David Golemon - Ripper

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.

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.

That man was Hiram Vickers.

The Event Group personnel from CDC watched from behind the sealed glass window as the robotic arm eased the old and clouded jar onto the stainless-steel table. As the articulated claw released the glass, the technician operating the Honda Corporation’s latest robotic human-assist device took a deep breath. Colonel Bannister placed his hand on the back of the air force sergeant, impressed by how he handled the unknown substance with the advanced robotic arm. He was also impressed by the facilities Niles had managed to finagle out of the federal budget — indeed, times had changed since the colonel, his daughter, and the others had been an official part of the Group’s roster. Their equipment was on par with anything they had in Atlanta, and in some cases surpassed it. The main reason for this he noted to the rest of his team, was the computer-assisted actions of everything within the complex. He understood that the system was called Europa, and he had never seen anything like it. It was far superior in computing power to the old system they used to have when he led the Infectious Disease Department at the Group.