James PATTERSON - The Big Bad Wolf

She knew some of his pathetic habits by heart. He usually turned on the TV when he came home: sometimes ESPN, but more often CNN. He watched the news constantly. He also liked detective shows such as Law and Order, CSI, Murder/Homicide . The TV was always on, late into the night.

He was physically large and strong, and he was a sadist – but also careful about not hurting her badly, not so far anyway. Which meant – what did it mean? – that he planned to keep her around for a while more?

If Lizzie Connelly could stand it here for another minute. If she didn’t flip out and make him so angry that he’d snap her neck, as he’d threatened to several times a day. ‘ I’ll snap your little neck. Like this! You don’t believe me? You should believe me, Elizabeth .’ He always called her Elizabeth, not Lizzie. He told her that Lizzie wasn’t a beautiful enough name for her. ‘I’ll break your fucking neck, Elizabeth!’

He knew who she was and quite a bit about her, and also about Brendan, Brigid, Merry and Gwynnie. He promised that if she made him angry he’d not only hurt her, but he’d do the same to her family. ‘I’ll go back to Atlanta. I’ll do it for kicks, just for fun. I live for that kind of thing. I could murder your whole family, Elizabeth.’

Ironically, he was desiring her more and more – she could certainly tell when a man got like that. So she did have some control over him, didn’t she? How about that. So fuck you too, buddy!

Sometimes he would leave her binds slightly looser and even give her free time to walk around in the house. Tied up of course – on a kind of chain leash that he would hold in his hands. It was so demeaning. He told her that he knew she’d be thinking that he was getting kinder and gentler – but not to get any stupid ideas.

Well, what the hell else could she do except get ideas? There was nothing for her to do all day in the dark by herself. She was–

The closet door swung open violently! Then it slammed against the wall outside.

The Wolf screamed in Lizzie’s face. ‘You were thinking about me, weren’t you? You’re starting to get obsessive , Elizabeth? I’m in your thoughts all the time .’

Damn it, he was right about that .

‘You’re even glad for the company. You miss me, don’t you?’

But he had that wrong, dead wrong .

She hated the Wolf so much that Lizzie contemplated the unthinkable: she could kill him. Maybe that day would come.

Imagine that , she thought. God, that is what I want to do – kill the Wolf myself. That would be the greatest escape of all .

That same night the Wolf had a meeting with two professional hockey players at Caesars in Atlantic City, New Jersey. The suite where he stayed had gold-foil wallpaper everywhere, windows facing the Atlantic, a hot tub in the living room. Out of respect for his guests, who were big stars, he wore an expensive, chalk-stripe Prada suit.

His contact happened to be a wealthy cable TV operator, who arrived at the Nero suite with the hockey players Alexei Dobrushkin and Ilia Teptev in tow. Both were members of the Philadelphia Flyers. They were top defensemen who were considered to be tough guys, because they were big men who moved quickly and could do a lot of damage. The Wolf didn’t believe the hockey players were that tough, but he was a huge fan of the game.

‘I love American-style hockey,’ he said as he welcomed them with a broad smile and an extended hand.

Alexei and Ilia nodded his way, but neither of the hockey players shook his hand. The Wolf was offended, but he didn’t reveal his feelings. He smiled some more and figured that the hockey players were too stupid to understand who he was. Too many wooden sticks to the skull.

‘Drinks anyone?’ he asked his guests. ‘Stolichnaya? Whatever you like.’

‘I’ll pass,’ said the cable operator, who seemed incredibly self-important, but a lot of Americans were that way.

‘Nyet,’ Ilia said with disinterest, as if his host were a hotel barman, or a waiter. The hockey player was twenty-two years old, born in Voskrensh, Russia. He was six foot five with close-cropped hair, stubble not quite amounting to a beard, a block of a head sitting on an enormous neck.

‘I don’t drink Stoly,’ said Alexei, who, like Ilia, wore a black leather jacket with a dark turtleneck underneath. ‘Maybe you have Absolut? Or some Bombay Gin?’

‘Of course,’ the Wolf nodded cordially. He walked to the suite’s mirrored wet bar where he made the drinks, and decided what to do next. He was starting to enjoy this. It was different. No one here was afraid of him.

He plopped down on the pillowed couch between Ilia and Alexei. He looked back and forth into their faces, smiling broadly again. ‘You’ve been away from Russia for a long time, no? Maybe too long,’ he said. ‘You drink Bombay Gin? You forget your manners?’

‘We hear you’re a real tough man,’ said Alexei, who was in his early thirties and obviously lifted weights, a lot of weights, and often. He was around six feet, but over two hundred and twenty pounds.

‘No. Not really,’ said the Wolf. ‘I am just another American businessman these days. Nothing very special. Not tough anymore. So, I was wondering, do we have a deal for the game with Montreal?’

Alexei looked over at the cable guy. ‘Tell him,’ he said.

‘Alexei and Ilia are looking for a little more action than what we originally talked about,’ he said. ‘You understand what I’m saying? Action? ’

‘Aahhh,’ said the Wolf and grinned broadly. ‘I love action,’ he said to the businessman. ‘I love shalit too. Means mischief in my country. Shalit .’

He was up off the couch faster than anyone would have thought possible. He’d pulled out a small lead pipe from beneath the couch cushion and cracked it across Alexei Dobrushkin’s cheek. Then he swung it off the bridge of Ilia Teptev’s nose. The two hockey stars were bleeding like pigs in seconds.

Then, and only then, did the Wolf take out his gun. He held it between the eyes of the cable operator. ‘You know, they’re not such tough guys as I thought. I can tell about these things in a few seconds,’ he said. ‘Now, down to business. One of the two big bears will allow a score by Montreal in the first period. The other will miss a play for a score in the second. Do you understand? The Flyers will lose the game in which they’re favored. Understood?

‘If, for any reason, this doesn’t happen, then everybody dies. Now let yourselves out. I look forward to the game. As I said, I love American-style hockey.’

The Wolf began to laugh as the big hockey stars stumbled out of the Nero suite. ‘Nice meeting you Ilia, Alexei,’ he said as the door shut. ‘Break a leg.’

A huge task force meeting was held in the SIOC Suite on the fifth floor of the Hoover Building, which was considered sacred ground in the Bureau. SIOC is the Strategic Information Operations Center, and the central suite was where most of the really important powwows were held, from Waco to September 11.

I had been invited, and I wondered whom I had to thank for it. I arrived at around nine and had to be brought in by an agent who manned the front desk.

I saw that the SIOC Suite consisted of four rooms, three of which were filled with state-of-the-art workstations, probably for researchers and analysts. I was led into the last large conference room. The focal point was a long glass-and-metal table. On the walls were clocks set to different time zones, several maps, half a dozen TV monitors. A dozen or so agents were already inside the room, but it was quiet.