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.

Chapter 69

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.