James PATTERSON - The Big Bad Wolf

And little Alex said, ‘Forever, Daddy.’

Then they took my son away.

Pasha Sorokin was due at the courthouse in Miami at nine o’clock on Monday morning. The van he rode in was escorted from the federal prison by half a dozen cars; the route wasn’t known by any of the drivers until the last possible moment before departure.

The attack took place at a stoplight just before the cars would have gotten on the Florida Turnpike. They hit with automatic weapons, but also rocket launchers, which took out most of the escort cars in under a minute. Suddenly, there were bodies and smoking metal everywhere.

The black van that Pasha Sorokin was riding in was quickly surrounded by six men in dark clothes, no masks. The car doors were yanked opened and the police guards were beaten and then shot dead.

A tall, powerful-looking man strode up to the open door and peered inside. He smiled playfully, as if a small child was in the prison van.

‘Pasha,’ the Wolf spoke, ‘I understand that you were going to turn me in. That’s what my sources say, my very good sources, my incredibly well-paid sources. Talk to me about this.’

‘It’s not true,’ said Pasha, who meanwhile was cowering in the middle seat of the van. He wore an orange jumpsuit and his wrists and ankles were bound by chains. He no longer had his Florida tan.

‘Maybe, maybe not,’ said the Wolf.

Then he fired one of the rocket-launchers point blank at Pasha. He didn’t miss.

‘ Zamochit ,’ he said and laughed. ‘One can’t be too careful these days.’