He gave a strange half smile, then bit down hard on something inside his mouth. I thought I knew what had happened. I tried desperately to force open his mouth. His jaw was clamped tightly shut, and suddenly the Russian’s eyes were wide, incredibly big and full of pain. Poison. He’d bitten into poison.
Then his mouth opened and he roared full voice. White foam and spit ran over his lips and down his chin. He roared again, and his body began to convulse. I couldn’t hold him down any longer. I pushed myself up, backed away from his flopping body.
He began to gag and to claw at his throat. The convulsing, the dying went on for several awful minutes, and there was nothing I could do and nothing I wanted to do, except watch.
And then it happened: the Wolf died in the front seat of the convertible, another of his expensive cars.
When it was over, I bent and picked up the rubber handball. I put it in my pocket. It was what killers I’ve caught call a trophy.
It was over and I was going home, wasn’t I? I had things to think about, and so much to change about my life. I had the uncomfortable thought: I am taking trophies now, too.
But I had another, much more important thought: Damon, Jannie, Little Alex, Nana.
Home.
The Wolf is dead. I saw him die.
I kept telling myself that until I finally believed it.