The Sonoran Desert
An hour’s drive from Maricopa, Arizona Early May
Rock and dust, scrub and cactus and the blinding white sun beating down. Nobody ever came out here.
The dust from two off-road vehicles drifted upwards into the still air as they bounced and lurched across the arid wilderness. The big silver Subaru 4×4 in front crunched to a halt on the stones, doors opened and three men got out.
One of them didn’t want to be there. He stood out from the other two, and not just because he was the only Japanese guy and they were white Europeans. He was also the only one with a .45 auto to the back of his head and his wrists bound behind his back. Tape, not cord. Cord would leave a mark, and his captors didn’t want that. A length of the same silver duct tape was pressed firmly to his face, muffling his protests. The T-shirt he was wearing was damp with sweat.
His captors knew his name – Michio Miyazaki – and that he was a scientist. Beyond that, it wasn’t their concern why this was happening to him.
The bright red Jeep Cherokee following the Subaru pulled up alongside. Its driver killed the engine, stepped down, ran her fingers through her blond hair and wiped the sweat on her jeans. There was no sound except the ticking of hot metal and the feeble protests of the prisoner as the two men started marching him away from the vehicles.
The Jeep was Miyazaki’s, as was the technical equipment in the back. When this was over, it would look as though the scientist had been out here on a research trip, collecting samples. That fitted his profile. He was unmarried, single, no kids, tended to keep to himself, and he wasn’t a well man. Nobody would question what was about to take place.
The woman walked around to the passenger side of the Jeep, opened the door and lifted out the small container she’d been riding uncomfortably beside through the desert. This was one item that didn’t belong to Miyazaki. It was a pale blue plastic lunchbox, with tiny air holes pricked in the top. What was inside weighed almost nothing. The woman held it away from her at arm’s length. With her other hand she grabbed a shoulder bag from the footwell, then shut the Jeep door and trotted to catch up with the others. As she joined them she could hear the prisoner pleading with them through his gag.
They all ignored him.
‘This’ll be fine,’ the taller of the two white men said in their own language, glancing around him. The stocky guy with the muscles straining under his cotton shirt kept the .45 aimed at Miyazaki’s head.
The woman set the container down on the ground and stepped back, happy to get some distance from it. She reached into the shoulder bag and pulled out a pair of thick leather gauntlets. Tossed the right glove to her colleague, then the left.
‘You do it,’ she said. ‘I’m not touching that thing.’
The tall man pulled on the gloves. The one with the gun swept his foot out and Miyazaki crumpled on his back into the dirt. He was crying now, tears streaking the dust on his face.
The tall man walked over to the container and squatted down beside it. The others watched as, very carefully, he unsnapped the lid, lifted a corner, peered inside, dipped his gloved hand into the container and stood up with the thing in his fist.
Miyazaki started struggling and protesting with renewed energy when he saw the glistening brown scorpion trapped between the man’s fingers. He’d spent his life deeply involved in one small specialised corner of science, but he had