London Bridges

Chapter 124

Minutes later, I was leaving the large house, walking side by side with Ned Mahoney. We were laughing about the first interview-what the hell, might as well laugh.

I saw something, and did a double take- saw it again.

"Ned, Jesus. Look."

"What?" His head swiveled around, but he didn't see what I saw.

Then I was ru

"What? Alex, what is it?" Ned yelled behind me. "Alex?"

"It's him!" I said.

My eyes were pi

In the hand-a black ball, an old one. He was squeezing it, and I knew-I just knew-it had to be the handball given to the Wolf by his small son before he died. The man with the ball had a beard. His eyes looked at mine.

Then he started to run.

I yelled back at Ned. "That's him. He's the Wolf!"

I sprinted across the lawn, moving faster than I had in a while. I trusted that Ned was behind me.

I saw the Russian man jump into a bright red convertible; then he started it up. Oh no, God, no! I thought.

But I tumbled into the front seat before he put it into gear. I hit him with a short, powerful punch to the nose. Blood gushed all over his black shirt and jacket. I knew I'd broken his nose. I hit him again, square on the jaw.

I shoved open the driver-side door. He looked at me, and his eyes were coldly intelligent, like no eyes I'd ever seen, nothing so desolate. Inhuman. That was what the French president had called him.

Was he the real Tolya Bykov? It didn't matter to me now. He was the Wolf-I could see it in those eyes, the confidence, arrogance, but most of all, the hatred for me and everyone else.

"The ball," he said. "You knew about the ball. My son gave it to me. I congratulate you."

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, Ja

Home.

The Wolf is dead. I saw him die.

I kept telling myself that until I finally believed it.