The Big Bad Wolf (Alex Cross 9)

The Weasel picked a fat banana from one of several plants in his yard. At this time of year he had his choice of coconut, guava, mango, and pinha, which was sugar apple. As he plucked the fresh fruit he had the thought that there was always something ripe for the taking in Salvador. It was paradise. Or maybe it’s hell and I’m the Devil, Shafer thought, and chuckled to himself.

“For you, Maria,” he said, handing her the banana. “We’ll put it to good use.”

The girl smiled knowingly, and the Weasel noticed her eyes—what perfect brown eyes. And all mine now—eyes, lips, breasts.

Just then, he spotted a small Brazilian monkey called a mico trying to work its way through a window screen and into his house. “Get out of here, you thieving little bastard!” he yelled. “G’wan! Beat it!”

There came a quick movement from out of the bushes, then three men jumped him. The police, he was certain, probably Americans. Alex Cross?

The cops were all over him, powerful arms and legs everywhere. He was struck down by a bat, or a lead pipe, yanked back up by his full head of hair, then beaten unconscious.

“We caught him. We caught the Weasel, first try. That wasn’t very hard,” said one of the men. “Bring him inside.”

Then he looked at the beautiful young girl, who was clearly afraid, rightly so. “You did a good job, Maria. You brought him to us.” He turned to one of his men. “Kill her.”

A single gunshot ruptured the silence in the front yard. No one see

med to notice or care in Salvador.

THE WEASEL JUST WANTED to die now. He was hanging upside down from the ceiling of his own master bedroom. The room had mirrors everywhere, and he could see himself in several of the reflections.

He looked like death. He was naked, bruised and bleeding all over. His hands were tightly cuffed behind his back, his ankles bound together, cutting off the circulation. Blood was rushing to his head.

Hanging beside him was the young girl, Maria, but she had been dead for several hours, maybe as much as a day, judging by the terrible smell. Her brown eyes were turned his way, but they stared right through him.

The leader of his captors, bearded, always squeezing a black ball in one hand, squatted down so that he was only a foot or so from Shafer’s face. He spoke softly, a whisper.

“What we did with some prisoners when I was active—we would sit them down, rather politely, peacefully, and then nail their fucking tongues to a table. That’s absolutely true, my weaselly friend. You know what else? Simply plucking hairs . . . from the nostrils . . . the chest . . . stomach . . . genitals . . . it’s more than a little bothersome, no? Ouch,” he said as he plucked hairs from Shafer’s naked body.

“But I’ll tell you the worst torture, in my opinion, anyway. Worse than what you would have done to poor Maria. You grab the prisoner by both shoulders and shake violently until he convulses. You literally rattle his brain, the sensitive organ itself. He feels as if his head will fly off. His body is on fire. I’m not exaggerating.

“Here, let me show you what I mean.”

The terrible, unimaginably violent shaking—while Geoffrey Shafer hung upside down—went on for nearly an hour.

Finally he was cut down. “Who are you? What do you want from me?” he screamed.

The head captor shrugged. “You’re a tough bastard, but always remember, I found you. And I’ll find you again if I need to. Do you understand?”

Geoffrey Shafer could barely focus his eyes, but he looked up to where he thought the captor’s voice had come from. He whispered, “What . . . do you . . . want? Please?”

The bearded man’s face bent close to his. He seemed almost to smile. “I have a job, a most incredible job for you. Believe me, you were born for this.”

“Who are you?” the Weasel whispered again through badly chapped and bleeding lips. It was a question he’d asked a hundred times during the torture.

“I am the Wolf,” said the bearded man. “Perhaps you’ve heard of me.”

ON THE SUNNY, blue-skied afternoon when one of them would die unexpectedly, needlessly, Frances and Dougie Puslowski were hanging sheets and pillowcases and the kids’ play clothes out to dry in the noonday sun.

Suddenly U.S. Army soldiers began to arrive at their mobile-home park, Azure Views, in Sunrise Valley, Nevada. Lots of soldiers. A full convoy of U.S. jeeps and trucks came bouncing up the dirt road they lived on, and stopped abruptly. Troops poured out of the vehicles. The soldiers were heavily armed. They definitely meant business.

“What in the name of sweet Jesus is going on?” asked Dougie, who was currently on disability from the Cortey Mine outside Wells and was still trying to get used to the domestic scene. But Dougie knew that he was failing pretty badly. He was almost always depressed, always grumpy and mean-spirited, and always short with poor Frances and the kids.

Dougie noticed that the soldier boys and girls climbing out of their trucks were outfitted in battle dress uniform: leather boots, camouflage pants, olive T-shirts—the whole kit and caboodle, as if this were Iraq and not the ass end of Nevada. They carried M-16 rifles and ran toward the closest trailers with muzzles raised. Some of the soldiers even looked scared themselves.

The desert wind was blowing pretty good, and their voices carried all the way to the Puslowskis’ clothesline. Frances and Dougie clearly heard “We’re evacuating the town! This is an emergency situation. Everyone has to leave their houses now! Now, people!”

Frances Puslowski had the presence of mind to notice that all the soldiers were pretty much saying the same thing, as if they had rehearsed it, and that their tight, solemn faces sure showed that they wouldn’t take no for an answer. The Puslowskis’ three-hundred-odd neighbors—some of them very odd—were already leaving their mobile homes, complaining about it but definitely doing as they were told.