Don Pendleton - Edge Of Hell

Danny, on the other hand, was an even greater risk. He hadn’t been prepared for resistance, and getting shot gave Tern an expectation of what the kid was going to be like. He’d signed onto the job easy enough, having cut his way through the ranks, proving his toughness against the untrained shit-kickers in Ireland.

It was one thing to handle disorganized protesters and terrorists who were more successful at blowing themselves up with their own bombs. Against a fighting man like the soldier they’d just faced, Tern had realized Danny folded. He’d seen a killing machine whirling in action. Two of them, when Tern counted himself. The display had unseated Danny. In the future, there would have been too much of a pause, that niggling panic waiting to flare up and slow down the young fighter.

Tern rolled Danny’s eyelids closed then wrapped both of the dead bodies in plastic tarp.

“De Simmones said you needed help,” Carlton said as he entered the room. He was much shorter than Tern, only five foot six, but his upper body was thick and broad. Forearm muscles were laid in thick, rippling sheets poking out from under rolled-up sleeves, and he hefted one end of the tarp-wrapped body pack as easily as he handled the monstrous recoil of a machine gun.

“Makes you wonder what’ll happen when it’s our time,” Tern said.

Carlton shrugged his blocky shoulders. “We may get lucky and go out fast. Frankly, I always save a bullet for myself, so I don’t end up suffering like Serge.”

Tern shook his head. Serge had been a member of their team for a while. He was a vetted, blooded soldier. Unlike Danny, Serge had been hardened against tough odds.

As depressing as it was for the new kid to turn out to be a failure, it was worse when a longtime partner was dropped, and so easily.

No, it wasn’t easy.

The man in black was a damned good fighter. And Serge’s mangled leg was the source of agony. Tern still felt the bruises on his forearm where his fingers had dug in.

Tern took the other end of the tarp and they carried it to the van. “We’ll take the bodies to an incinerator.”

Carlton nodded as he backed into the van, the doors being held open by De Simmones and Courtley, the driver.

Tern glanced at De Simmones who just smiled. The smile said everything that Tern suspected. He and his men were expendable, and De Simmones wasn’t afraid to put a bullet into any of their heads.

“Come on, we have a long day ahead of us,” De Simmones replied.

“What about the man in black?” Carlton asked.

“I’ve called up Ripper Two for this job,” Tern told him. “If there’s anything left of him when they’re done with him, we’ll get called in for the kill.”

“Right now, we need distance,” De Simmones stated. “We’re an organization. Let’s take advantage of our strength in numbers, all right?”

Tern smirked.

He was glad, for now, that he was counted as a useful number. He still intended to keep his guns close in case that ledger ever changed against him.

HAL BROGNOLA KNEW the mathematics of asset versus risk that Mack Bolan provided to the Stony Man Farm project. While he was a useful member in the program to keep America safe from threats foreign and domestic, there was also a factor of risk whenever the Executioner was involved.

At that moment, the only mental math he wanted to do was to add five hours to the time to figure out where his longtime friend was while he was stuck in the Farm’s War Room, keeping a close eye on a Phoenix Force mission.

“It’s almost six there, isn’t it?” Brognola asked.

“That’s right,” Bolan answered. “You’re burning the midnight oil.”

“What’s this about?” Brognola asked.

“I was on the way back to my place when I came on a murder scene, and the murderer,” Bolan explained. “He was wearing body armor and packing a machine pistol. And he is good.”

“‘Is,’ as in still running around?” Brognola inquired.

“Still driving around, with a van full of automatic weapons, two injured coworkers, and one of the best machine gunners I’ve ever run across,” Bolan said. “I’ve been cleaning up injuries from that fight for the past couple hours.”

“All this to murder some woman in…” Brognola began. “Whitechapel?”

“Yeah. The killer was dressed up as Jack the Ripper.”

“You’re joking with me, right?”

“Have I ever yanked your chain before, Hal?”

“Jack the Ripper–style killing, in Whitechapel, with a machine gunner for backup?”

Bolan grunted in affirmation. “At the very least. He had two more and a driver. But one suffered some severe injuries. He might not make it.”

Brognola picked up his coffee mug. “Nothing major is going on here that you have to attend to. It sounds like you should stay and see what’s behind this murder.”

“Thanks, Hal. Think you can get me some authorization?”

“For what?”

“I want to work with the local Ripper task force.”

“You think this guy’s been doing this for a while?” Brognola asked.

“I did some research. I ran across references to Ripper-style murders, and there have been nine in the past three years.”

“Any solved?”

“Only one. Scotland Yard couldn’t link the other eight to the guy they caught, so they think he was just a copycat,” Bolan answered. “I’m not much of a gambler, but I’m betting there was a very definite pattern on mutilation going on.” Bolan described the murder scene he’d stumbled across.

“The intestines were thrown over the right shoulder, just as in the original Ripper murders? Wasn’t that an execution according to Masonic ritual?” Brognola asked.

“No. When the Masons executed their victims, they removed the heart and threw it over the left shoulder,” Bolan answered. “There’s a belief that the ‘Juwes’ graffiti was meant to throw authorities off the trail.”

“I’ll make some calls to Scotland Yard,” Brognola said. “Maybe I can get you in on the investigation.”

“Even if I only touch base with them for a few hours, it’ll still give me some leads to go on. If I can’t, then I’ll do some bouncing around the underworld. Someone had to supply those guys with their hardware. Machine pistols might be easy to sell, but I took out one major dealer who sold squad automatic weapons. There can’t be many of those in England, let alone London.”

“Striker, just be careful. I’ll call you later. Get some rest, okay?” Brognola said.

“I’ll try,” Bolan answered over the phone link, before it died.

THE SUN’S RISING did nothing to lighten Inspector Melissa Dean’s mood as she got out of her car. Officers were surrounding the alley, and she had passed by the other street. It was cut off on both ends, the flickering lights atop police vehicles splashing the slick streets with reds and blues. She walked closer, knowing from the call what to expect.

It still wasn’t a pretty smell, the stench of a gutted body yet fresh in the air.

It also smelled like the aftermath of a fireworks display. She bent and picked up a piece of brass, rolling it between her fingertips. The bottom had no stamp of caliber or maker, let alone a lot number, and she frowned. From the look of it, it was a simple 9 mm case. She’d seen enough of them working homicide, but none so clean.

There was a polite cough and she looked up to see a tall Asian man standing nearby. She recognized his pale, round face instantly, his long black hair flowing in the wind.

Kevin Goh managed a weak smile as he walked over to her, holding a plastic evidence bag full of similar brass casings. On the ground, white tape marked where each cartridge had been found. More tape marks were on the walls, pointing out bullet impacts.