Soho Slasher: Jack Is Back: A Harbinger Crossover Novel to International Hunters, Inc.

by Ben Hopkin

  And now they were headed to the Albert Bridge.

  Kent swerved around a car that was in his way, the sideways acceleration throwing Kyra up against the door. But in spite of the erratic nature of his driving, she found herself urging him on in her mind, wanting him to go faster, even faster.

  Safety meant little when there was a murder about to take place.

  * * *

  Kent pulled up on the side of the road, facing the Albert Bridge. They were on the far side from the park, and would need to walk over the bridge to keep from alerting Lady Blackwater of their presence.

  She would be expecting them, of course. It was why she had done everything she had, up to this point. The woman had a permanent parking space at the garage. She had to have known that there were security cameras.

  And Kent had seen something that no one else in the room seemed to have picked up on. The moment that the woman had looked straight into the camera lens.

  To anyone else, it would have appeared a random sweep past, with no awareness of the fact that she was even looking at a recording device. But Kent had seen it for what it truly was.

  A challenge.

  “We need to call for backup,” Kyra stated, looking at him with an intensity that Kent found distracting.

  “Don’t,” he replied. “Just call for an ambulance.”

  Kyra didn’t ask him why. They both knew why. Although Kyra probably thought it was for Nicole. But in Kent’s mind, it was for the killer calling herself a Lady.

  All evening, she’d been acting strangely. Lots of long looks in his direction, raised eyebrows, flushed skin.

  She was probably worried about him. Questioning his choices. Concerned that his objectivity was compromised, because of the involvement of his wife.

  That wasn’t so far off.

  His phone rang. Joshua. Kent hit the button to answer it on speaker, and Joshua’s voice rang out in the nearly deserted street.

  “Dude. I know who it is--”

  “Lady Cornelia Blackwater,” Kent cut him off.

  There was a brief silence on the other end of the line, and then Joshua’s voice came through again.

  “Dammit! How did you--?”

  “Was that it?” Kent said, ready to hang up the phone.

  “Yeah, that was it. No other descendants from Robert Mann who are royalty. It’s her.”

  Strange. That didn’t match the information they had. Kent paused for a moment, surprised by that statement, but then Joshua’s voice started back up again so Kent clicked off. There was no time to waste on the morgue attendant right now. His wife’s life was on the line.

  Every time his mind turned to Nicole, a burning began at the base of his skull. It started there, but then grew exponentially, growing into a blazing bonfire of rage. A searing sensation that wanted to leap out of him, consuming everything around for a hundred miles. A thousand. More.

  She had taken his wife.

  There were so many ideas circulating in his head. So many ways in which he could make her suffer. The Ripper had slit his victim’s throats, as had the copycat.

  That was a death that seemed far too merciful.

  But all of the mutilations? The removal of the organs? They had all been done post mortem, but perhaps this time Kent could make an exception.

  This woman was going to pay.

  * * *

  The fog swirled around them, dense and changeable, its movements creating phantom shapes that twisted and warped around them. It was disturbing, otherworldly. Captivating.

  Kyra followed after Kent as they walked across the bridge. The shifting fog gathered about the lights shining on the walkway on which they traveled. Down below, the Thames rushed, deep and dark, its surface just barely visible through the fog. It was a scene filled with mystery, and also something more than that.

  Watching Kent as he moved, Kyra was once more struck by his sinuous grace. He seemed unaware of the effect he had on those around him, even though she had watched him work that charm on more than one occasion.

  Kent stopped when they got about halfway across the bridge and turned to face her. His look was intense, the penetrating look that seemed to bore right down to the core of Kyra’s being.

  “When we meet with Lady Blackwater, you will stand back,” he said. “There is something that I’m going to do, and I don’t want you to be a part of it.”

  Glancing down, Kyra was surprised to see a scalpel in Kent’s hand. Where had that come from? And why did he have it here?

  She knew something of his career. The amazing way in which he tracked down and captured serial killers. Except they weren’t captured, were they? The rumors, whispers of whispers, had landed in Kyra’s ear, and now she was seeing evidence with her eyes.

  It was fitting. It was just.

  It was also illegal.

  There was something about that, the fact that Kent acted as an avenging angel, which made him that much nobler to her. It was like she was once more a child, forced to procure victims for her father. But this time, instead of the inevitable ending, Kent stood there, watching over her. A guardian. There to protect her life… and more importantly, her soul.

  The diffused light gleamed in the depths of Kent’s eyes, two pools that drank in the illumination and shone it back, altered and more interesting. The night, the bridge, the river, the fog, all merged together, and Kyra tried to fix the moment in her mind.

  Kent did what needed to be done. Not only did she not fault him for that, she admired him for it. And right now, she was in the way.

  “It’s time,” the profiler said. “I need you to go back.

  Kent pointed back to where they had parked the police car, gesturing for her to return. No more words were exchanged.

  She nodded, then turned on her heel and began walking back over the bridge. Each step took a yeoman’s effort. The most amazing man she had ever met, her adopted father, the man who had saved her… was heading into danger without her.

  And she was going without putting up a fight.

  Even though she was doing just what Kent had asked, there was a part of her that whispered that it was the wrong choice. She should be down there, by his side, helping him out.

  But there was another, darker voice that whispered to her of her unworthiness. She’d attempted to kiss the man who was now about to attempt to save his kidnapped wife.

  Kyra had no place there.

  Kent had made that much clear.

  * * *

  Much as Kent had put the whole kiss fiasco in his rearview mirror, there was a part of him that was relieved to no longer have Kyra at his side. Okay, there was the whole awkwardness of the situation, but that wasn’t really it.

  At the end of the day, when it came to taking down serial killers, he was the lone wolf.

  The lone wolf who had inexplicably decided to get married and have a kid.

  Plus, there was the fact that Nicole had helped him become not just a better man, but a better profiler. And that she had been an equal partner on pretty much every single one of their cases together.

  Fine. So it wasn’t a perfect metaphor.

  Still, he didn’t want Kyra there for this. After all was said and done, she was still a kid. And kids shouldn’t be subjected to the image of their adoptive fathers slicing and dicing up serial killers.

  Now he was faced with another problem. Battersea Park was large. Like, 200 acres large. So the first order of business was to figure out where his psychotic copycat killer had decided to take his wife.

  The thought that Nicole might already be dead had crossed his mind, but that challenging look into the camera by Lady Blackwater had been aimed at him, and him alone. This was no random happenstance. She knew he was here. Knew that he was working the case. Her close ties to Scotland Yard had given her that information.

  So she had somehow managed to track down his wife. Who just happened to be carrying Kent’s child.

  That couldn’t have been part of it. Could it?


  No one knew. No one but Nicole and himself. Well, and possibly Delia, one of his other adoptive daughters. She’d been present when Nicole had broken the news, and they hadn’t been exactly quiet about it.

  He wouldn’t know for certain until he stood before her and looked her in the eye. And that meant finding her. Fast.

  Part of the reason that Kent had chosen this end of the park, was because so many body parts of the second torso slaying had ended up in this very area. One of the arms was discovered just under the bridge, in fact.

  The bridge.

  The park had trees and gazebos and possible hiding places, true. But did any of them equal or exceed that of the natural cover provided by a bridge?

  Plus, he was already right there, so…

  As Kent hopped the shoulder-high fence surrounding the park, he glanced about to make certain that no one was watching. The night was foggy enough that most of his movements would be obscured. And while leaping over a fence might not be all that noteworthy, what he planned to do once he met Cordelia Blackwater would be.

  There was a walking path just in front of him that led deeper into the park, but Kent didn’t have any interest in going that way. He moved down toward the Thames, the musky-earth scent of the river drifting up to him and mixing with the fog, creating a lingering odor of decay.

  And there, resting against the fence, was a stile. A portable staircase, this one made of aluminum, that allowed for an easy way to get over an obstacle such as a park fence. It would look to anyone else like someone doing park maintenance. But Kent knew it for what it was.

  An invitation.

  One that he was going to take.

  CHAPTER 17

  Nicole felt her consciousness swim upward, a fish fighting upstream against a strong current. Something was pushing her back down, not wanting her to wake up.

  Drugs.

  That was right. She’d been drugged. By Cordelia!

  That was it. She was never drinking anything anyone else gave her. Ever again.

  She opened her eyes to darkness. Not complete, can’t-see-your-hand-in-front-of-your-face darkness, but the kind of darkness you would find in going into a closet or turning out the lights in a ballpark.

  Her mouth was gagged, and from what she could tell, her hands were bound by zip ties. But tied in front of her body, not behind. That meant that there was a strong possibility that Nicole could get herself out of those ties, given a little bit of time and some privacy.

  They were outdoors. She could feel the moisture of the fog against her skin, and the smell of the Thames was in her nostrils. They must be right by the river. In fact, as more and more of her senses began to engage, Nicole could hear the slapping sound of water against a hard surface. Concrete, perhaps?

  “Ah, you’re awake.” Cordelia’s voice broke the near-silence around them, but even she seemed to recognize that this night was one designed for quiet. She spoke in a near whisper. “I would have thought that Rohypnol would have been more effective. Perhaps you didn’t drink enough.”

  But Nicole knew that the real reason for her early awakening was her higher metabolism. The pregnancy had lessened her recovery time. From what she knew of Rohypnol, it wasn’t generally known to create any problems with pregnancy, but just the thought made Nicole’s pulse throb faster in her ear.

  She shifted, grunting behind her gag, but Cordelia just tutted. “Nicole, please. That will do nothing but harm you. And I don’t want that. Well, not yet, anyway.”

  Again, Nicole moved around, trying to kick out with her feet, but they two were bound, and it was hard for her to find leverage. The sounds of shoes against gravel gave her a vague idea of where Cordelia must be.

  “Ah, ah,” the lady chided. “None of that.” She clucked her tongue. “But where in the world do you think that charming husband of yours might be? That, my dear, is what we’re here for, after all.”

  Kent. This madwoman wanted to hurt Kent. Nicole increased her struggles, but the drug’s effects hadn’t yet worn off and she slumped to the ground once more within seconds. Her strength was gone.

  “I must confess, dear,” Cordelia continued. “I took a much greater liking to you today than I cared to.” She sighed, a long and mournful sound. “But this is something I’m afraid I have little control over. ‘Attention must be paid,’ to quote one of your American playwrights.”

  Nicole groaned, doing what she could to make noise.

  “Hush now, dear. I don’t much care for Arthur Miller either, but no need to make such a fuss. He’s decent enough with his character work, I suppose, but his plays are just so pretentious, don’t you think?”

  Once more, Nicole flopped back down to the ground. If she could manage to pull her legs up underneath her, she might be able to thrust her hands down against her lap. If she did it correctly, striking at the right angle, the zip tie would break before severing one of her veins.

  But with as little energy as she had, the simple act of pulling her legs up seemed impossible. And if that action was denied her, the likelihood she could break the tie was probably just as slim.

  “I imagine you have questions for me,” Cordelia murmured. “Which is fair enough. I’m doing this to bring focus to something that has been a problem since my great-great-grandfather killed all those prostitutes, the bastard.”

  Nicole went still at that. If she thought Jack the Ripper was bad, then why copy his work?

  “That’s the conundrum, don’t you see?” she said, as if she were answering Nicole’s unspoken thoughts. “I hate everything my ancestor did, and yet I can’t deny that the attention it brought to the poverty, crime and class warfare in London ended up being a force for good.”

  The woman was clearly insane, but for a moment Nicole caught a glimpse of what she was trying to say. Women, while much better off now than they were in Victorian England, still suffered. Sexism still existed. It might, for the most part, be more civil, less violent, not quite as overt, but it was still there. Inequality abounded.

  And killing prostitutes could bring attention to that fact. Kill enough and the city would begin to squawk, and the blind eye the police turned to such events would be exposed. Look deeper into the causes of prostitution, and poverty married with drugs, and crime always reared its ugly head.

  But even if it could work… what was the cost?

  “I know what you’re thinking,” she said, her tone sad. “But these five deaths were nothing. A blip on the proverbial radar. Do you know how many of these prostitutes die of overdoses each week? The number would stagger you.”

  Nicole continued to listen, but underneath the woman’s words, she thought she could hear something else. The sounds of someone’s approach?

  If she could keep the woman distracted… Nicole thrashed on the ground, putting all of her energy into it. But within seconds, Cordelia had moved over and stepped down on Nicole’s ankle, pinning her leg to the ground at an awkward and painful angle. She couldn’t move.

  “I need you to be silent, dear,” Cordelia said, and then lifted up her voice. “So I can speak to your husband. Hello, Kent, my love.”

  Nicole then heard something that both excited and frightened her. Kent’s voice.

  “Hello, Lady Blackwater.”

  * * *

  Kent had hoped to be able to sneak up on the woman and take her out of the picture while she was busy monologuing with Nicole. But she had proved too sharp for that. To be honest, he’d expected nothing else. So far, she’d shown nothing but a keen mind and meticulous planning.

  Which was one of the reasons he was being cautious now.

  Coming down here, close to the river, underneath the bridge… all of it made sense on the surface. But the reality was that Lady Blackwater had given herself very few avenues of escape here.

  “Kent, your wife is lovely,” came the woman’s voice, echoing through the near-darkness. “And this is all such a shame, truly. It’s just that I couldn’t have such a sharp profiler working on my case.�
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  “I agree,” Kent said. “So maybe you should just let her go, so we can all be on our merry way.”

  “Ah, Kent, you’re a smart man. You know I can’t do that.”

  Making a production out of his sigh, Kent released a huge breath. “Then I’m afraid you’ve left me with no other options...”

  The woman chuckled. “I’ve done my homework. You don’t like guns.”

  “I don’t like them. But I’m not afraid of them,” Kent corrected her. “And you kidnapped my wife. I’ll make an exception.”

  There was a pause, and Kent was gratified to hear a note of fear creep into the woman’s voice. “I don’t think that’s true.”

  She was right, but there was no way she could know that for sure. “Why don’t you test it out?”

  “I have another idea,” she answered, and Kent heard the sound of a bullet being chambered in a gun. “What if I were to hold this weapon to your wife’s head as insurance?”

  The woman was still talking, which meant that she couldn’t be that serious about killing Nicole. At least not right at the moment. Time to up the ante and see what this psychopath’s response was going to be.

  “There’s something you might want to know,” he said, hoping against hope that this would work. “She’s pregnant.”

  Another pause. This one lasted much longer, and the quality of the silence felt like shock. He had hit pay dirt.

  Finally, Lady Blackwater found the use of her tongue again. “Once more, Kent, I must say that I don’t think that’s true.” Kent could hear her shoes against the gravel, and he could see her silhouette pace back and forth. “Plus, it makes no difference. I’m afraid she’s seen me, love. As have you.”

  “Oh, it’s your identity that you’re worried about?” Kent said, knowing he was stepping into even more dangerous territory with this woman. “I’m afraid that’s no longer an issue.”

  “Is it not?” she asked, and then Kent heard her heave a heavy sigh. “Who knows?”

  “Locroft, for one.” The Superintendent might not be the only one who knew, but with that knowledge at the top of the food chain, everyone at Scotland Yard effectively knew about this woman.