“We’re on our way, hold your ground,” came the answer over the communicator.
Ripper One stepped even closer, kicking the Desert Eagle out of Bolan’s limp fingers. The massive handgun clattered down the alley, and the murderer stepped back, flexing his grip on the handle of his MAC-11. Since the Executioner was down, he popped the empty clip and fed it a fresh one, never letting the muzzle sway from the motionless soldier. If there was any life in him, he’d have at least one shot to put things right if the man moved in mid-reload.
“You were pretty heavily armed for a short jaunt tonight, eh? A machine pistol and that fucking bazooka… I’ll be sporting bruises for a month. I wonder who you are?”
Ripper One tapped his toe into Bolan’s ribs, looking for any response. The man in black didn’t move in response to the kick. The Ripper realized that Bolan had only barely fallen for the oldest trick in the book, and only after a fight that left him battered and bruised. He wasn’t going to make the same mistake that the Executioner had and let his attention wander from a fallen foe.
At least not until he heard the scrunch of wheels at the close end of the alley.
“It’s about time,” the Ripper said, looking over his shoulder.
I agree, the Executioner thought, still feigning death.
Bolan was waiting to make a move the moment the killer dropped his guard, but so far the man was a by-the-book professional. Only a reluctance to have to police more bullet casings on his otherwise “pristine” murder scene had kept the madman from pulling the trigger and splattering Bolan’s brains all over the alley. But a gory head shot would have made even more of a mess of bloody evidence that wouldn’t match.
Whoever this guy was, he was obsessive about maintaining an image. Obsessive to the point that he might be in fear for his life if his ruse was blown by the slightest misstep.
The stench of a cover-up overwhelmed the stink of gore and gunpowder in the alley.
Bolan’s arm was starting to fall asleep, folded under his back, the steel frame of the Beretta poking him in the back and making him ache all the more. Falling on the gun was like taking a massive stapler to his spine, and his arm felt like it was going to pop from its socket.
But it was better than the pain of having his lungs collapse if the Ripper’s bullets had gotten through Bolan’s Kevlar vest—and it made him look like a convincing corpse.
The Ripper and his friends surrounded Bolan, three of them in total, and they bent to hook his shoulders and his feet. The Executioner’s gun hand dangled, Beretta still fisted. He fired point-blank into the foot of one man, his 9 mm slug smashing through leather, flesh and bone, raising a howl of agony.
Curses of fright filled the air and Bolan exploded into action, firing at the Ripper at crotch level. The killer managed to back off and reach for his own machine pistol.
Bolan had registered that his enemies had almost full-torso protection on their armor, even having a groin tabard. A pelvic hit would have dropped a man instantly thanks to the vulnerable bones and blood vessels at that intersection of the body. The Executioner fired a second burst at the Ripper to discourage him, then swung his weapon toward the man over his shoulder. A kick lashed out to disarm him again, but Bolan rolled out of the way. He was sick of being left weaponless this night. To express his displeasure at the subsequent effort, he fired a burst that tore out the thigh of the attacker.
Another man appeared from the van, aiming a weapon that outclassed the machine pistols and handguns at play in the alley—a Belgian Minimi-SAW. The weapon had two hundred rounds and was meant for use against vehicles, large concentrations of enemy troops, and as a force multiplier for small units against larger forces, much like the Ultimax that had nearly claimed Bolan’s life only an hour earlier.
Unlike Sonny Westerbridge, this guy knew how to lay down suppressive fire with a squad automatic weapon, dividing the alley between the Executioner and his opponents. The gunner was good, creating a wall of flying lead that would prove lethal to Bolan should he try to attack the Ripper and his crew, but stopped short of harming the trio. Bolan dived for cover behind a Dumpster as the storm of autofire hammered at him. Even the rolled steel shell of the container didn’t stop some of the slugs and bullets whizzed through perforated steel. The Ripper limped rapidly past him, and Bolan aimed for his head, triggering a 9 mm slug, but was driven back under cover by the rain of doom from the vehicle.
“Go! Go! Go!” the Ripper shouted.
Bolan made mental notes about the mysterious killer. Full-torso body armor, communications, unmarked transport and a machine gunner whose skill with a light machine gun rivaled his own—this guy was no simple madman.
The Ripper came back for his men, hauling them along while the gunner in the van continued his rock-and-roll serenade. He pushed his companions into the side door of the van, a black Volkswagen. The Executioner swung around, firing the Beretta until it ran dry, but the vehicle tore off, wheels screaming like a ghost, disappearing into the streets of Whitechapel.
Bolan raced to catch a sign of the van, but it whirled out of sight.
Breathless, exhausted, covered with more injuries, Bolan contemplated the deadly mix of horrific history and decidedly modern technology.
Bolan glanced back to the lifeless form of the woman, defeat weighing him down as much as exhaustion.
Brass casings surrounded her, like a halo of golden tears flickering in the half-light spilling off the street. Her blue eyes met his, one final question in them, maybe even an answer that she would know, but could not tell anymore, an answer that would only come to light by finding her murderers.
He pulled out the small digital camera he kept in his pocket, a flat, bleeding-edge piece of technology that would allow him to take photographs of evidence he’d stumble across in the course of his battles. He got a picture of the victim’s face, though not quite sure what he’d do with it. Maybe Aaron Kurtzman back at Stony Man Farm could run the image, give him a head start on investigating the woman’s past and figure out why an armed commando team would dress as the Jack the Ripper and murder her in Whitechapel.
The weary soldier retrieved his Desert Eagle and his war bag, and limped off toward his room.
He was going to have to get as much rest as he could before morning because he was going to bring judgment to Jack the Ripper.
3
Liam Tern rubbed his chest, feeling the sore spots where two .44 Magnum slugs had connected solidly with his rib cage, hammering him even through the Kevlar body armor he wore. Suddenly, he was glad to have been wearing the heavy vestments of his Jack the Ripper disguise. Its flapping folds had obscured his body, throwing off the shooter’s point of aim.
“How are Danny and Serge?” he asked, entering the improvised sick bay.
“Serge looks like he’s gonna lose his leg. Danny’s foot is a hell of a mess,” the old man said, stripping off his rubber gloves. He hobbled over to the sink and Tern glanced over to Serge, who was in a doped-out state on the table. His leg had been torn apart by a point-blank burst of autofire, the muscle shredded away to expose gleaming white bone, shattered by a single 9 mm slug.
Danny was sitting in the corner, looking at the table, his face gaunt, his eyes wide with fear. “If Serge is going to lose that leg—”
Tern shook his head.
“Take it easy, Danny. He’ll be looked after,” Tern cooed in reassurance. He smiled gently at the young man, giving his brush-short red hair a tousle.
Tern glanced back at the old man, who shrugged and turned his back.
The blade’s handle was in Tern’s palm, but the wounded young man heard the sound of para cord striking the professional’s grip. Danny’s forearm bore down hard across Tern’s, his hazel eyes going wide, seeing betrayal.
“You