James PATTERSON - The Big Bad Wolf

One hundred twenty-five thousand. The money isn’t a problem. It’s burning a hole in my pocket .

No response from Wolf.

I typed: U told me not to be redundant .

Wolf: All right then, maybe we’ll get you the boy. Be careful! There might not be another!

I typed: Then there won’t be another hundred twenty-five thousand!!!

Wolf: I’m not worried. There are lots of freaks like you. You’d be amazed .

So. U didn’t answer my question before. How is your hostage?

Wolf: I have to go back to work… one more question, Potter. Just to be safe. Where did you get your name?

I looked around the room. Oh Christ . It was something I hadn’t thought to ask Taylor.

A voice whispered close to my ear. Monnie’s. ‘The young adult books? They call Harry “Mr Potter” at the Hogwarts School. Maybe? I don’t know?’

Was that it? I needed to type something; it had to be the right answer. Was the name from the Harry Potter books? Because he liked young boys? Then something from Taylor’s office in the farmhouse flashed in my brain.

My fingers went to the keys. Paused for a second. Then I typed my answer.

This is absurd. The name is from the Jamaica Kinkaid novel – Mr Potter. Fuck U!

I waited for a response. So did everyone else in the room. Finally, it came.

Wolf: I’ll get you the boy, Mr Potter .

We were in business again, and I was back working the streets, the way I liked it, the way it used to be.

I had been in Boston several times before, loved the city enough to consider moving there, and was comfortable. For the next two days we shadowed a student named Paul Xavier from his apartment on Beacon Hill, to his classes at Harvard, to the Ritz-Carlton where he was a waiter, to popular clubs like No Borders and Rebuke.

Xavier was the ‘bait’ we had set out for the Wolf and his kidnapping crew.

Actually, Xavier was being impersonated by a thirty-year-old agent from our field office in Springfield, Massachusetts. The agent’s real name was Paul Gautier. Boyishly handsome, tall and slender, with fluffy, light brown hair, he looked like someone in his early twenties. He was armed, but also being closely watched by a minimum of six agents at all times of the day and night. We had no idea how or when the Wolf’s team might try to grab him, only that they would.

For twelve hours each day, I was one of the agents watching and protecting Gautier. I had spoken about the dangers of using ‘bait’ to try and catch the kidnappers, but nobody had paid attention.

On the second night of surveillance, and according to plan, Paul Gautier went to ‘the Fens’ along the Muddy River near Park Drive and Boylston Street. Actually called the BackBay Fens it had been imagined by Frederick Law Olmsted who’d also designed the Boston Common and Central Park in New York. In the evening hours after the clubs closed the real Paul Xavier often cruised the Fens looking for sexual encounters, which was why we had sent our agent there.

It was dangerous work for all of us, but especially for Agent Gautier. The area was dark and there were no streetlights. The tall reeds along the river were thick and provided cover for pickups and liaisons and kidnappings.

Agent Peggy Katz and I were on the edge of the reeds, which resembled elephant grass. During the past half hour, she had admitted that she wasn’t really interested in sports, but had learned about basketball and football because she wanted to be able to talk with her male counterparts about something .

‘Men talk about other things,’ I said as I scouted the Fens through night-glasses.

‘I know that. I can talk about money and cars too. But I refuse to talk to you horny bastards about sex.’

I coughed out a laugh. Katz could deliver her lines. She was often wry, with a twinkle, and she seemed to be laughing with you, even if you happened to be the butt of her jokes. But I also knew that she was very tough, a real hardliner.

‘Why did you join the Bureau?’ she asked as we continued to wait for Agent Gautier to appear. ‘You were doing well with the Washington P.D., right?’

‘I was doing just fine.’

I lowered my voice and pointed toward a clearing up ahead. ‘Here comes Gautier now.’

Agent Gautier had just left Boylston Street. He was walking slowly across the Fens toward the Muddy River. I knew the area pretty well from an earlier scouting trip. During the day this same section of the park was called the ‘Victory Gardens’. Area residents raised flowers and vegetables, and there were signs pleading with night visitors not to trample them.

The team leader, Roger Nielsen, spoke in a whisper that seeped into my earphones. ‘Male in the watch cap, Alex. Stout guy. You see him?’

‘I’ve got him.’ Watch cap was talking into a microphone on the collar of his sport shirt. He wasn’t one of ours, so he must be one of theirs – the Wolf’s .

I began to scour the crowd for a partner or two. The kidnapping crew? Probably. Who the hell else could it be?

Nielsen said, ‘I think he has a mike on. You see it?’

‘He’s definitely miked. I see another suspicious male. Near the gardens to the left of us,’ I said. ‘Talking into his collar too. They’re moving on Gautier.’

There were three of them, bulky males, and they began to converge on Paul Gautier. At the same time we moved on them. I had my Glock out, but was I really ready for what might happen in this small, dark park?

The kidnappers were keeping close to Park Drive, and I figured they had a van or truck out on the street. They looked confident and unafraid. They’d done this before: grabbed purchased men and women. They were professional kidnappers.

‘Take them now,’ I told Senior Agent Nielsen. ‘Gautier is at risk.’

‘Wait until they grab him,’ the response came back. ‘We want to do this right. Wait.’

I didn’t agree with Nielsen and I didn’t like what was happening. Why wait? Gautier was hanging out there too much and the park was dark.

‘Gautier is at risk,’ I repeated.

One of the men, blond, wearing a Boston Bruins windbreaker, waved to him.

Gautier watched the man approach, nodded his head, smiled. The blond had some kind of small flashlight in his hand. He lit up Paul Gautier’s face.

I could hear them talking. ‘Nice night for a walk,’ Gautier said, then laughed. He sounded nervous.

‘The things we do for love,’ the blond said.

The two of them were only a few feet apart. The other abductors held back, but not far.

Then the blond whipped a gun out of his jacket pocket. He pushed it against Gautier’s face. ‘You’re coming with me. No one will hurt you. Just walk with me. Make it easy on yourself.’

The two others joined them.

‘You’re making a mistake,’ said Gautier.

‘Oh, and why is that?’ asked the blond. ‘I’ve got the gun, not you.’

‘ Take them. Now ,’ came the order from Senior Agent Nielsen. ‘FBI! Hands up. Back away from him!’ Nielsen shouted as we ran forward.

‘ FBI! ’ came a second shout. ‘Everybody, hands up!’

Then everything went crazy. The other two abductors pulled out guns. The blond held his to Agent Gautier’s skull.

‘ Back off! ’ he screamed. ‘I’ll shoot him dead! Drop your guns. I’ll shoot him, I promise you! I don’t bluff.’

Our agents continued to move forward – slowly.

Then the worst thing happened – the heavy-set blond shot Agent Paul Gautier in the face.