Ripper (33 page)

THE GOLD CITY PAWN SHOP
LAS VEGAS, NEVADA

Sarah felt the single car come to a whispering stop. She even heard the computerized voice of Europa announcing they had arrived at gate number two, sublevel three. The automatic cover of the car slid back and still Sarah sat unmoving. One of the
security men, alerted at the pawn shop that a car had arrived but thus far no one had signed into the gate, greeted her.

“Lieutenant?”

Sarah finally looked up and seemed to be lost for a moment. Then she realized where she was. “Sorry,” she said, “it’s been a long day.”

“Are you signing out of the complex?” the air force sergeant asked as he gave Sarah a hand stepping out of the car.

“Yes,
I’m signing off base for the next twelve hours,” she answered as she headed for the elevator that would take her up to the gate.

“Uh, ma’am?”

Sarah grimaced, stopped, and looked back, irritated that her leaving was being delayed by one of Jack’s former men. If she received one more look of sympathy from that department she was going to hit someone. “Yes?” she hissed.

“Lieutenant, you’re breaking
about fifteen different regulations. You know you can’t sign out in that jumpsuit, right?”

Sarah looked down at her Group-issued military blue suit. She even had her ID tag still hanging from the pocket. She lowered her head when she realized she had to go all the way back and change into civilian attire. She started to return to the magnetized car on the single track that ran down the ten-mile-long
tunnel far beneath the city of Las Vegas.

“Ma’am, we have clothing upstairs in the shop. It’s in the locker room and you’re welcome to it. Shorts and blouses is all we have.”

Sarah looked up at the sergeant and nodded her head. “Thank you,” she said.

“Going into town?” he asked as he escorted her to the elevator.

“No, I’m going to see someone.”

*   *   *

The team had been stationed in the
nondescript van outside of the Gold City Pawn Shop for the past hour as they observed the comings and goings of customers. One saw a small woman step to the door escorted by one of the large men from the counter of the shop. He opened the door for her as she stepped out into the hot night air of downtown Las Vegas. The man inside the Tahoe raised his small camera with the miniature telephoto lens.
He snapped off several pictures of the small dark-haired woman. He noticed she was wearing sunglasses even though the sun had slipped behind the western mountains hours earlier. He watched until she hailed a cab and left.

The man removed the digital chip and then inserted it into the laptop computer. He brought up the pictures of the woman in short pants and a black blouse. He recognized her
from somewhere but couldn’t place her. He looked into the back of the van and waited for one of his technicians to give him some answers. The man examined the pictures of the woman and then shook his head.

“Nope,” he said shaking his head. “She never entered the shop through the front. I don’t know where she came from, but it wasn’t through this side of the building. And we can see that in the
back there is nothing but an alley, and she doesn’t look the type to go strolling through an alley at night in downtown Las Vegas.”

“Right,” said the man in the front as he turned in his seat and examined the woman again. He shook his head as his memory failed him. “Send this on to Mr. Smith, and get a tail on that cab.”

The technician in the backseat started talking on a set of headphones,
and as he did he e-mailed the blown-up pictures to Smith, who was observing the house where Colonel Jack Collins was.

As the cab holding Sarah turned away from the curb, heading toward Flamingo Road, a tan Plymouth pulled out of the pay parking lot across the street and quickly followed. The tail on the woman was on the move.

*   *   *

One minute later, parked only a block away from the house
under surveillance, Mr. Smith looked at the photos that had been forwarded to him from his pawn shop team.

“Well, it seems we have confirmed that all of our eggs came from the same basket.” Smith smiled as he started to formulate a plan to finish what his team was paid to do.

“We may have just found our way into wherever this woman and Colonel Collins have been hidden away.”

“When do we move?”
one of the men in the backseat of the car asked, eager to get moving toward a more action-filled night.

“I think when this little darling returns to her secret hideaway, she just may have company.”

The two men in the backseat exchanged looks just as the yellow cab pulled up in front of the tract home they were watching.

“Yes, indeed, it is a small world,” Smith said as he compared the photo
on the laptop to that of the actual woman stepping out of the cab.

Smith closed the lid to the laptop and then watched as the small woman headed for the front door of the house.

“Inform our friend in Langley that we have a way in to this mysterious lair. And we should have the formula destroyed soon.” Smith was careful not to include the word
recovered
. He remembered the smoking corpse of Juan
Guzman and what this material may have done to him. He knew he wouldn’t touch the stuff nor would any of his team.

As the call was made, Smith watched as the woman entered the house, and then he looked at the driver.

“Sound the alert for the assault team. We move at a moment’s notice,” Smith said as he turned back to the man on the phone in the backseat. “And ask for orders concerning American
personnel at this location and the pawn shop.”

After a few moments, the man on the phone hung up and looked at the man who ran everything concerning the Black field teams.

“He says that the priority is the destruction of the formula. All trace of it is to be eliminated, and as far as collateral damage is concerned, he said you were supposed to be good enough to do this without killing. He suggests
you do that. But elimination is authorized for self-defense … his words, Mr. Smith.” The man added the last part quickly when he saw the brief flash of anger in the dark eyes of his boss.

The man known as Smith shook his head in disgust.

“Sometimes the people we contract out to have the morals and patriotism of a pig.”

He reached into the glove compartment of the car, removed a handgun, and then pulled the magazine out and checked the loads. After reading the file on their main adversary, this Colonel Collins, he wanted to be ready for any surprises he may get from whatever the
pawn shop was hiding.

“Okay, I want a flyover of the pawn shop. Get me thermal images of the personnel inside. Mark them expendables and number them for confirmation purposes after the raid.”

As the men followed his orders, Smith thought of the formula they were there for and the dangers that may exist in destroying it.

“Who in the hell would invent such a thing as Perdition’s Fire?”

7

VAUXHALL, LONDON, ENGLAND
OFFICE OF MI6

Sir John Kinlow listened as their man inside CIA headquarters in Langley, Hiram Vickers, explained the situation. The call was a conference session between a secure phone in Langley and three others in London—MI5, MI6, and the Defense Ministry.

“Are you saying that the formula actually still exists?” asked the defense minister.

“That’s what’s being
reported,” Vickers answered from his Virginia location.

There was silence on the three connections in London. Vickers was actually thinking that the three men had severed the connection with him.

“This could be a bigger bloody mess than we first thought,” said the defense minister.

Sir John cleared his throat. “Mr. Vickers, you are indeed a kind and loyal friend to Her Majesty’s—”

“Gentlemen,
let’s cut to the chase here,” Vickers said as he was starting to lose his patience with the British old guard. “We can destroy the Ambrose element, but there could be collateral damage to American personnel involved in carrying out this rather touchy mission.”

“Of course you can bill us for the agency’s services Mr. Vickers, and you may include the overtime,” the defense minister said.

There
was silence on the other end of the line stretching across the sea to America.

“That was in very poor taste Joseph,” Sir John said, trying to calm the anger he felt through the phone connection.

“We’re talking about the elimination, no damn it, the cold-blooded killing of Americans on their own soil, upon the shores of an ally state? That’s what we’re discussing here Minister. This could mean
a noose for all of us. Mostly, I dare say, for myself.”

“Mr. Vickers, how good is your field team?” the minister of defense asked.

“They’re the best. But one thing you gentlemen must realize. If you kill American citizens, or military personnel, in this quest, I will not answer for your crimes. If I am caught, gentlemen, you’ll swing on the rope right next to me. I want that understood.”

“Sir
John, what say you?” the defense minister asked.

“I think this is all madness. But what choice did our ancestors leave us? I vote Mr. Vickers the power to destroy the Ambrose serum—at any cost.”

“I’m afraid we have no choice, Sir John. Mr. Vickers, please pass along instructions to your field element to destroy any and all British property in and around its current location.”

“Yes, sir, I will
pass on the instructions. Now I will pass on the thoughts of my boss. This is an expensive proposition that you have thrown our way gentlemen. My superior believes it may be too costly, friends across the sea notwithstanding.”

“Mr. Vickers, you are stammering like a reluctant stickup man stumbling over his holdup note. Can we get to the extortion part of this passion play, please?” the defense
minister asked.

“Very well, I’ll do that Minister. Our price is 100 million pounds. That’s the cost of doing business so close to home. There you have it gentlemen. I can assure you that the funds are appropriate for the action to be taken. There will also be a compensation package for any American killed in the operation. This will of course be supplied by Her Majesty’s government for services
rendered, even if we are the one killing these poor souls. This will cost you five hundred thousand pounds for each one of these unfortunates who, after all, are citizens we here at Langley are under oath to protect.”

“How very moving, Mr. Vickers, extortion brought on by patriotism.”

“Yes, that is a nice touch. You can never imagine the better feelings restored to those who order the deaths
of others when they know the victim’s family will have their needs met. After all, we are not barbarians here in the West, are we gentlemen?”

“Extortion is a light term where you are concerned, Mr. Vickers. I’m sure there is something other than British pounds that we can come to terms with. I am sure—”

Sir John heard the connection end. He slammed down his finger on his own disconnect button
and then angrily stood.

“This is bloody well out of control,” Sir John said as he turned to face his open window and the rainy early morning of Vauxhall.
They are actually going to kill American personnel over a formula that turns men into raging, cunning animals
, he thought as he placed a hand through his gray hair.

As he looked out of the window into the gray and diffused morning light, he
knew that Jack the Ripper would raise his ugly head one more time, and now it was he and the other ministers who would have to cover up once more the mistakes of the past.

CIA HEADQUARTERS
LANGLEY, VIRGINIA

Lynn Simpson yawned as she signed off on a report confirming the death of Juan Guzman. Earlier she had spoken to her mother, informing her of Jack’s decision to leave the service. She had
been taken aback as much as Lynn herself had been when informed by Carl Everett from whatever location he was holed up in out in the desert. She had tried several times to call Jack on his cell phone, but had no luck in reaching him.

She heard the knock on her door. She looked up and saw her assistant standing there.

“I have the report on that trace test that was run earlier by Hiram Vickers?”

“Did we dig up the test subject’s name?”

“No, but we do have the results of the target’s route and the final destination where Mr. Vickers’s tracer test was terminated.”

Lynn folded her hands in front of her and smiled. “Well, I’m all ears. Where did the test terminate?”

The woman looked at the report and then placed it in front of Simpson.

“The test terminated at 1267 Flamingo Road, Las Vegas,
Nevada. The home of an elderly woman who owns the house free and clear,” the assistant said as she looked down at her notes so Lynn wouldn’t have to bother with the official report. “Her name is Alice Hamilton.”

Lynn lost the smile as the name rang a bell for some reason. She looked down at the folder in front of her and then waved the assistant into her office. “Close the door,” she ordered.

Lynn quickly perused the one-page trace report. “I don’t see a list of calls coming in or out of this residence, by either landline or cell.”

“Oh, it’s right here,” the woman said as she opened a second folder and slid it across the desk.

Lynn’s eyes scanned the report of listed numbers and then moved down to the unlisted phone numbers. Her eyes saw one that looked familiar, almost as familiar
as the name listed as the home’s owner. She read the numbers aloud. “702-545-9012?” Her face lost all of its color as she pulled out her own cell phone and hit her contacts list. As she ran down her list of names and their phone numbers she immediately saw two that made her catch her breath. The first was 702-546-1190, Sarah McIntire. The next name and phone number made her far more frightened than
the first: 702-545-9012—Jack.

Lynn Simpson, the sister of Jack Collins, stood from her desk so suddenly she made her assistant jump. Lynn headed for the door.

“What is it?”

“I have someone I have to talk to, and he better have a good reason for tracking a government employee on my turf without informing me.”

Lynn, with folder in hand, left the office and headed straight to the bank of elevators
on her way to see a man that was attempting to run an operation behind her back and in her territory.