The Big Bad Wolf

BEFORE THE SHOCK of the gun blast had faded, the three men took off running very fast. Two of them galloped toward Park Drive, but the blond who'd shot Paul Gautier sprinted out onto Boylston Street. He was a big man, but he was motoring. I remembered hearing from Monnie Donnelley that great Russian athletes, even former Olympians, were sometimes recruited into the Mafiya. Was blondie a former jock? He moved like it. The confrontation, the shooting and everything else, reminded me of how little we knew about the Russian mobsters. How did they work? How did they think? I took off after him, an overload of adrenaline rocketing through my body. I still couldn't believe what had happened. It could have been avoided. Now Gautier was possibly dead, probably dead. I ran as I shouted, "Take them alive!" It should have been obvious, but the other agents had just seen Paul Gautier gunned down. I didn't know how much street action, or combat, any of them had seen before. And we desperately needed to question the kidnappers once we caught them. I was getting winded. Maybe I needed more time in the physical-training classes at Quantico, or maybe it was because I'd spent too much time sitting around inside the Hoover Building these past few weeks. I chased the blond killer through a tree-lined residential area. A moment later, the trees cleared and the glittering towers of the Prudential Center and the Hancock loomed ahead. I glanced back. Three agents trailed behind, including Peggy Katz, who had her gun out. The man running ahead of me was approaching the Hynes Convention Center with four FBI agents racing behind. I was closing on him, but not enough. I wondered if maybe we'd gotten lucky: Could this be the Wolf up ahead? He was handson, right? If it was, then we had him for murder. Whoever he was, he was still moving well. A long-distance sprinter. "Stop! We'll shoot!" one of the agents yelled behind me. The blond Russian didn't stop. He made a sharp, sliding turn down a side street. It was narrow and darker than Boylston. One way. I wondered if he'd thought about his escape route before this. Probably not. The extraordinary thing was that he hadn't hesitated when he shot Agent Gautier. I don't bluff, he'd said. Who would murder so casually? With so many FBI watching? The Wolf? He was supposed to be fearless and ruthless, maybe even crazy. One of his lieutenants?... How did the Russians think? I could hear his shoes slapping hard on the pavement up ahead. I was gaining on the Russian a little, getting a second wind. Suddenly he whirled around - and fired at me! I threw myself down on the ground fast. But then I was up just as quickly, chasing after him again. I'd seen his face clearly - broad, flat features, dark eyes, late thirties to early forties. He turned again, planted, fired. I ducked behind a parked car. Then I heard a scream. I whirled around and saw an agent down. One of the men. Doyle Rogers. The blond turned and started to run again. But I had my second wind and I thought I could catch him. Then what? He was ready to die. A shot rang out behind me! I couldn't believe what I saw. The blond dropped, falling flat on his chest and face. He never moved once he hit the ground. One of the agents behind me had shot him. I turned and saw Peggy Katz. She was still in a shooting crouch. I checked on Agent Rogers and found he'd only been hit in the shoulder. He'd be okay. Then I walked back alone toward the Fens. When I got there, I discovered that Paul Gautier was still alive. But the two other kidnappers had gotten away. They'd commandeered a car on Park Drive, and our agents had lost them. Bad news, the worst. The whole operation had blown up in our faces.