"For you, Maria," he said, handing her the banana. "We'll put it to good use."

The girl smiled knowingly, and the Weasel noticed her eyes-what perfect brown eyes. And all mine now-eyes, lips, breasts.

Just then, he spotted a small Brazilian monkey called a mico trying to work its way through a window screen and into his house. "Get out of here, you thieving little bastard!" he yelled. "G'wan! Beat it!"

There came a quick movement from out of the bushes, then three men jumped him. The police, he was certain, probably Americans. Alex Cross?

The cops were all over him, powerful arms and legs everywhere. He was struck down by a bat, or a lead pipe, yanked back up by his full head of hair, then beaten unconscious.

"We caught him. We caught the Weasel, first try. That wasn't very hard," said one of the men. "Bring him inside."

Then he looked at the beautiful young girl, who was clearly afraid, rightly so. "You did a good job, Maria. You brought him to us." He turned to one of his men. "Kill her."

A single gunshot ruptured the silence in the front yard. No one seemed to notice or care in Salvador.

Chapter 2

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.