A tall, powerful-looking man strode up to the open door and peered inside. He smiled playfully, as if a small child was in the prison van.
‘Pasha,’ the Wolf spoke, ‘I understand that you were going to turn me in. That’s what my sources say, my very good sources, my incredibly well-paid sources. Talk to me about this.’
‘It’s not true,’ said Pasha, who meanwhile was cowering in the middle seat of the van. He wore an orange jumpsuit and his wrists and ankles were bound by chains. He no longer had his Florida tan.
‘Maybe, maybe not,’ said the Wolf.
Then he fired one of the rocket-launchers point blank at Pasha. He didn’t miss.
‘Zamochit,’ he said and laughed. ‘One can’t be too careful these days.’