gondola to the base station. He watched the young woman close her purse and walk slowly toward the station. His eyes darted back and forth trying to detect the slightest abnormality in his surroundings. He saw her board and surreptitiously gripped his gun in his waistband as the attendant ushered her into the empty gondola. He was uncertain whether the attendant was the assassin and braced himself to charge.

  The door closed without incident and the Scorpion moved out of the shadows and boarded the next car. Alone inside the gondola, he stood with his binoculars trained on the young woman, seated, reading a book, oblivious to her danger. His eyes scanned the ground and the approaching gondola station at Lago Cimi Bianchi for signs of anything out of place. Minutes later, she exited her gondola and walked toward the transfer station, remaining in full view as the Scorpion exited his. He and the woman appeared to be the only people awaiting the next cable car. She looked up briefly and smiled at him, then returned to her book. A different attendant was the only person in sight. Gun in hand but hidden from view, the Scorpion tried to detect any flaw in a disguise that would betray the attendant. They boarded the same car without incident.

  Upon reaching Plan Maison, the midway transfer to the base of the mountain, the young woman stopped into the ladies’ room, giving the Scorpion an opportunity to slowly walk the building’s perimeter and once again scan the surrounding terrain. As he rounded the final corner he saw a young man, already seated on the waiting gondola. The young man seemed distracted.

  The woman ran into the gondola just as the doors closed, blocking the Scorpion’s entrance. The Scorpion boarded the next gondola as the sole occupant, focusing his binoculars on the man alone with her. The man was seated at the front end of the car with the young woman across from him. There was nothing unusual about his features or mannerisms, and he did not appear to be in any hurry to kill her. And while the interior of a
gondola was an unlikely forum for a kill, the Scorpion never relied on assumptions.

  The Scorpion put down his binoculars, removed his backpack, and withdrew components of a Barrett M107A1 rifle and an Optical Ranging System. He attached the ballistics computer to the riflescope and adjusted the monopod on the rifle. He had preloaded his trajectory tables into the weapon’s system and had customized a comprehensive ballistics table. He now studied the young man through the scope, finger on the trigger. The man seemed to be sleeping while the woman read her book.

  Suddenly, the gondola came to an abrupt halt, causing the Scorpion to lose his balance. A voice over the intercom announced in Italian a mechanical problem as the gondola cars hung suspended over the mountain. The young man accompanying his assignment was now conversing in an easy manner with the young woman. The Scorpion panned between the man in the gondola and the surrounding area, searching for a sniper. The stationary gondola was now an easy target. All LeReaux needed was a conveniently camouflaged access point for a sniper shot. The Scorpion knew that only a few such points existed on the mountain. Even with a state-of-the-art sniper rifle, LeReaux would have to remain within 350 yards of his target to ensure the kill shot velocity would penetrate the fortified Plexiglas window of the gondola.

  Using his cable car as a center point, the Scorpion scanned the circumference of a circle approximately 350 yards out and identified two possible locations 180 degrees apart on two small hills covered with a dense growth of mature pine trees. As he panned the area he saw an approaching car kicking up dust on a dirt road. He zoomed in as the car abruptly stopped at the crest of the hill. A man dressed in camouflage emerged carrying a case then momentarily disappeared from view, only to reappear at the edge of the tree line. Out of the corner of his eye he saw in the distance another vehicle stop on the second hill and another man in camouflage emerged with a tripod and rifle. There were two assassins. He could only speculate which one was LeReaux.

  The Scorpion removed two clamps from his backpack that he inserted between the doors on both sides of the gondola to pry them open. He assumed a prone position on the floor with the monopod buttressed against the door and the rifle barrel extending through the opening. He panned back to the first assassin, estimating the distance at 270 yards and 340 yards for the second assassin. Both were within the rifle’s effective range of two thousand yards. He was supremely confident that his BORS ballistics computer had compensated for temperature, barometric pressure, and the upward or downward trajectory for the further shot at the second assassin. But he was equally uncertain about his first shot because the angle and vertical drop were very different. He would have to take the shot manually and perform the impossible.

  He loaded a .50 caliber cartridge into the chamber, disconnected his BORS, made a final manual adjustment, and lightly placed his finger on the trigger. He had the assassin in his line of sight and watched him make his final preparation to kill the woman. The Scorpion closed his eye, slowly released his breath, and squeezed the trigger. The man’s head exploded as his body fell backward onto the ground. The Scorpion immediately activated his BORS, switched sides on the gondola for a better shot, and trained his weapon on the second assassin, successfully repeating the kill. He then turned his attention to the young man and woman who were still deep in conversation in the gondola. He continued to train his rifle on the man. What he saw put him at ease.

  ---------------

  Ten Minutes Earlier

  Steven Capresi peered down the mountain at Breuil-Cervinia, taking in the grandeur, trying to focus on the wonderful things happening in his life. Today was his twenty-eighth birthday and he was engaged to Amanda, who was pregnant with their first child. His import business finally showed a profit after struggling since its inception. Despite his surroundings and his blessings, Steven’s mood was darker than the shadows cast within the surrounding Alpine crevices. He held a tattered page of a book he had secretly kept for years and unfolded it for the thousandth time. The creases had erased many letters but Steven knew the Anais Nin quote verbatim:

  “The human father has to be confronted and recognized as human, as man who created a child and then, by his absence, left the child fatherless and then Godless.”

  Steven was alone on this Italian mountaintop, relieved he was not home for a forced celebration he did not desire. This day did not mark the twenty-eighth anniversary of his birth so much as the twentieth anniversary of his father’s death. His birthdays brought back the terrible memory of pestering his mother to light his eight candles so he could make a wish, eat his cake, and open his presents. Those childish desires were put on hold until his father arrived late with the promise of a special gift for him. Then, the officious knock on the door followed by his mother’s unearthly scream that shattered his childhood innocence. Steven could never forget that night. No longer would he smell his father’s English Leather Cologne mixed with the bitter scent of his father’s cigar. Nor would he see his father’s beaming smile, which had been present at all of Steven’s childhood achievements, from when he first learned to ride a bike to when he hit that game winning single in Little League in the first grade.

  Steven had struggled to put his loss into words until a fateful day a decade earlier, when he purchased a book that once contained the page he now held. Steven had been dating Celeste, an NYU freshman and throwback from the Age of Aquarius. This free loving blonde WASP, brought up in the Westchester County Country Club scene, stood in stark contrast to the staid Italian girls he was accustomed to dating from his middle class neighborhood. Most nights, between their countless sexual encounters stoned on marijuana, she would expound on philosophy, and often mentioned Anais Nin.

  An infatuated Steven sought a Nin book for Valentine’s Day. His perseverance led him to a Greenwich Village bookstore. Steven left the store with a bounce in his step and a book of the author’s quotes to give to his Celeste at Valentine’s dinner. Regrettably, Celeste broke their dinner engagement along with a small piece of his heart, to have a private tutorial with a professor she idolized. Steven flipped through the book in search of a quote to tell off his ex-lover and accidentally stumbled upon one that defined him. He too, was both fatherless and Godless. Steven had his quote, and Celeste, the free-loving tramp, had her “A,” thanks to an extra-credit performance.

  After his final business meeting, Steven traveled up the mountain to contemplate his upcoming fatherhood. He stared in awe at the stark gray, snow-patched Matterhorn, framed by fields of multi-colored flowers and silhouetted against an azure sky. He shut his eyes, filled with both fear and wonder. He knew that continuing his life cursing the fate that made him half orphan would render his own child emotionally fatherless. He vowed to the heavens that he would grasp life to its fullest and be happy. He read the quote once more then let go of the tattered page, watching as the wind swirled it away and with it, the darkness that had enveloped him.

  A harsh gust brought Steven back to reality as he boarded the gondola’s final departure. At Laghi Cime Bianchi, he transferred from the cable car to the gondola. At Plan Maison, he took the last cable car to the base station. A young woman hurried on as the doors closed behind her, smiling politely as she removed her scarf and sunglasses. They were the only passengers. The gondola pulled away and Steven found himself staring at her until their eyes briefly met, causing her smile to fade before she turned her attention to her book. A few minutes later he was unexpectedly jolted by a loud, scraping sound. The gondola abruptly stopped and swayed precariously, high above the ground. The woman looked up with a concerned expression. They both sat in silence until a voice came over the intercom. The woman looked at Steven who shrugged his shoulders, indicating he did not understand. She spoke into the intercom in fluent Italian and had a brief conversation with the attendant. When she finished, she gazed pensively into the distance while Steven wondered how long he should wait before asking her for a status report. He was hoping she spoke English.

  She turned to him
with a revived smile. The setting sun cast an amber light on her face and he realized how stunning she was. She had long, thick, auburn hair that framed her high cheekbones, flawless skin and hypnotic green eyes.

  “Are you American?” she asked with an Italian accent in a voice so sensuous that he could hardly respond.

  “Italian-American,” he stuttered.

  “You don’t understand Italian?”

  “No.”

  “Shame on you,” she teased. “Italian is a romance language. You should make an effort to embrace your heritage.”

  Steven blushed.

  “There is something wrong with the motor,” she continued. “It is going to take a while to fix. It will get cold but there are blankets under our benches.”

  Steven got down on his knees and started pulling out blankets. He wrapped one around her shoulders, and as his hand grazed her neck, he felt an electric shock. He took one for himself before sitting down, this time closer to her.

  “Grazie, that’s very kind of you,” she said.

  “It’s my pleasure. May I ask your name?”

  “You may, but I won’t tell you,” she teased.

  Steven was intrigued. “That’s a strange answer.”

  She copied his impish grin. “I don’t want to know your name and you don’t need to know mine. We will never see each other again. If the gondola hadn’t stopped, we wouldn’t have spoken at all.”

  Steven appeared puzzled as he pondered her logic.

  “You may call me Sophia, like Sophia Loren,” she continued.

  “Then call me Tom, as in Cruise,” Steven said, enjoying the banter.