Edge Of Hell. Don Pendleton

laugh in these dreary, desolate surroundings, but at least it was a moment of wry humor on the part of the examiner. “I’m Dr. Felix Randman.”

      “Matt Cooper.”

      “From New Hampshire, aren’t you?”

      “You’re pretty good at catching accents,” Bolan said. However, for the purposes of his charade, for the purpose of working with the local British homicide cops, he was reverting to how he spoke when he grew up in Pittsfield, Massachusetts. For a long time, he had sublimated his accent, having learned to speak with a more anonymous tone, akin to the voice that the network news anchors called “Midwest neutral.”

      “I spent a year at MGH,” Randman stated. He came around the table and looked down into the dead girl’s eyes.

      Bolan looked serious. “One of the first graduates?” he asked.

      Randman glanced up at Bolan, then grinned at the soldier. “You give as good as you get.”

      “What’s that mean?” Dean asked.

      “Massachusetts General Hospital is the third oldest hospital in North America,” Randman explained.

      “So he called you a dried-up old fart?” Dean asked.

      Randman narrowed his eyes at her. “Yes.”

      “I may like you yet, Cooper,” she said with a hint of approval.

      Bolan nodded. “Now that we’ve broken the ice, you were going to show us something about her eyes?”

      “Yes. They were dilated prior to her demise. She was in a drugged state,” Randman said.

      “Well, the insides of her thighs were a mass of track marks, according to your report,” Goh spoke up.

      “Small problem. All the track marks were clean and uniform and about the same level of scarring, meaning they were almost the same age,” Randman explained.

      “Was this the same as with the other women?” Bolan asked.

      “You catch on quickly.”

      “Someone wanted it to look like these girls were just off the street, full of smack and doing their tours,” Dean said, walking around.

      “On top of that, she has none of the long-term effects of heroin abuse,” Randman stated. “Her legs show a lot of track marks. But she has no collapsed veins, no signs of bacterial infections or abscesses. The heart looks perfectly fine, uninfected and no damage to the valve or the lining. I’m betting that once I saw her skull open, I’m not going to find any neurological trauma.”

      Bolan frowned. “And what is that circular scar on her stomach, just poking out of her navel, see it?”

      Dean and Goh looked for it. Randman pointed it out with the tip of a probe. “You’ve got sharp eyes, Cooper.”

      “It looks like someone performed laproscopic surgery on her,” Randman stated. “Something was inserted.”

      “And that someone took it back,” Bolan answered. “The whole Ripper reenactment would just be a smoke screen.”

      “It wouldn’t be the first time,” Goh answered. “Some historians believe that the Ripper murders weren’t so much a serial killer at work, but someone covering up a conspiracy.”

      “There’s that,” Bolan replied. “William Gull was supposed to be the man responsible for hunting down and killing the five women who knew about Edward’s fathering a bastard child.”

      “There is a problem with that theory, if you might recall,” Dean spoke up.

      “You mean that whole thing with Gull being in his eighties, having suffered a stroke and a heart attack, and eviscerating his victims in a cab running through the middle of a crowded London neighborhood?” the Executioner asked.

      “That’s the one,” Dean answered.

      “No plan is perfect. But whatever went on, it certainly stirred up enough controversy over an entire century to keep the waters muddied,” Bolan said.

      Goh shook his head. “So what was inserted into her?”

      Randman shrugged. “I ran some X-rays to see if I could get an impression from what was left behind. When a knife is used against flesh or any other soft target, it leaves behind trace elements of metal. I have wear patterns and was hoping to find some trace of what was inserted into our poor girl.”

      “How soon will it be done?” Dean asked.

      “They’ve been having problems with the X-rays on her,” Randman stated. “The last shot of her was overexposed. We’re trying to fix the glitch now, and we’re not exactly on the priority to take her to the main hospital’s Radiology department.”

      “Why’s that?” Bolan asked.

      Randman looked crestfallen as he felt the sting in Bolan’s voice. “Because, Detective Cooper, even if she is the latest to bear the mark of Jack the Ripper’s rampage across the centuries, is not important. We don’t even have an identity for her.”

      “Jane Doe. Another victim left to fall to the wayside because she isn’t strong or important enough, right?”

      “That’s the way it goes, Detective. I don’t like it, but that’s the way it goes. It’s not a perfect world, and justice isn’t always done,” Randman stated.

      “It may not be a perfect world, but I can sure as hell try for some justice,” Bolan replied.

      AS SOON AS THE MAN in black went into the ME’s office, Vincent Black got out of the back seat of his car. Tony and Sal braced him on either side, obscuring him from casual observers on the street. In the trunk was a trio of sawed-off shotguns, blasters no longer than two feet. They kicked like hell, but they each held four shots, with one in the breech. They had enough firepower to take on any opposition short of encountering a small platoon of Bosnian guerrillas on an ethnic cleansing spree. If that wasn’t enough, Black had his Desert Eagle, and Sal and Tony were packing 9 mm Glocks.

      However, if it got to that point, Black wasn’t going to be standing his ground and fighting. Since 9/11, the metropolitan police were very quick to respond to potential terrorist activities. The armed response vehicle units were descended from the legendary Flying Squad—the lawmen who were charged to the task of responding to armed violence with their own force of arms. The Firearms Unit was ranked among the best in Europe, and was equipped with some of the best technology and armor in any police force’s arsenal. If the ARV wasn’t enough, then the cops would call in the Anti-Terrorist Branch, SO13, who could bring anything up to sniper rifles into a heated siege.