The speaker was Geoffrey Shafer. He was so cocky and confident, and he clearly had the upper hand. Maybe that's why I didn't even think about what I should do, and I didn't hesitate. I barreled into Shafer, waited for the thundering gunshot to follow.

It came, too. Only he didn't hit me, at least I didn't think so. I suspected the shot was deflected to the side. Didn't matter. I blocked Shafer hard into the building behind him. I saw surprise and pain in his eyes, and that was the motivation I needed. Also his gun had gone flying in the scuffle.

I hit him hard with a roundhouse into his midsection, probably below the belt, maybe a nut cruncher. I hoped so. He grunted and I knew I'd hurt him. But I wanted to hurt Shafer more, for all kinds of reasons. I wanted to kill him right there in the street. I crunched another shot to his stomach and I could feel it go weak under my fist. Then I went for the bastard's head. I slammed a hard right hand into his temple. Then a left to his jaw. He was hurt badly, but he wouldn't go down.

"That all you got, Cross? Here's something for you," he snarled.

He had a switchblade and I started to step away-but then I realized that he was hurt and that this was my best chance. I hit Shafer again, on his nose. Broke it! He still wouldn't go down and he swiped out viciously with the knife. He sliced my arm, and I realized how crazy I was, how lucky not to be hurt, or killed.

I had a chance to reach for my own gun and I pulled it out of the holster on the back of my belt.

Shafer charged at me, and I'm not sure if he saw the gun. Maybe he thought I wouldn't be armed in London.

"No!" I yelled. It was all I had time to say.

I fired point-blank into his chest. He fell back against the wall and slowly slid to the ground.

His face was nothing but shock, as maybe he realized that he was mortal after all. "Fucker, Cross," he muttered. "Bastard."

I bent down over him. "Who is the Wolf? Where is he?"

"Go to hell," he said, and then he died, and went there instead.

London Bridge is falling down,

Falling down, falling down.

Minutes after the Weasel died on the streets of London, his old army mate, Henry Seymour, drove an eleven-year-old white van through the night-and he was thinking that he had no fear of death. None at all. He welcomed it, actually.

At a little past 4:30, traffic was already heavy on the Westminster Bridge. Seymour parked as close to it as he could, then walked back and rested his arms on the parapet, looking west. He loved the sight of Big Ben and the Houses of Parliament from the grand old bridge, always had, ever since he was a small boy visiting London on day trips from Manchester, where he'd been raised.

He was noticing everything this morning. On the opposite bank of the Thames he saw the London Eye, which he thoroughly despised. The Thames was as dark as the early-morning sky. The smell in the air was slightly salty and fishy. Rows of plum-colored tourist buses sat idle near the bridge, waiting for the day's first passengers to arrive in just an hour or so.

Isn't going to happen, though. Not on this day of days. Not if old Henry has his way this morning.

Wordsworth had written of the view from Westminster Bridge (he thought it was Wordsworth): "Earth has not anything to show more fair." Henry Seymour always remembered that one, though he wasn't much for poets, or what they had to say.

Write a poem about this shit. Somebody write a poem about me. The bridge and poor Henry Seymour and all these other poor bastards out here with me this morning.

He went to fetch the van.

At 5:34 the bridge seemed to ignite at its center. Actually, Henry Seymour's van was what blew up. The strip of roadway beneath it rose up and then split apart; the bridge's supports toppled; triple-globed lampposts flew into the air like uprooted flowers blowing in the fiercest wind anyone could imagine. For a moment everything was quiet, deathly quiet, as Seymour 's spirit floated away. Then police sirens began to scream all over London.

And the Wolf called Scotland Yard to take credit for his handiwork. "Unlike you people, I keep my promises," he said. "I tried to build bridges between us, but you keep tearing them down. Do you understand? Do you finally understand what I'm saying? "The London bridge is gone… and it's only the beginning. This is too good to end-I want it to go on and on."

Payback.

The test track was a familiar one, located sixty kilometers south of Paris. The Wolf was there to drive a prototype race car, and he had some company for the ride.

Walking beside him was a former KGB man who had handled his business in France and Spain for many years. His name was Ilya Frolov, and Ilya knew the Wolf by sight. He was one of the few men still alive who did, which filled him with some dread that day, though he thought of himself as one of the Wolf's few friends.

"What a beauty!" the Wolf said as the men walked up beside a red Porsche-powered prototype Fabcar. This very model had run in the Rolex Sports Car Series.

"You love your cars," Ilya said. "Always have."

"Growing up outside Moscow, I never thought I would own a car, any car. Now I own so many that I lose count sometimes. I want you to take a ride with me. Get in, my friend."

Ilya Frolov shook his head and raised both his hands in protest. "Not me. I don't like the noise, the speed, anything about it."

"I insist," said the Wolf. He raised the gull wing on the passenger side first. "Go ahead, it won't bite you. You'll never forget the ride, Ilya."

Ilya forced a laugh, then started to cough. "That's what I'm afraid of."

"After we finish, I want to talk to you about the next steps. We're very close to getting our money. They're weakening day by day, and I have a plan. You're going to be a rich man, Ilya."

The Wolf climbed into the driver's seat, which was on the right side. He flipped a switch, the dashboard lit up, and the car roared and shook. The Wolf watched Ilya's face go pale and laughed merrily. In his own strange way he loved Ilya Frolov.

"We're sitting right on the engine. It's going to get very hot in here now. Maybe a hundred and thirty degrees. That's why we wear a 'cool suit.' It's going to get noisy, too. Put on your helmet, Ilya. Last warning."

And then they were off!

The Wolf lived for this-the exhilaration, the raw power of the world's finest race cars. At this speed he had to concentrate on the driving-nothing else mattered, there was nothing else while he spun around the test track. Everything about the ride was about power: the noise, since there was no sound-dampening material inside; the vibration-the stiffer the suspension, the faster the car could change direction; the g-force, resulting in as much as six hundred pounds of pressure on some turns.

God, what a glorious machine-so perfect-whoever made it was a genius.

There are still some of us in the world, he thought to himself. I should know.

Finally he slowed and steered the highly temperamental car off the track. He climbed out, pulled off his helmet, shook out his hair, and shouted to the skies.

"That was so great! My God, what an experience. Better than sex! I've ridden women and cars-I prefer the race car!"

He looked over at Ilya Frolov and saw that the man was still pale and shaking a bit. Poor Ilya.

"I'm sorry, my friend," the Wolf spoke softly. "I'm afraid you don't have the balls for the next ride. Besides, you know what happened in Paris."

He shot his friend dead on the test track. Then the Wolf just walked away, never looking back. He had no interest in the dead.