THE WEASEL JUST WANTED to die now. He was hanging upside down from the ceiling of his own master bedroom. The room had mirrors everywhere, and he could see himself in several of the reflections.

He looked like death. He was naked, bruised and bleeding all over. His hands were tightly cuffed behind his back, his ankles bound together, cutting off the circulation. Blood was rushing to his head.

Hanging beside him was the young girl, Maria, but she had been dead for several hours, maybe as much as a day, judging by the terrible smell. Her brown eyes were turned his way, but they stared right through him.

The leader of his captors, bearded, always squeezing a black ball in one hand, squatted down so that he was only a foot or so from Shafer's face. He spoke softly, a whisper.

"What we did with some prisoners when I was active - we would sit them down, rather politely, peacefully, and then nail their fucking tongues to a table. That's absolutely true, my weaselly friend. You know what else? Simply plucking hairs ...from the nostrils . . . the chest . . . stomach . . . genitals . . . it's more than a little bothersome, no? Ouch," he said as he plucked hairs from Shafer's naked body.

"But I'll tell you the worst torture, in my opinion, anyway. Worse than what you would have done to poor Maria. You grab the prisoner by both shoulders and shake violently until he convulses. You literally rattle his brain, the sensitive organ itself. He feels as if his head will fly off. His body is on fire. I'm not exaggerating.

"Here, let me show you what I mean." The terrible, unimaginably violent shaking - while Geoffrey Shafer hung upside down - went on for nearly an hour.

Finally he was cut down. "Who are you? What do you want from me?" he screamed.

The head captor shrugged. "You're a tough bastard, but always remember, I found you. And I'll find you again if I need to. Do you understand?"

Geoffrey Shafer could barely focus his eyes, but he looked up to where he thought the captor's voice had come from. He whispered, "What ...do you...want? Please?"

The bearded man's face bent close to his. He seemed almost to smile. "I have a job, a most incredible job for you. Believe me, you were born for this."

"Who are you?" the Weasel whispered again through badly chapped and bleeding lips. It was a question he'd asked a hundred times during the torture.

"I am the Wolf," said the bearded man. "Perhaps you've heard of me."

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Copyright © 2005 by James Patterson