The Big Bad Wolf

types wandering around the crowded King of Prussia Mall, the “second largest in America,” according to promotional signs at all the entrances. There was good reason for the mall’s popularity. Greedy shoppers traveled here from the surrounding states because Pennsylvania had no tax on clothing.
    “These people all look so wealthy. They have their shit together,” said Slava. “Don’t you think? You know the expression I’m using—‘having your shit together’? It’s American. Slang.”
    Zoya snorted out a nasty laugh. “We’ll see how together their shit is in an hour or so. After we’ve done our business here. Their fear lies about a quarter of an inch below the surface. Just like everybody else in this spoiled-rotten country, they’re afraid of their own shadows. But especially pain, or even a little discomfort. Can’t you see that on their faces, Slava? They’re afraid of us. They just don’t know it yet.”
    Slava looked around the main plaza, which was dominated by Nordstrom and Neiman Marcus. There were signs up everywhere for
Teen People
magazine’s “Rock and Shop Tour.” Meanwhile, their target had just bought a
fifty-dollar box of cookies
at Neimans. Amazing! Then she bought something equally absurd called a
Red, White, and Blue Dog
journal, which was prohibitively expensive as well.
    Stupid, stupid people. Keeping notebooks for a dog,
Slava thought. Then he spotted the target again. She was coming out of Skechers with her small children in tow.
    Actually, the target looked a little apprehensive to them at the moment. Why was that? Maybe she was afraid that she would be recognized and have to sign an autograph or make small talk with her fans.
Price of fame, eh?
She moved quickly now, guiding the precious little ones into Dick Clark’s American Bandstand Grill, presumably for lunch, but maybe just to escape the crowds.
    “Dick Clark came from Philadelphia, near here,” Slava said. “Did you know that?”
    “Who the hell cares about Dick Clark, Dick Tracy, or dickless,” said Zoya, and hammered Slava’s biceps with her fist. “Stop this stupid trivia game. It gives me a headache. Excedrin headache number one trillion since I met you.”
    The target certainly fit the description they had been given by their controller: tall, blond, ice queen, full of herself.
But also tasty down to the last detail,
thought Slava. It made sense, he supposed. She had been purchased by a client who called himself the Art Director.
    The Couple waited about fifty minutes. A middle school choir from Broomall, Pennsylvania, was performing in the atrium. Then the target and her two kids emerged from the restaurant.
    “Let’s do it,” said Slava. “This should be interesting, no? The kids make it a challenge.”
    “No,” Zoya said. “The kids make it insane. Wait until the Wolf hears about this. He’ll have puppies. That’s American slang, by the way.”

Chapter 24
    THE NAME OF THE WOMAN who’d been purchased was Audrey Meek. She was a celebrity, having founded a highly successful line of women’s fashions and accessories called Meek. It was her mother’s maiden name, and the one she used herself.
    The Couple watched her closely, tailed her into the parking garage without creating suspicion. They jumped her as she was putting her Neiman Marcus and Hermès and other shopping bags into a shiny black Lexus SUV with New Jersey plates.
    “Children, run! Run away!” Audrey Meek struggled fiercely as Zoya tried to stuff an acrid-smelling gauzy cloth over her nose and mouth. Soon she saw circles, stars, and bright colors for a few dramatic seconds. Then she finally passed out in Slava’s powerful arms.
    Zoya peered around the parking garage. It was nothing much to look at—cement walls with number and letter marks. Nobody anywhere near them. Nobody noticing anything wrong, even though the children were yelling and starting to cry.
    “Leave my mommy alone!” Andrew Meek shouted, and threw punches at Slava, who only smiled at the boy. “Good little fellow,” he applauded. “Protect your mama. She would be proud of you. I am proud of you.”
    “Let’s go, stupid!” shouted Zoya. As always, she was the one who took care of all the important business. It had been that way since she was growing up in the Moskovskaya oblast outside Moscow and had decided she couldn’t bear to be either a factory worker or a prostitute.
    “What about the kids? We can’t leave them here,” said