Nemesis Syndrome: A Wolfe Adventure Novel

By Walt Branam

Tom and Terry Wolfe have agreed to help the FBI finally bring Vernon Crassman to justice. The evil billionaire has become a bitter, hateful man living in constant pain and agony due to the horrendous injuries he suffered during his last confrontation with the Wolfes. His injuries deprive him of sleep, so his nights are spent plotting revenge against his enemies.

Crassman intends to end the troublesome couples lives in a very slow and painful manner. To implement the first part of his plan, the sinister and deadly villain kidnaps Terry. The purpose, of course, is to entice Tom to come find his wife on Crassmans turf. But Tom has been forbidden by the current administration to enter the sanctuary where Crassman hides.

Tom is forced to secretly assemble his own private team and illegally infiltrate a hostile country, free his wife, and bring Crassman to final justice. In pursuing this quest, the team travels to exotic locations and pits themselves against the greatest dangers they have ever faced. Not everyone will survive, but once again, the Wolfe pair proves itself a force to be reckoned with.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Abbott Press
• Release date: Dec 21, 2016
• ISBN: 9781458220677

Walt Branam

Walt Branam has worked in aerospace and served in combat as a commissioned officer in the United States Army. He has led researchers on wilderness expeditions to locate and photograph dangerous and rare animals. Branam was the leader of a special government task force to bring high tech, white collar criminals to justice. He now writes full time from his home in California.

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Copyright © 2016 Walt Branam.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced by any means, graphic, electronic, or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, taping or by any information storage retrieval system without the written permission of the author except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

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Any people depicted in stock imagery provided by Thinkstock are models, and such images are being used for illustrative purposes only.

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ISBN: 978-1-4582-2069-1 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-4582-2068-4 (hc)

ISBN: 978-1-4582-2067-7 (e)

Library of Congress Control Number: 2016919265

Abbott Press rev. date: 12/20/2016

Contents

1    Promise Me Revenge

2    Into The Breach

3    Blood Traces Were Found

4    Earlier On The West Coast

5    Night Intruders

6    Man, She Was Tough!

7    Where Crassman Is Hiding

8    No Luxury Cruise

9    The Note

10    Never Look A Gift Horse In The Mouth

11    Meeting The Gift Horse

12    Meeting Shaman

13    Still On A Cruise

14    Ray Burton

15    I’m All In

16    Cloak And Dagger

17    The Rest Of The Team

18    That’s Your Plan?

19    What A Surprise Meeting You Here

20    In Flight

21    Welcome To Baghdad

22    Being Hunted

23    The Plan

24    Pest Control

25    Welcome To My Hole In The Ground

26    I Don’t Want To Be In The Movies

27    We’re Still Waiting For You, Mr. Wolfe

28    The Relic

29    A Drive Through Baghdad

30    It Happened So Fast

31    We Agree—Crassman Is A Pig!

32    How Not To Waterboard

33    Why Are You Helping Me?

34    Hakam Is Learning

35    The Escape

36    Getting Out Of Dodge

37    We’re Going Home

38    Requiem For A Traitor

39    Try Again

40    We’ll Be Men

41    Qazvin

42    Stay Ahead Of The Shouting

43    Ships Passing …

44    Allah’s Will

45    Duplicity

46    On Our Own

47    Chance Encounters

48    Trust And Sending Men To Hell

49    Nothing Goes As Planned

50    Prisoners Again

51    Escape In My Invisible Flying Machine

52    I Need Medical Help

53    Knock-Knock

54    Taking A Tour

55    Nobody Is Home

56    Making A Dirty Bomb

57    Total Destruction

58    Fake It

59    Super Blackhawk

60    Troubles Down Below

61    Sand Geysers, Fissures, And Sinkholes

62    Are We Invisible Yet?

63    Cvn-77: Uss George H. W. Bush Battle Group

64    I Found Crassman

65    Whatever It Takes …

66    On The High Seas

67    A Pirate’s Life For Me

68    Murphy’s Law

69    Did You See That?

70    Another Blasted Alarm

71    Boarding And Control

72    What Happened To Green?

73    Well, Look Who I Found

74    What Now, My Love?

75    Let’s Find The Love Again

76    Threatening A Holy Man

77    Getting Reacquainted

78    To Kill Or Not To Kill

79    Life Sucks!

80    Welcome To The Land Of Enchantment And Death

81    Down Below

82    Jumping Off

83    I Made It

84    Jungle Creep

85    A Holy Man’s Gratitude

86    Platinum-Tip, Hollow-Point Magnum

87    Going On Alert

88    Where’s Crassman?

89    Chance Encounter

90    Crassman’s Minions

91    I Told You If I Ever Saw You Again …

92    Guard Our Six

93    Trouble Coming Together

94    Is There A Heaven And A Hell?

95    Suicide?

96    The World Is A Better Place

97    Master Takuan Sōhō

An Excerpt From My Next Novel

Foreword

1    Breakfast Of Champions

2    No Good News This Morning

3    Breakfast Of Another Kind

Praise for Alaska Gold and Hunting Evil

Kirkus Reviews said about Hunting Evil, An entertaining tale bolstered by outstanding characters, both recurring and new.

From Amazon reviews:

It’s a great read you never want to put it down.

Great adventure story!

I bought this book to read on vacation. It didn’t disappoint! I couldn’t put it down … Can’t wait to see if there’s a sequel.

Grabs you and keeps you up late.

This is a fast paced novel with intrigue and suspense.

It was difficult to put down once I started it! Hope to see a sequel!

Hatred and the promise of revenge

are the only pleasures left to me.

—Vernon Crassman

1

PROMISE ME REVENGE

Vernon Crassman clutched the metal chair—a reaction required by the pain and vertigo. This morning’s bout was only average, but the agony never ceased. It varied from headaches, dizziness, and a deep aching to the equivalent of a dentist drilling without Novocain—while suffering from a migraine. The backwoods doctors currently available assured him the torment would eventually dissipate. In the meantime, they offered only a few pills that didn’t provide the relief promised, and then they left Crassman alone in the night with his pain.

Crassman hated the long nights. Everything became magnified, and time moved slower at night. In the dark, the pain became more intense. And the loneliness was oppressive. Last night, just as he lay on his bunk to find sleep, electric shocks jolted him awake. They began in his jaw, ran down his neck, shot through his body, and burned in his legs. To combat them, he’d consumed a whole bottle of the so-called pain pills, not caring whether he overdosed. At least death would provide an end to his torment. But the pills didn’t kill him, and they didn’t stop the pain, so he spent the night pacing the cold, dark concrete cell that served as his bedroom, plotting the most gruesome revenge he could imagine on the two people responsible for his misery: Thomas and Terry Wolfe.

In the darkness, Crassman conceived a plan that would be elegant yet ugly. It would impart unmeasured suffering and end with an agonizing death for the couple.

Crassman was still gripping the metal chair, resisting the vertigo, when Abdul entered the small underground apartment built with concrete and steel.

You okay, Mr. Carsemen? I heard you making those sounds again last night.

Abdul’s demeanor was of someone who really cared for Crassman. It conveyed urgency, but Crassman knew better.

It’s not a sin for a Muslim to lie to an infidel.

You okay, Mr. Carsemen? Abdul repeated.

No matter how much I correct him, he continues to mispronounce my name. "My name is Crassman—not Carsemen."

Car-r-r-semen … Abdul mispronounced his name even more outrageously this time.

My new world …

Why do you watch me all the time—even at night? barked Crassman, and then he winced as a sharp pain exploded in his head as payment for the effort. I’m obviously not going anywhere, he added in a weaker voice.

Even my voice has lost its authority.

It is my responsibility to take care of you, Mr. Carsemen, replied Abdul as he grabbed Crassman’s arm, holding him upright.

I thought your job was to learn everything I know so your masters can dispose of me, or is it to ensure I don’t steal the ayatollah’s silverware? Despite his hard words, Crassman’s legs felt weak.

Abdul squeezed Crassman’s arm and lifted. Oh no, Mr. Carsemen. I am here to provide you with the limited comforts my poor country has to offer. I do not have the intelligence or education to understand your work. Abdul smiled solicitously.

Get your greasy paws off me. Crassman pulled his arm away and leaned against the metal workbench that served as a dining table in his apartment. I know you have a doctorate in physics from MIT and another in electrical engineering from Cal Tech.

Ignoring Crassman’s statement, Abdul said, I heard you screaming that name again last night: Elki.

Bitter thoughts of Elki also filled a large portion of Crassman’s sleepless nights. She had shot him point-blank in the face, causing this physical misery. The bullet had traveled through his jaw, shattering the bone, ripping out a roll of teeth, and then exiting through his right ear, destroying his hearing and sense of balance.

But Elki is dead! Green killed her for me.

Crassman took several slow, deep breaths to control the nausea.

Abdul reached for him again, but Crassman slapped the hand away and walked unsteadily across the small, spartan room to the toilet. He stood in front of the sink and reluctantly raised his eyes to the shiny steel mirror. Staring back at him was the ugly, deformed face he hated—his own. That single bullet had turned him into a monster. Even after suffering through a series of reconstructive surgeries, his face was still hideous. It wasn’t just the physical damage, or the pain, or the vertigo. It was something deeper—something more profound—that had changed. When Crassman looked closely, he could see a deep, twisted hatred radiating from his eyes. That hate was something new in the past year.

I love hating. How ironically perverse is that?

Crassman announced, I haven’t seen the sunshine or breathed fresh air in over a month. I want to get outside.

Going outside is dangerous. This bunker protects you from your enemies. It can withstand a direct hit from a nuclear bomb.

Crassman grunted. Right now I’d welcome being crushed in radioactive rubble.

I thought you wanted protection, said Abdul.

Crassman grunted again, and then he said, No, I want revenge before I die.

Seeking revenge is a very dangerous goal, Mr. Carsemen.

Revenge against Thomas Wolfe and his wife is part of our agreement for giving you my stealth technology.

I still do not understand why, said Abdul.

Crassman’s voice was rough, and the words cracked as he answered. Before that bastard and his bitch wife entered my life, I had all the money I could spend in a hundred lifetimes. I was a multibillionaire. I was the CEO of Crassman Industries. I was about to become the United States’ primary defense contractor for the next quarter century—

It is better you do not work for the Great Satan, interjected Abdul.

Crassman ignored the interruption. I had more power than many heads of state. Men were eager to do my bidding, and beautiful women waited to fulfill my every wish.

We have provided you with women here. Are they not to your liking?

Hell, they pretend not to speak English. Won’t look me in the eye. And all of them are the same boring dark-olive coloring and homely.

Maybe I can speak to— Abdul began.

You miss my point, Abdul, or at least you pretend to miss my point. Before Wolfe, I had it all. Now it’s gone—stolen from me. The pain and deformity are only a small part of it. I’m an international criminal forced to hide underground like a gopher.

I am sure your assassin will be successful.

Green …

Green had been gone more than a month, and Crassman had not heard from him. Crassman had sent Green back to America to execute the first part of his plan for revenge. The scheme had been hatched over many long, sleepless nights and then refined and honed until it seemed a stroke of genius to Crassman’s distorted, hate-driven mind. It was a depraved plot, and thinking of it gave Crassman pleasure.

Abdul picked up a tray of assorted fruits and held it under Crassman’s face. In the meantime, you should eat some fruit. Today will be eventful—

Get the hell away from me! Crassman slapped the metal tray, launching the fruit across the floor. I’ve had enough melons and figs. Leave me alone!

Abdul jumped back, making a show of being intimidated. Excuse me, Mr. Carsemen, but these are dates—not figs. You must eat to keep up your strength. Remember today we bench test your stealth system for the battle helicopter. Abdul indicated the metal door leading out of Crassman’s underground apartment. The technical staff is already working this morning, awaiting your instructions for the test.

I’ll keep my word. You’ll have your stealth system, grumbled Crassman. Just be sure you keep your end of the agreement. I want Wolfe and his woman here, to do with as I please.

I promise you. You will have your revenge against Mr. and Mrs. Wolfe, answered Abdul softly.

2

INTO THE BREACH

Shooting conditions were poor in the dim, early morning’s twilight and on their own would be sufficient handicap to get him killed. But poor visibility had allies this morning. His mind had joined the conspiracy. It insisted on being concerned with trivial annoyances instead of focusing on the danger waiting on the seemingly innocent street. In addition, he was acutely aware of his heart pounding out of control in his chest. Then there were the tiny rivets of sweat that stung his eyes, trickled down his back, and flooded his armpits. The secretions itched and made his clothing stick. And with each breath, he was acutely aware of the oppressive, warm, wet air that made breathing so difficult. These rambling concerns all conspired against Thomas Wolfe as he crept along the dirty brick wall with the Glock in a two-handed grip.

Snap out of it! Focus on surviving!

No! Focus on nothing. Keep your mind clear.

Stop arguing with yourself!

Wolfe’s task was to find and kill an unknown number of terrorists before they killed him. His chances of surviving the bloody melee were slim at best. There were too many hidden threats, and the game was stacked against him.

He studied the open windows on the second and third floors across the street. Each one was a possible shooting port. He knew at least one of his adversaries would be up there—a sniper taking the high ground. There would be others concealed in places he didn’t anticipate.

Wolfe approached a run-down laundromat and stopped. He eased the door open and looked inside. It appeared empty, so he moved on. Further down the street, he could hear a television or radio playing. As he got closer, he decided it was a television—the morning news.

Then the sun peeked above the horizon. The ascending fireball had joined the conspiracy against him. It burned directly into his already stinging eyes, blinding him as he squinted to see along the street.

Every special agent who had gone down the street before him that morning had been killed. It now fell to Thomas Wolfe to find the terrorists and end the siege on Hogan’s Alley: the street the FBI considered the most dangerous in the United States.

He wiped the sweat from his forehead and out of his eyes, using his gun hand—a no-no. Luckily, nobody had taken advantage of his momentary lapse.

Now I’m depending on luck?

Wolfe moved another few yards along the graffiti-marred brick wall. He paused directly across the street from an old-style barbershop, a throwback from the fifties. The windows were clear glass. It was dark inside. He waited, but there was no movement, so he continued along the sidewalk.

His plan had been to make the shooter miss with the first shot and then acquire and kill him before the second. But now he saw the folly in that plan. At this very moment, there could be a gun pointing at him, and he would never hear or feel the shot that ended this for him.

That’s how the other agents met their end.

Wolfe slipped into a shallow alcove, hoping it would provide some cover. He leaned against the wall and took several deep breaths to allow his heart to slow and his breathing to return to normal. His eyes swept the windows on the upper floors across the street for any sign of the terrorists who had taken over this small slice of the American heartland.

He realized it had been a mistake to stop, because his mind meandered even further from his task. It was unseasonably hot for early spring. Why did he volunteer to do this? He could have sent one of the new guys. He’d rather be having breakfast at the Quantico Club, or even better, still in bed at his home in Lake Tahoe, or maybe watching the sunrise with his wife, Terry. Wolfe recalled that a thunderstorm was due to hit the DC area later that afternoon, just about commuting time. The forecast was three inches of rain within a few hours. The storm would create floods and gridlock traffic.

Maybe I could get an early start.

Was that movement in the window—a flash of color?

Damn it! Get your mind back on this gunfight—here and now! You’ve gotten soft: too much time behind the desk, doing paperwork, reading reports, and sitting in meetings.

Wolfe took several deep breaths to clear his mind and then eased out of the brick alcove. He felt exposed and vulnerable as he crept along the sidewalk littered with paper cups, old newspapers, and other clutter. He came to a pool hall. The sign, painted in large red letters on the front window, simply read Bill’s Billiards with crossed cue sticks and a rack of billiard balls below. Wolfe carefully opened the front door and peeked in. Two men were playing pool in the rear. Surprisingly, they didn’t seem to mind that Wolfe stood in the doorway with a pistol in his hand.

Either of you guys see anyone around here waving a gun? Wolfe asked, realizing as he spoke he had just described himself.

The player who had been lining up a pool shot straightened and looked to his friend. They both shrugged. Just you. Should we be worried?

No, never mind. Finish your game. Wolfe slipped back outside.

He walked faster now. This was taking too long. He was giving the terrorists time to organize against him. He jogged past a boarded-up beauty salon, stopped at the intersection, and swept for threats.

Diagonally across the intersection was a post office. A uniformed postman, with a leather bag hanging from his shoulder, exited the building and walked away from Wolfe, as if nothing was wrong. The postman appeared to be on his way to make deliveries as usual.

This doesn’t make sense. If terrorists control this street, how can everything seem so normal?

A rifle shot from the second-floor window, across the street, shattered Wolfe’s normal. It was the same window he’d seen movement earlier. The shot missed.

Wolfe spun, dropped to a one-knee crouch, and fired twice into the open window.

The two pool players appeared outside, but now both held AK-47s instead of cue sticks. Wolfe shot without thinking. They were shooting too, but his shots were true—hitting them both.

Wolfe swept the street for more threats, and then he remembered the intersection behind him. He began to turn and was shot three times from behind. The postman had returned to deliver the mail.

A buzzer alarm screamed at Wolfe’s ears from behind his back.

You’re dead! the range master shouted over the alarm, appearing from the barbershop across the street. You took your eyes off the postman, and you were lucky the pool players didn’t get you, the casual way you cleared the pool hall. He was laughing.

I had them covered … Besides, it’s different when it’s for real. You’re more focused … sharper, Wolfe mumbled as he brushed the dust off his knee, knowing he sounded feeble.

If I had a dollar for every time I heard that, I could retire, the range master said, laughing.

Using a uniformed postman as a terrorist isn’t fair, Wolfe added meekly.

"It wasn’t fair is the epitaph of all dead agents," the range master countered.

Wolfe grunted. Could you turn off this blasted buzzer? We all know I’m dead.

The range master laughed again. You owe us a cold beer, and lunch is on you too! He clicked the reset switch located on the back of Wolfe’s laser harness.

Well, other than the postman, how did I do? asked Wolfe.

You mean right up to the moment you got killed? The range master was still laughing.

I’m beginning to hate that laugh.

By this time, the other actors had gathered. The pool player said, Let’s have our cold beer now.

Wolfe shook his head. I have a meeting with Johnson in half an hour, and I need a shower. I’ll meet you guys at the club—noon.

Despite getting killed, Wolfe was smiling as he retraced his path along Hogan’s Alley—the FBI’s laser-fire, realistic combat course, built to be like a street in Middle America.

Just another day at the office.

3

BLOOD TRACES WERE FOUND

Thomas Wolfe walked across the parking lot to the plain, gray, four-story building located in Quantico, Virginia. The building was headquarters for the FBI’s tactical command and training center. It was also Wolfe’s office, as the recently appointed assistant director in command of the FBI’s Critical Incident Response Group.

He had taken this position, with the help of Terry’s negotiation skills, on the condition that he could spend most of his efforts tracking down and bringing to justice the evil billionaire Vernon Crassman. Crassman would do anything and harm anyone to satisfy his greed and hunger for power, and Wolfe had vowed to bring the evil billionaire to justice.

Tom and Terry Wolfe had spent much of the past year searching for the billionaire after the incident on the ranch last year.¹ Crassman had used his stealth technology to literally disappear, but Terry had found where he went to ground, demonstrating considerable talent for tracking someone who didn’t want to be found. Now it was time to bring Crassman back to the United States to stand trial.

Wolfe entered the steel and concrete building, jogged down the concrete stairs, past the gymnasium, where a new batch of FBI recruits were training this morning, and passed through the heavy metal doors marked Special Agents’ Locker Room.

He and Terry had had come to the conclusion they didn’t need to personally arrest Crassman. Crassman was currently marked as the Most Wanted Man by the United States and its allies. He would eventually be arrested and made to stand trial, so why should they waste their lives pursuing the bastard?

Let someone else arrest Crassman.

They had decided to leave the FBI—do something else—something fun. Today, Wolfe intended to inform his boss, Ed Johnson, of their decision.

Wolfe took a quick, cool shower to wash away the sticky sweat and dirt and then dried off. He didn’t have to worry about combing his hair, as he’d gone back to the military cut he had sported for twenty years as an army ranger. He slipped into his uniform, consisting of navy blue trousers, a white shirt, a dark blue tie, and comfortable leather shoes. Next, he slipped on the leather shoulder harness. Then he checked his pistol—a compact .45 Cal Glock, model 30 SF—to ensure it was ready to fire, before slipping it into the shoulder holster. The elegant, gold FBI badge attached to his belt, just to the right of the buckle. Wolfe slipped on a navy blue sports jacket last then closed the locker. On the way out, he waved at the locker room attendant (a retired FBI special agent) and tossed the soiled towel into the laundry cart.

Although Wolfe enjoyed his lifestyle at the Bureau—playing cops and robbers games on the shooting course, tracking down real bad guys, rescuing hostages, and finding spies—he wouldn’t miss any of it. He had spent a lifetime fighting evil people—first as an army ranger and now in the FBI. He was still young (in his early forties), and it was time he found something else to do.

Wolfe entered the reception area to his office on the top floor of the gray concrete building. The cold air-conditioning was refreshing after the past two hours of sweating in Hogan’s Alley.

Thinking like that is a sure sign I’ve become soft. It’s time for a change.

Wolfe was immediately greeted by Special Agent Judy Lang—his assistant. She was an attractive woman of thirty, with shoulder-length, dark brown hair and intense brown eyes. She worked for him because no one in the Bureau wanted her on their team. She had been labeled as too aggressive and not a team player. Wolfe’s wife, Terry, had taken to Special Agent Judy Lang immediately. She had insisted Judy be on her husband’s team. It had turned out to be a good fit. The rap about her being too aggressive and not being a team player was really about her being competitive. She didn’t back down if she thought she was in the right. Wolfe liked that quality in a person—man or woman. Many others in the Bureau didn’t.

Special Agent Judy Lang’s duties covered a wide range of tasks, from screening calls to working on cases. One of the perks for her position was she was able to spend eight hours per week in the Bureau’s gym to keep fit and another four to six hours per week on the shooting range to refine her shooting skills. She was recognized as one of the best shots in the FBI—both pistol and rifle. She and Wolfe had competed against each other in a shoot-off when he first arrived at Quantico. Wolfe had beaten her, but it had been close. She was pressing him for a rematch.

I heard you were killed in Hogan’s Alley this morning. Slowing down? Special Agent Judy Lang greeted her boss with a smile.

Word got out already? Wolfe asked.

Of course! This is the FBI, she replied. I want another shot at the title before someone else beats you.

Wolfe shook his head and laughed. Has Johnson showed up yet?

He’s waiting in your office. Also, the Blackhawk helicopter is reserved for you at one o’clock this afternoon.

Thanks. It’s important to keep my piloting skills current. He added, Judy, I don’t want to be disturbed during this meeting.

Of course, said Judy Lang.

Ed Johnson appreciated getting out of DC whenever he could, so instead of requiring Wolfe to drive up to the J. Edgar Hoover Building for the briefing, Johnson came down to Quantico to meet in Wolfe’s office.

Johnson was standing at the large window, looking out at the FBI’s shooting ranges. He turned back to face his chief of the Critical Incident Response Group. Hello, Tom. What have you been up to?

I was keeping up my shooting skills, answered Wolfe.

Well, you better work a little harder. I hear you were killed this morning.

Does everyone know?

The Bureau knows everything, Johnson said without a smile. How’s Terry?

Took vacation; she flew back to Lake Tahoe.

Will you be taking some time off too?

In a few days … I need a vacation. How about you? How’s life in DC? Wolfe asked.

Johnson walked away from the picture window and sat in the small sofa opposite Wolfe’s desk. The DC Insiders are complaining about our investigation of Senator Fetterson. Many on Capitol Hill are saying it’s just a political witch hunt. They want us to drop it.

Wolfe sat at his desk. He’s dirty. Fetterson conspired with Crassman and took money for doing it.

You can’t throw accusations at US senators without powerful and undeniable proof.

What about the recording of Fetterson and Crassman in the hotel room? Wolfe asked.

The recording alone isn’t enough to prove criminal conspiracy. You know the drill. There is no foundation … no context. We need more—

We can’t provide the context because Crassman killed both Peters and Elki.

You haven’t proved that either, said Johnson.

That’s because anyone who witnessed their murders is either dead or missing, said Wolfe.

Johnson shrugged. Without something more, we can’t touch Senator Fetterson.

He’s as dirty as a fly in an Alabama outhouse, and we’re going to let him go free? Wolfe asked.

Where’d you pick that up—dirty as a fly in an Alabama outhouse? Johnson chuckled.

One of the new agents said it the other day, Wolfe answered.

Maybe it fits, but we still don’t have enough to charge Senator Fetterson. The most we can expect is an inquiry by the Senate Select Committee on Ethics, but it probably won’t go anywhere. Fetterson is a senior senator in the majority party. They’ll most likely just do the dance, and he’ll get a pass, explained Johnson.

Corrupt politicians watching over corrupt politicians, Wolfe mumbled.

I understand you know where Crassman went to ground? Johnson asked, shifting the topic.

Yes, we know exactly where he is.

Homeland Security skip tracers couldn’t find him. How did you find him?

Wolfe smiled. Terry found him through shipments of his favorite brand of coffee.

Coffee? That’s pretty thin, mumbled Johnson.

Not really. Crassman is hooked on this very exclusive brand—very expensive at five hundred dollars per pound. Only a couple dozen clients receive regular shipments, so she tracked them all and located Crassman. She claims it was easy.

The really smart people always say things are easy. To the rest of us, it looks like magic, said Johnson.

Yes, Terry is a genius, but there’s a glitch, Wolfe said.

What?

The location where Crassman went to ground … Wolfe began.

Johnson’s cell phone vibrated. He said, Hold the thought, and answered, Johnson here. He listened intently then pushed the speaker icon and set the smartphone on the desk. Would you repeat that? I’m with Thomas Wolfe now. He can hear you.

There was silence, and then a deep male voice spoke slowly. I’m sorry you’re hearing this over the telephone, sir, but there has been an attack on your cabin at Lake Tahoe. Mrs. Wolfe was apparently there at the time.

What do you mean Terry was apparently there? Wolfe asked.

We are still in the early stages of reconstructing what happened. We know there was a gunfight. We found the bodies of three assailants inside the cabin.

Where’s Terry? Wolfe asked.

The agent continued. The assailants were apparently shot with your wife’s gun, which was found lying on the floor, in the bedroom.

Is Terry all right? asked Wolfe.

It’s unclear; we found several trails of blood leading from the cabin.

Damn it! What happened to my wife?

We identified one of the blood traces as belonging to your wife.

Silence. Wolfe frowned at Johnson, and then both men stared at the cell phone and waited for the agent on the other end to continue.

I’m sorry, Mr. Wolfe, but your wife is missing.

4

EARLIER ON THE WEST COAST

Most people are in a deep sleep at three in the morning. Their guard is down, and when awakened, they are disoriented, confused, and vulnerable. There are few people moving around at that time, making witnesses scarce. Even law enforcement is typically hunkered down in their favorite all-night coffee shop at three in the morning, unless they are launching a raid to capture a dangerous criminal. Three in the morning is the preferred time for predators to hunt.

Terry Wolfe lay in her soft, warm bed under the heavy down comforter to stay warm. It was cold outside, but the cabin’s heater had been turned down to conserve energy. The air was still and quiet, but for some reason she had snapped full awake from her deep sleep. She rolled over to her other side and felt the spot where Tom usually slept, but the space was empty.

She had come home before Tom to take care of some personal business and because she needed a break. It had taken eight unbroken months of hard work, but eventually she had found where Vernon Crassman was hiding. Now her job was completed, and she was exhausted. So she had returned to their secluded cabin, located in the wooded mountains above beautiful Lake Tahoe, for a rest.

Tom was planning to join her in a couple days. He would be giving notice at a meeting with Ed Johnson this morning. After that, it would be up to the FBI and the international police forces to bring Crassman to justice. Tom and Terry Wolfe had decided to end their obsession with Crassman and get on with their own lives.

These thoughts collaborated to keep her from falling back to sleep. The harder she tried, the more awake she became.

Now I have to pee.

Terry reluctantly slipped from the warm bed. Even though the air was cold, the floor was made of wood, so it wasn’t too cold to walk on, until she stepped into the bathroom, which had a stone floor that felt like ice. She shivered despite the thick cotton socks, the heavy dark blue T-shirt, and warm lounging pants she slept in.

Terry shuffled to the toilet, without turning on the lights, and sat down.

Then she heard a soft crashing sound—like the muffled breaking of glass. She listened intently for other sounds but heard nothing.

Maybe it’s that clumsy old Rufus …

Rufus was the name they had given a black bear that came around the cabin occasionally looking for food. So far he had been harmless. They never left any food outside for him, and the cabin was equipped with heavy-duty bear-proof trash cans to deny him the garbage as a food source. Allowing the bear to eat human food would make him more dependent and less able to survive on his own in the wild. She didn’t mind Rufus stopping by occasionally. He was fun to watch, and she considered him part of their lifestyle at Lake Tahoe. She even had a photo of Rufus hanging on the wall downstairs in the great room.