December 1, 1997, old port of Marseille.
Samir died in his own car.
Two shots.
One between the eyebrows, one in the heart.
The killer used a 9mm Parabellum. The casings were left on the passenger seat, deliberately not picked up.
When Scorpion saw the body, Samir's blood had already drained, congealing into dark brown clots on the driver's seat.
He stood by the car and lit a cigarette.
Costa was dead, Samir was dead. The usable local forces in Marseille were down to a few small-time street thugs who didn't count.
Scorpion exhaled a lungful of smoke and pulled out the satphone.
"Boss, something happened in Marseille."
There was three seconds of silence on the other end.
"Who did it?"
"No idea. But the Albanians had a meeting last night. Afterward their boss said, 'From now on, the product in Marseille is our call.'"
The other end went quiet again.
Scorpion waited.
"What about Samir's people?"
"Scattered. Some ran, some went over to the Albanians."
"And the product?"
