Edge Of Hell

“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.

Dean started to count them as Goh walked with her, but the number of holes and casings was enormous.

“Sorry to ring you up so early,” Goh said, shrugging against the cold.

“A Ripper-style murder and a gunfight?” Dean asked, looking around.

“Yeah. At the other end of the alley, there’s disintegrating belt links as well as rifle ammunition. NATO caliber.”

“In English for those of us who don’t speak gun,” Dean said.

Goh smirked. “Someone used a full-blown machine gun, as well as at least three other weapons here last night.”

“Three weapons?”

“A pistol. And two different kinds of submachine gun. One was firing 9 mm shorts. One was firing 9 mm Luger rounds. And the pistol was a Magnum autoloader.”

Dean shook her head, running her fingers through her short blond hair. “Magnum.”

“Forty-four to be exact,” Goh told her.

Dean pursed her lips. “Someone with a Dirty Harry complex?”

“Someone took a big bite out of Sonny Westerbridge’s skull last night. And .44 Magnum and 9 mm machine pistol ammunition mixed in with what Sonny’s men had,” Goh replied. He plucked the casing from her fingertips and showed her the blank end stamp. “The Magnums were also unmarked.”

“But Sonny’s usually based out of Rotherhithe,” Dean said.

“Not anymore. He and nearly forty-five of his men are dead. Gunfire, explosions and one knifing.”

Dean shook her head. “I’m sure the knife job wasn’t like this.”

Not if it’s like our usual boy, she added mentally.

Goh looked at her for a moment, and Dean realized that the Asian detective was a recent addition to London’s finest. Homicides West, East and South, as well as the Serious and Organized Crime unit, were familiar with a pattern, over the years, of criminals and terrorists who came to brutal ends.

There were rumors that these were covert SAS operations, or even the work of men from overseas. When the homicide teams tried to come up with a clue, they were usually stonewalled. The stonewalling was frustrating, but since the victims were thugs and murderers themselves, the police reluctantly dropped the cases. One of these common links was the blank ammunition, and the predominant calibers used. Forty-four Magnum and 9 mm Luger.

They never had much more on this mystery force except that it was small, efficient and rarely brought harm to any bystanders. Dean decided to keep quiet about this, but she couldn’t help wonder if the death of Westerbridge and his men were related to this alley fight in any way other than the mystery fighter.

“Two sides shooting at each other and using the same kind of phantom ammo,” Dean said. “Any information on the victim?”

“No bullet holes in her, except for what looked like an old scar on a flap of her stomach,” Goh told her.