I hope everyone had a very merry Christmas and a good start to the new year. As for me, my next thriller, 'TIL DEATH DO US PART, is in the final stages of editing and should (fingers crossed) be out in the next month or two. It will be available as an e-book and paperback. And so, without further ado, I give you a sneak preview of 'TIL DEATH DO US PART.

Drop by the webpage at: http://www.authorsden.com/tlgray and post a review or drop me a line at TLGray31@aol.com ENJOY.




Control is power
Power is an illusion


PROLOGUE

She opened her eyes, not sure what woke her. It was dark and there was a slight chill in the air, as if a window had been left cracked. A silly thought, since the weather didn't permit it. A glance toward the balcony doors revealed nothing, the only illumination in the room being the fluorescent red of the bedside clock, which proclaimed midnight.
She closed her eyes, dismissing the uneasiness that crept in on her as nervous tension. Maybe Bart was right. Maybe she would sleep better if he were in bed with her, or at least in the room. His presence seemed to have a strange calming effect on her.
Her eyes came open again a few minutes later, the brush of his hand against her blanketed hip telling her he was there. In the inky darkness of the room she could only see his silhouette standing beside the bed. "Bart?"
Cruel fingers suddenly clamped around her throat, cutting off her airway. Pain exploded in her brain. She was pinned to the bed, clawing frantically at the hand that threatened to choke the life from her.
He leaned forward, his raspy voice whispering in her ear, "Now you'll pay for laughing at me, you bitch."
Her mind screamed. She bucked wildly, becoming tangled in the bedcovers as she tried in vain to get loose from the killing hands.
He was going to crush her neck. Her own fingers pried at his, desperately seeking to wedge beneath and pull them away so she could suck in blessed air.
Kicking and writhing, she tried to push the covers off so she could fight.
Her strength was failing. An odd numbness washed over her body. Air! Please! Oh God! Not this way! Margot, Tessa!
He put one knee on the bed and leaned harder against her to stop her struggles. "I killed your kids. You don't want to live without them, do you? No, of course you don't. It was so easy. Like leading lambs to the slaughter."
Nooooo! The pain exploded again in her brain. She renewed her struggles as the last vestiges of hate and fear and love flowed through her, giving her a burst of energy. Her throat was raw with the effort to suck in air, to breathe, to scream.
Her flailing hands connected with something, but the roaring in her ears kept her from knowing what it was. She couldn't reach his face. Her fists beat helplessly on any part of his body she could find.
Tessa! Margot!
Why live?



CHAPTER ONE

Europe—Private Asylum

"Good morning, Della."
"Morning, Dr. Abernathy." The nurse smiled. "How was your vacation?"
"Slightly better than having my teeth drilled on." Max pulled out his list of patients and handed it to her. "Any problems while I was gone?"
"What would make you think that?" Della rolled her eyes, then turned to gather the charts and lay them on the counter. "That last name on your list was a discharge."
Max glanced at the list she had laid on top of the stack. "Discharge? I didn't discharge anyone before leaving."
"I know."
Max cursed fluently, causing Della's eyebrows to rise in surprise. "Who ordered this?" he snapped.
"You know very well who ordered it."
"I need that chart. Now."
"Good luck. It's probably floating around in Medical Records."
Max left Della standing there, looking after him as strode down the hall to the elevator. "Jesus Christ! Of all the psychopaths to let out, they had to pick that one."
***
Switzerland. November 15

"Dr. von Treisler."
Hans turned as the door to his study clicked softly shut. "You!" He swallowed hard, barely able to get the words out above a whisper. "How did you get in here? Were you followed?" He never thought for an instant it would come to this. Never thought he would actually be prevailed upon by. . .
"It's time, Hans. Tonight."
The cultured voice, smooth, like the finest liquor, screamed across his nerves. Quiet in nature, with only a hit of an accent, the voice might have been that of the devil himself, so deep did the fear go upon hearing it. "I'm not ready! This isn't safe."
"I'm not asking, Hans." Cold, clear blue eyes—eyes without a soul--narrowed slightly in warning. "Get your tools and let's get started."
Oh God, he couldn't do this! "Here? I can't do it here!" Hans insisted, blotting the sweat from his forehead with unsteady hands. "I need assistants, a clean operating room."
"I'll be your assistant. You need no one else. We both know how good you are, Hans. Did you think I would choose anyone but the best? You should know better. Come now, I tire of your cowardice. And if you make any mistakes, I'll know."
Hans looked down at his hands. Shaking, pale; like his face surely was now that he knew he had no way out. But when he had agreed to do this, there hadn't been any question in his mind this moment would never come to pass.
How? How was it that he was here?
Better not to ask. Better not to know.
Better to live.
***
Illinois

It's cool in the Highlands, but I have the memory of you to keep me warm.
One sentence. The postcard, from Scotland this time, always contained only one sentence. A reminder.
He had found her again, she thought with a cold fear, sweat breaking out in the palms of her hands. He always found her.
Tania glanced up from her place on the porch, watching her twin girls’ tussle in the small yard. When would it end? When would he come and kill them all?
And he would come. She'd known that since the day five years ago when she'd testified at his trial in Morocco. He hadn't had to say anything; the look he gave her, with those steely blue eyes, colder than frost on the morning grass, had said it all. He would find her. And he would kill her.
She closed her eyes for a moment, resting her head on the back of the rusty lounge chair. How had it come to this? All the glitz and glamour, the spring in Paris when she'd met him. The romantic interludes and traveling around Europe. She'd been only twenty-five then, and a well-paid runway model. He was a guest at one of the parties she attended. But his presence at this particular party had been for a reason she could never have imagined.
A whirlwind romance, then marriage. That was when things started to fall apart. Tall, blonde, a striking figure in a tux, he had swept her off her feet. Then, little by little, slowly, he had started to tear her world apart. She was too thin, too fat. Couldn't apply make-up correctly. She was losing her touch, no longer able to keep him happy at home and model at the same time. It took several years, but eventually he managed to completely isolate her from the outside world, until she stopped modeling altogether. He wanted a family and she stupidly thought maybe kids would help their deteriorating relationship.
How could she have known he was using her to cover his tracks? They moved frequently--Italy, France, Germany. Never staying in one place too long because his job required that he travel and he wanted her with him. After the twins were born he used them to keep control over her, knowing she would do anything to keep her children safe.
Margot and Tessa were all in this world she had now; the only ones who loved her for who she was; who she had become.
Shock was only secondary to the unholy sense of danger she experienced the day she accidentally found his briefcase and opened it. A shiver ran down her spine even now, remembering the feel of cold, deadly steel beneath her fingers. That’s when the real nightmare began. He caught her looking at the tools of his trade. She thought, at the time, her situation couldn't get any worse. But she'd been wrong. Eventually, he made a mistake and the web of justice closed around him, and thus her.
Interpol picked her life apart, arresting her and questioning her for days on end about her husband's activities and her part in them. They had evidence she had participated in his crimes; photos, letters, testimonies from expert witnesses. Video tape, taped conversations. God! She had been so blind! Every scrap of her life was laid on the table in front of her, from the time she was a child to the present. They knew what size shoe she wore at five; what she had for breakfast when she was seven.
Then came the bombshell that sent her into a panic. Unless she testified against her husband in return for immunity, they were going to send her to prison and take her kids away. She couldn't let that happen. And she would never forget the look on Karl's face when she walked into the courtroom. All she could think about was Tessa and Margot caught in the web, as she was, with no way out. Their lives depended on her. And that's what she'd held on to throughout the proceedings.
Tania glanced down at the post card again. One sentence. He always just wrote one sentence, knowing it was all that was needed to inject the fear back into her, lest she relax her guard. It hadn’t mattered that Interpol had moved her three times in the last five years, finally giving in to her wish to return to the United States. That her hair had been every color known to woman. That she'd changed her name twice. Still, he found her. Oh, there was always a lull for a while after she moved to a new place. But the dreaded postcards from various parts of the world found her eventually and she knew she had to move on. Now, she'd have to move again.
"C'mon girls! Time for supper!"
"Aw, do we have to come in?” Tessa complained. “It's still light out."
"Stop being a baby, Tess." Margot marched ahead of her sister and into the house.
Tessa followed Margot, as always, depending on her sister to make the final decisions she seemed unable to make. "I'm not a baby," she pouted.
Tania slipped the postcard into the pocket of her jeans as she followed them in, locking the door behind her. “What do we want tonight?”
"Pizza!" Tessa exclaimed, thrilled at being able to choose her dinner as was their custom once a week.
"Not pizza, again." Margot flopped down on the couch. "You always want pizza. Can't you think of anything different?"
At eleven years old, Margot seemed mature beyond her years, while Tessa remained naive and shy. They looked exactly alike, blonde hair and blue-eyed. But there the similarities ended. Margot was outgoing and had an opinion on everything. Tessa was unsure of herself. Painfully shy at times, Tessa was content to let Margot rule the roost. But though Margot was sometimes overbearing, she took care of her sister, always explaining the logical reason behind her actions and decisions.
Tessa flopped down next to her sister. "What's wrong with pizza?"
"We had pizza last week, remember? You have to broaden your horizons, Tess. Try new things. Do you want to grow up to have a flat palate?"
"What's a palate?"
"Your taste in foods," Margot explained in her superior way. "If you eat the same things all the time, your palate will be undeveloped and you'll be stuck eating pizza for the rest of your life."
"Oh." Tessa bit her lip, thinking Margot's words over.
They finally decided on Chinese and piled into the car to go to the local restaurant run by an old man, obviously Chinese, Margot pointed out to Tessa. Tania didn't have food delivered to the house. They always went and picked it up together, the three of them. She paid cash for their order and they headed home to eat.
After the white cartons were empty, Tania sent them upstairs to get their baths. Once she was sure they were doing as she told them, she went to the kitchen and picked up the phone, dialing the number from memory. The recording answered and requested she punch in the required code numbers. Then the voice-activated service took over and she stated another number clearly and concisely. She waited for the beep, then the click that would transfer her call to the agent at Interpol who had her case.
"Yes?"
"Mr. Smith, please."
"This is Mr. Smith. State your code number."
Tania repeated the number and Mr. Smith seemed to relax.
"Jenny? What's wrong?"
Jenny Carlisle was the alias she was going under at the moment. "I received another postcard."
"Another one?" The voice seemed only slight agitated.
"Yes, today. He's still in prison, right?"
"Yes. I tell you that every time you call."
Tania's hand tightened on the phone. "Well, forgive me if I'm a little jumpy," she said sarcastically. "I think I have a right to be."
"Of course you do." The voice tried to soothe her. "We're going to do things a little differently this time, Jenny. Your file is being turned over to the CIA in the United States."
"What? Why?" That would mean she would be assigned to a different agency, another agent. Another person to pick apart her life. "I don't understand."
"The agent will explain everything to you when he arrives. Since you're residing in the States now, they feel they should be the ones to take over your case."
"I don't want someone else taking over my case," she hissed lowly, willing herself not to panic. “Not that it makes any difference, but I thought the U.S. Marshall’s handled these type cases.”
"Jenny, this is of international interest. I can't do anything about it. I have my orders. The agent will contact you."
No, no, no! her mind screamed. "Why? Why now? Has something happened you're not telling me?" Something was wrong, she could feel it.
But Mr. Smith continued on in a calm voice. "I didn't say there was anything wrong. It's simply a matter of politics and procedure. You know I can't tell you any more than that. I'd help you if I could. When they get you settled, let me know where you are and I'll try to pull some strings. Right now my hands are tied."
He was giving her the run-around was basically what it amounted to.
"Jenny?"
"I'm here." Tania rubbed the heel of her palm to one eye, feeling the scar raze across the closed lid.
"Look, it's against policy for to me to...
"I know, I know." She sighed.
"I'll do what I can."
"Who is this agent? How will I recognize him?" She wasn’t in the habit of letting strangers simply waltz into her life.
"I don't know who they'll be assigning to the case. They don't give out that information."
"You mean I just have to sit here and wait for some guy in a black suit to show up?" She gritted out between clenched teeth. "No. Either I know who it is or I'll move myself."
"Jenny--"
"No.” She cut him off. “This time we're doing things my way. And don't think you can change my mind. You find out who this agent is and call me back or it's a no go. I'll disappear. And believe me, I've gotten pretty good at blending in after all these years."
"Okay, okay. Just promise me you won't do anything stupid. Give me twenty-four hours. I'll call you back."
"Twenty-four hours and not a minute longer," she warned, feeling as though she’d won a major battle. "If I don't hear from you by--" She glanced at her watch. "--six p.m. tomorrow, I'm out of here."
Mr. Smith sighed in resignation. "I'll get the name. Just don't panic, Jenny. That's the worst thing you could do right now. That's what he's hoping you'll do. His goal is to get you out from under protection, where you'll be a prime target. Think of your kids."
"Don't tell me to think of my kids," she ground out savagely. "That's all I ever think about. That's what keeps me going day after day. If it weren't for them, I'd have been long gone from underneath your thumb."
"Mommy!" Tessa called from the stairs. "We're done! Are you coming?"
"Be there in a second, sweetheart," she called out, then said into the receiver, "I've got to go. Six o'clock. No later." Tania didn't wait for him to reply, but hung up the phone and put on her happy face.
It was story time and she always listened to each of them read their favorites before going to bed. She worked with the girls as much as she could. They weren't always able to attend school, and she didn't want them to fall behind.
"Okay, I'm ready," she announced, striding through the door to their room and climbing up into the bed to sit in the middle of them.
Tessa propped her favorite doll next to her on the pillow. "Betsy wants to read about the ancient Egyptians."
"Tess, Betsy's not real.” Margot glowered at her sister, disgusted. “Stop acting like she is."
"I know she's not real," Tessa replied quietly.
"Margot." Tania slanted her a warning look out of the corner of her eye. Betsy was Tessa's security. Something she didn't have with the moving they were constantly forced to do. Wherever Tessa went, Betsy went, up until a few years ago. Now Betsy only slept with her or had tea parties when they were playing. Which was progress, Tania thought. At least Tessa no longer insisted on taking the doll to school.
She'd had to explain to the twins at some point why they moved so often. Why they had to change their last names. She refused to take away her girls' identities and their lives. They only knew a bad man was after them, and when their mother said it was time to move, they packed up and moved to a new home in a new country and had to make new friends all over again. They also knew they weren't allowed to talk about the bad man to anyone. It was their secret, just the three of them.
Tania dreaded the day when she had to tell them the bad man who chased them all over the continent was their father.

***
CIA Offices--Washington DC

"Matthews!"
Bart left his desk at the sound of Joseph Harold’s gravely, somewhat irritated voice, and headed into the deputy director's office, where Joe was busy searching his desk drawer, his worn leather chair squeaking in protest under his middle-aged, overweight frame.
"One of these days I'm going to bring an oil can in here with me and fix that damn piece of rotten wood and cow hide you like to call a chair." Bart lowered himself into one of the overused pair of "hot seats" facing Joe.
"Leave my chair alone. It's the one thing I have control over in this office."
"That's not true, Joe. You have control over me and thousands of other agents. You can tell us where to go and what to do and when to be home for supper."
Joe grunted in response, his "Aha," indicating he'd found what he was rooting for in the drawer. He peeled off two tablets from the cellophane package and popped them into his mouth.
"You're eating antacids before you even give me my assignment?" Not that seeing Joe devour entire packages of Rolaids wasn't a common sight; he just usually waited till the assignment was underway to reach for the old faithfuls. "Must be a good one."
The drawer slammed shut. "Holzknecht, Goddammit. He's gone. You're going to find him and bring him back."
"Gone?"
"Gone. Like the wind. Out. Free. Escaped." Joe picked up a pencil from his desk, tapping it against the folder sitting in front of him as if doing so would ease his stomach pains.
"How?"
"Don't know. Don't care. It isn't my job to investigate Moroccan security, only what Holzknecht’s going to do now that he's out. That's where you come in." Joe shoved the file toward him.
Bart eyed it for a moment, making no move to pick it up. “Shouldn’t this be an FBI gig?”
“I’d love to shove this case up the FBI’s ass, but the DCI and the President say it’s ours and they make the rules. They’re making an exception in this case because it’s Holzknecht. God knows I'd love to send somebody who will actually follow my instructions, but even they agree you’re the only one who can think like that bastard."
"You want to catch a killer, you have to think like one. Didn't you tell me that my first day here?" He still made no move to reach for the folder.
"Hooray for me. You actually listened to something I said. Not that you have since then." Joe shoved the file closer to the edge of the desk. "Pick it up," he directed flatly.
Bart pulled the manila file folder onto his lap and opened it, closing it gain after scanning the contents. "Holzknecht has to know his wife’s being watched, just in case he shows up."
Joe held out a small slip of paper, waiting till he took it before continuing. "Last known address, according to Interpol. Find her and keep her alive. Right now, she's the only one who can possibly identify him."
"His face was flashed across newspapers and television all over the world throughout the trial." Even as he said it, Bart had a sick feeling in the pit of his stomach that there was more. Karl Holzknecht, known internationally as The Wolf, had eluded Bart and every other agent who'd tracked him over the years. No one had even known Karl had a wife for the longest time. Or that he was using her to get in and out of basically every country in Europe without anyone being suspicious.
The Wolf was as elusive as a shadow, appearing and disappearing to complete his missions like some ghost from the past. It had taken years of tracking down every lead, every scrap of information, putting pieces of the puzzle together only to find they didn't fit and having to start all over. There were no pictures of Karl prior to his capture. It had only been a stroke of luck that Bart remembered seeing the woman who turned out to be Holzknecht’s wife. Once he started checking her out, backtracking over her itinerary before she met Karl, questioning anyone she worked with on the runways, he had put two and two together and finally come up with four.
If it hadn't been for Interpol threatening to take Tania Holzknecht’s kids away from her, they would've stood virtually no chance at proving her husband was The Wolf. Karl Holzknecht was nothing if not careful, always covering his tracks. But even the most careful man eventually made a mistake. And luckily, Bart had been there when Karl made his. Interpol had taken over after that.
He ran a hand across his eyes wearily.
"That was before he acquired a new face," Joe broke into his thoughts.
"Plastic surgery? How original. But it still doesn't fit. Karl Holzknecht would never go under anesthesia while some nervous surgeon stood over him with a knife, much less a team of assistants. Too messy."
"No team. One man. But the good doctor who we think performed the surgery is missing. They're looking for him now. We'll know more then."
"Why do you think this one particular doctor did the surgery?"
"We don't know, for sure. But his nurse reported him missing when he didn't show up at his office. His house was searched and there was evidence some kind of surgery was done in the kitchen."
"Blood match?"
"Get real." Joe jerked his tie loose, stretching his neck. "The floor was clean enough to eat off of. But von Treisler did surgery on somebody, and since he's one of the best plastic surgeons in Europe, and Holzknecht is out, you add it up."
Bart set the file back on Joe’s already-cluttered desk. "I can't catch him if you tie my hands." He had his own way of sniffing out prey. Sometimes it wasn't the way Joe preferred, but it was his way and it worked for him. His instincts led, he only followed.
So why had he always harbored a small, indefinable doubt that Karl's wife was actually an accomplice? There was ample proof she knew what Karl was. He hadn't doubted it at the time, but afterward... There had been something in her eyes.
"Everything hinges on this woman, Matthews. You screw this up and you'll be carrying around the First Lady's Kleenex box for the rest of your days. Lose her and your ass belongs to me. I can't repeat that enough times."
"How long ago did he have the surgery?"
"Best we can figure, a week." Joe punched the intercom button, "Marie! Did you get those files I asked for?"
"Yes,” his secretary’s somewhat breathless voice replied just before letting loose a loud sneeze. “And the cobwebs that go with them."
"Fine." Joe swiveled around in his chair to root through the stack of files on his desk. "Now, second problem." Finally, he found the one he was looking for. "The Russian Ambassador is speaking at the United Nations this week and he's a prime target; one The Wolf never got around to nixing. It's possible Holzknecht will show up to finish the job."
"Not with his face wrapped up like a mummy," Bart replied dryly. "Even minor plastic surgery requires some healing time."
"We can't be certain. Better safe than sorry. He may have help, someone in the wings. Either way, you don't have a chance in hell of catching him without the woman."
Bart rose from his chair and strolled to the window. "I doubt she'll be overly excited to see me."
"There’s a big surprise. Luckily, for you, she doesn't know you're the one who originally fingered her."
"Does she know Holzknecht’s out?"
"Interpol left that nasty little job for us. You'll have to play it by ear when you get there. No telling how she's going to take the news."
"I assume you want him alive, if possible." It wasn't a question. And Joe knew that was a sticking point with him.
"I don't make the rules."
"Or the deals?"
"Stop busting my ass about it, Bart.” Joe sighed heavily. “It wasn't my call. You did your job and that's the end of it."
"So you're going to just sit back and pop Rolaids while worrying whether or not I'll kill him. Wouldn't it be easier to give the case to someone else?"
"Hell yes, it would be easier," Joe muttered. "See Marie on your way out. She has all the files. And Matthews--" Joe stopped him at the door. "--everybody's watching on this one. So, call in and let me know what's going on before you do it."

***
"Ready to ride, Cowboy?" Marie asked as Bart approached her desk.
He glanced at the stack of heavy files filling the vacant chair. "First I have to break the horse into the saddle. Is this all of them?"
"Dust bunnies and all." She sipped at her coffee.
"Thanks for warning me, by the way." He hooked one leg over the edge of her desk.
She snorted. "He was searching for those antacids two seconds after the call came in. Besides, if I had told you ahead of time you would have pulled a disappearing act and I would have gotten the blame. You know how I hate that."
Bart spent the rest of the day going over CIA and Interpol files, refreshing his memory on some of the details. He looked over the pictures and trial transcripts. Tania Holzknecht seen talking with Omar Hassein, later found dead. Tania meeting a Parisian Head of State...dead two hours later. The list went on and on.
If he hadn't remembered seeing her while casing an exclusive private party given by the Ambassador of China, then recognizing her again in a photo taken at another event, he might never have started unraveling her past.
Now they were back to square one, finding The Wolf with only one witness who could ID him. Only this time, Jenny Carlisle or Alice Rayburn or Tania Holzknecht, whichever name she might be going by, wouldn't be able to pick Holzknecht out of a crowd. He would have to rely on what she remembered about other things; things she had probably pushed from her mind or simply forgotten after all these years on the run.
He doubted she would like his prying even deeper into her life. But he didn't have any choice. And neither did she. Not if she wanted to stay alive. And there was no way in hell he was giving her time to think about it. If she knew he was coming, she might decide to run.

***
Illinois

Tania walked downstairs wearily, rubbing her dry, irritated eyes. The twins were in bed asleep, finally, and she could think. She didn't particularly want to think, but right now euphoria wasn't an option.
A new agency. Another faceless person to oversee her case. She knew they'd probably want to put her into the Witness Protection Program, but she'd already decided she wasn't going that route. She was calling the shots this time. Her girls needed her to keep them safe and she didn't want someone telling her she couldn't move if she felt it necessary. To date, Interpol had basically let her decide where she went and when, and provided her with funds.
Money. What would she do for money when the amount she'd managed to save by cutting corners and existing with the barest essentials ran out? Interpol gave her a more than generous amount every year, but she only used what was absolutely needed, fearing she might have to pull up stakes and make a run for it without being able to contact anyone.
The Moroccan court had given Karl so many life sentences he would never be eligible for parole. Funny, but she had always known he would find a way to get to her; always knew he would come after her himself. It was only a matter of time.
Anger welled up inside her. He shouldn't be alive to come after her at all. Karl should have received the death penalty for his crimes. Why he hadn’t was a mystery to her.
She lay down on the sofa, closing her eyes for a moment. Sleep. It seemed like a luxury she would never have again. Maybe she could manage to doze off for a couple of minutes and rest her eyes.
Mr. Smith had less than nineteen hours left to come up with a name. Until she knew who was going to be contacting her, she was left to ponder the possibilities of packing up and leaving.
Where to go this time?
Another small town. She had tried hiding in the big cities, but there were always too many people to see her, remember her face, ask questions. It was safer in a small town where she could get a place off some lonely stretch of road. No neighbors to bother her, no traffic to pass by the house constantly. The three of them could keep to themselves without much fuss.
It was a mistake to move back to the States. She should have stayed in Europe. Then Interpol wouldn't be passing her off to another agency. She'd have to ask Mr. Smith when he called if it was possible to return to Europe.

***
CIA Offices—Washington DC

"Janis!" Joe barked from his office door. "Get in here." He went back to his chair, muttering, "If that asshole thinks he's going to outsmart me this time, he's got another think coming. I didn't make director without second guessing hot-shots like him."
Mark Janis stuck his head through the door cautiously. “You wanted to see me?”
"Close the door and sit down." Joe waited till Janis complied, then set his sternest gaze on him, smiling inwardly when the unassuming man squirmed slightly. Making them squirm was the only fun part about this job.
Janis would be the perfect foil for Matthews. He was quiet, unassuming, a computer geek that knew and understood more about the fucking machines than any normal person should.
He could have saved himself a lot of grief if he had assigned someone other than Matthews to this case. But Matthews had a special talent for finding people who didn't want to be found. Dangerous people.
Sometimes Joe worried about that. Matthews thought too much like the people he hunted. That's why he was so successful in his cases. That's why he was given extra leeway; why the brass boys upstairs looked the other way at times. Why he had indigestion.
"I've almost got those reports finished," Janis blurted out.
"Forget the reports. See those files?" Joe pointed to the stack of folders in the corner. "Read 'em. Commit them to memory. Know every detail like the back of your hand."
Mark Janis frowned at the stack. "New case?”
"Old case—the worst kind. I want you ready and waiting for my call. Matthews is on his way now to assess the situation. And when he calls, I'm going to be ready for him."
Janis cleared his throat. "Er, Bart likes to work alone."
Joe pounded the desk with his fist. "I don't give a rat's ass what he likes! He'll do what I tell him. And so will you. I know what he's going to do. He's going to make my indigestion worse with one of his stunts, and the DCI, not to mention the President, will have my ass in a sling."
"If you say so. Which case is it?"
"The Wolf."
Janis let out a low whistle. "Bart worked on that case originally. Until Interpol took it away from him."
"That's right, Sherlock. And you're going to be my mole. You're going to report to me everything he does, what he eats for lunch, even how many times a day he takes a piss. Everything!” Joe rubbed at his stomach. “I have a bad feeling about this one." If Mark Janis wanted to think Bart held a grudge because Interpol took over after he fingered Karl, so much the better. What he didn't know wouldn't hurt him.
"How so?"
"I'm psychic," Joe snarled sarcastically. "Because I know Matthews, that's why. He'll try to do this alone, and it's not going to happen. We can't afford any mistakes. We only have one witness to work with, and I want backup in case something goes wrong." Matthews playing by his own rules in other countries was one thing, but doing it here in the States was another. Christ, he didn’t need Rolaids, he needed a whip and a chair.
“Um, what if he doesn't tell me everything?"
"He will."
"Or what?" Janis cocked a blonde eyebrow. "I'm only asking because I’ve worked with him before, and when Bart doesn't want to tell you something, he doesn't. It makes the job just a teensy bit more difficult when you have to guess."
Joe squeezed his eyes shut, rubbing his forehead. He was surrounded by intellectual dimwits and field agents who had too much education and not enough common sense to know when to use their guns or their brains. "God save me from idiot agents. You guys have too much book learning and not enough balls. Give me the old days, anytime." He opened his eyes and sighed, "Look, Einstein, you let me worry about convincing Matthews. You just get your ass back to your desk and become an expert on The Wolf, got it?"
"Got it." Mark gathered up the files, heading out the door
"Oh, and Janis?"
"Yes, sir?" Janis paused as he reached the door to peer over the stack of files, only the top of his blonde head visible now.
"Zip your lip on this one. It's a need-to-know only basis and I'll be the one who decides who's needy and who isn't."
"Right."
Next Joe put in a call to the Director of Central Intelligence. "I need carte blanche on this one. It's going to be a rough ride."
"Fine. But, Joe, if this gets fucked up, you know what's going to happen, don't you?"
"I have a pretty good idea."
"Good. Because Matthews is a wild dog and you're holding the leash."
Don’t I know it. Joe hung up the phone, rooting through the desk drawer for his pack of Rolaids. "If that bastard tries to pull anything over on me this time, I'll choke him with that damned leash."

***
"Soon, Tania. Soon, I'll pay you back, you bitch, for refusing to help me." As soon as she was settled he would make his next move. He would make her suffer this time. She would learn who wielded the power.
He was The Wolf. And like the wolf, he hunted with his instincts and his cunning. She would beg for death instead of life. She would never look at him again with those dark, disdainful eyes.
It gave him almost a sexual pleasure to think of the look on her face when she saw the angel of death standing over her. The killing was nothing. It was the preparation, the stalking, the sweet savoring of what was to come that brought him to life. She had a soft spot. It would be easiest to use that, but there was no pleasure in killing her the easy way.
His Teacher would be proud of him.
The control over her life, her very soul, was what was important. She had shunned him. And no one, no one was allowed to do that and escape punishment.
You were wrong, Master. I am in control.