Dark Angel: a fast-paced serial killer thriller (The James & Sandersen Files Book 2)

by P. J. Nash

  ‘Yes, but I’ve blown the best lead we had,’ said Jiri, knocking back his glass of vodka.

  ‘Well, you need to pursue the undercover options, but we need to get a Brit cop or two to come over. Doesn’t Sandersen know someone who can do it? Her husband, maybe?’ asked Jezek.

  ‘Sure, I’ll give her a call now.’ Jiri pulled out his phone and found the number. It rang but no one answered, and he cut the call.

  An hour or so later, Jezek had gone home. Jiri paid the bar bill and staggered out to the night. He wandered through the cobbled streets and down the steps to the metro station. He pulled out his wallet to get some money for a metro ticket. A shower of coins slipped out and bounced onto the platform.

  ‘Fuck it!’ shouted Jiri, as he scrambled around on the floor for the coins. Suddenly, there was a click. A woman carrying a mop and bucket came through one of the doors at the end of the platform. Jiri picked up himself and went across to the woman. She looked worried as he lurched towards her. To assuage her, he pulled out his police ID card.

  ‘Madam, excuse me, how did you get out of there?’ he asked as she scrutinised his card.

  ‘I clean the drivers’ restrooms I have a card to get in there,’ she said, flourishing a plastic card on a lanyard.

  ‘So, does that just get you in those doors or anywhere else?’

  She looked puzzled. ‘Of course, every door on the network.’

  A metro train rolled into the station, slowed, came to a halt, and the doors popped open. ‘Ok, madam, thanks for your help,’ said Jiri, slipping her a business card before making a beeline for the train. The alcoholic miasma lifted from Jiri’s brain. He saw now how the killer was getting access to the network. Finally, he had a lead. The killer had more than likely got one of these cards. The trouble was that if even the cleaners had an access card, then it was still a needle in a haystack. Jiri’s first port of call tomorrow would be Depo Kacerov, the headquarters of the Prague Metro. He had a friend there who could put him straight on a few things. He was dozing off, leaning against the cold glass of the window when his phone vibrated in his pocket. It was a detective from the station.

  ‘Sir, sorry to disturb you. It’s just that Dr Sandersen has disappeared. And a flatfoot in Andel called in a suspicious incident with a woman being bundled into a car. Right near where she was living. We’re checking her apartment now.’

  ‘Okay, keep me posted,’ said Jiri, massaging his forehead with his palms. It was going to be a long night.

  DNES Newspaper Offices, Smichov, Prague

  DNES, or Today, is the second largest circulated newspaper in the Czech Republic. Lodged firmly between the more popular and sensationalist tabloid competitor Blesk, or Lightning, and slightly more highbrow and older than Lidove Noviny, The People’s Newspaper, the journalists of DNES were scrambling to find an edge on the “Dark Angel” story. The competition was even keener due to the fact that DNES and Lidove Noviny shared the same shiny new headquarters in the former industrial area of Smichov. Where factories and workshops had formerly belched out smog and questionable products, the new temples of commerce had been built. None more striking than the massive Novy Smichov shopping centre.

  Several of the murders had happened in the relatively innocuous suburb of Barrandov, just a few tram stops from Smichov. Reporters and photographers stalked the estates and jumped at the slightest murmur seen on social media. Among the reporters chasing the Dark Angel was Marketa Novak. She had just logged onto her computer and was sipping from a takeout latte she had bought near the tram stop when Lenka, the receptionist, bought over a jiffy bag with “FAO Crime Correspondent” neatly printed on a label.

  ‘It’s safe,’ Lenka said. She had run the package under a scanner-cum-x-ray machine, as was standard practice.

  ‘Who bought it?’ asked Marketa, opening the jiffy bag.

  ‘Some guy on a bike, all covered in leather, more your type than mine,’ sniggered Lenka.

  Sliding the blade of her Swiss Army Knife under the edge of the package, she peeled it open. A single sheet of folded paper fell out, along with a USB memory stick. Marketa unfolded the sheet and read the typed words.

  Dear Journalist and fellow citizens of Prague,

  For centuries, we endured invaders and occupation. A few decades ago, we finally found our freedom. But all too quickly, we sold it again. We turned our Bohemian Paradise into a theme park for drunken misogynistic pigs who come here to drink themselves stupid and debauch our women. Well, now the fight back has begun. So far four of these “stags” have been emasculated and shown for what they really are. Sadly, some of our countrymen have been tempted by the lure of easy money and sleazy sex to join them. As you will see from this video, the price for collaboration with the foreign rapist pigs is a high one. Until this tide of foreign vermin is stopped from turning the city into nothing more than an alcohol sodden brothel, then “stags” will be culled. You have been warned.

  Dark Angel

  ‘Oh my god. This is from the serial killer,’ screamed Lenka.

  ‘Keep your voice down, you stupid bitch,’ screeched Marketa, realising she had the inside track on a scoop that could make her name and get her to London or New York. Fortunately, for Marketa, the newsroom was still largely empty, as the skeleton night staff trickled out, and the day staff ambled in.

  ‘But we have to take this to the cops and get it done by those CSI guys, so they catch the perp,’ said Lenka excitedly, like the ominous package had been a new puppy. With lighting speed, Marketa was out of her seat and slapped Lenka hard across the face. She grabbed Lenka’s left arm and forced it up her back.

  ‘Listen, you airhead bitch, no one gets to know about this. If you as so much think about this without asking me, I’ll scratch your eyes out. Do you get it?” she said, jerking the girl’s arm for emphasis.

  ‘Yes, ok, just let me go.’

  Marketa pushed her away before grabbing the package and its contents, scooping them into her bag and pulling on her coat. ‘Tell Mikel I’m out following a lead on the serial killer story,’ she said as she passed a shaking Lenka.

  Incident Room, Smichov Police Station, Prague

  Jiri’s triumph of the night before had paled a little in the cold light of day, and his hangover wasn’t helping. The revelation that the killer might have access to the Metro and its back areas was a leap in the right direction. But a visit to the Head of Metro Security at Depo Kacerov had not been promising. Essentially, he found out that a couple of thousand individuals had access cards. The cards were “dumb” in so much as there was no record of where and when they were used. There was also no second layer of security like a PIN number either. So, in essence, any of the people on the list could come and go as they pleased. Interviewing all of them would take weeks and that was without checking and crosschecking alibis. Not to mention the additional factor of a card being borrowed or stolen by a relative or from a metro driver who’d nodded off in a bar on the way home from work.

  Jiri was massaging his temples and thinking about getting a coffee when Jezek knocked and poked his head around the door.

  ‘Boss, you know we’ve been waiting for a break?’ said Jezek. ‘Well, the shit’s really hit the fan now. We have just had a tape of Dr Sandersen dropped off at reception. She’s being held by some Aussie crims who have a beef with her and James.’

  ‘Shit,’ replied Jiri.

  ‘And some better news, we have got word from Tomas at TV Nova that a staffer from DNES was fancying herself as Lois Lane. She came straight to him and asked him for a job, on the basis that she handled the story of the killings as an exclusive.’ said Jezek.

  ‘What the fuck’s that got to with the dead guys?’ asked Jiri impatiently.

  ‘Well, the hack from DNES was touting a letter purportedly from our killer and a memory stick with a video nasty on it,’ said Jezek.

  ‘Where is the bitch who’s fucking with my investigation?’ snarled Jiri.

  ‘In the cells, boss.’


  ‘Good work, Jezek. Right, you better get on the phone to James. We’ll let the bitch sweat for a bit, and then, we’ll get her to spill what she knows. Then, I suppose we had better watch this video. Jesus and Maria, everyone wants to be a fucking director or movie star these days. It was easier when the wackos just sent you notes made up of letters cut out of magazines.’

  ‘Ah, the good old days,’ sighed Jezek.

  You hadn’t thought of sending them a video till you’d seen the guy on the news in some Middle Eastern shithole, begging for his life. This was the way you got attention these days. It had been easy enough to borrow a camera from the club. Now, they’d know the price to be paid for ignoring you. They hadn’t found his body yet, but they would in a day or two. He had died minus his dignity. He would send a message to the other rapists that came here. If the message didn’t get through, you’d litter the cobbled streets with bodies until the lure of cheap beer and sex sent them scuttling back to their comfortable lives and their stupid women who tolerated these rapist beasts.

  Smichov Police Station, Prague

  Marketa Novak had pretensions of being a hard-nosed crime reporter. But an hour of being berated by an angry Jiri had left her shaking and crying. Her makeup had run, and she clutched the bottle of water she had been given to prevent her hands from trembling.

  ‘Well, you are one lucky lady,’ said Jiri, as he sat down at the table. ‘I’ve got a real case to deal with. So, we’ll let you go. But if you mention anyone of this to anyone or stick your lovely nose into this case again, you’ll be in Pankrac doing a stretch before you get time to grab your makeup bag.’

  She sat unmoving.

  ‘Do you get it?’ he roared, leaning over her and smashing a fist into the table.

  She flinched and squeaked, ‘Yes’.

  Jiri stomped out of the room and into the carpark where he took out a cigarette. As he looked for a lighter, Jezek came to his side and held up a flame.

  ‘Thanks,’ said Jiri, inhaling deeply.

  ‘So, what next?’ Jezek asked.

  ‘We put a tail on her, tap her landline and mobiles, email, both at work and at home.’

  ‘And Sandersen?’

  ‘James is on his way from Hong Kong. He wants to play it straight, pay up and get her back.’

  ‘What would you do?’ asked Jezek.

  ‘I’d do the same. Then, I’d find the kidnappers and kill them slowly,’ said Jiri.

  ‘You think that’s what James will do?’

  ‘Without doubt – and we’ll help him. No one shits in my yard and gets away with it.’

  ‘I’m with you, boss,’ said Jezek.

  ‘Great,’ said Jiri, slapping Jezek on the back. He threw his cigarette butt on the floor and ground it out. ‘Let’s get to the airport.’

  Undisclosed Location, Prague

  Sandersen was shaken gently awake by the man in the balaclava.

  ‘Wake up, bitch. We’ve got to get you ready for your boyfriend.’

  The man had put a paper plate of food on the table along with a bottle of water. He undid the straps that held her fastened to the chair.

  ‘There’s a bathroom through there. Take a shower, get some food down you. Be ready to leave in an hour.’

  He left the room and slammed the steel door shut. She looked around. There was no escaping. She dropped the half brick she’d selected as a weapon. It had crossed her mind to whack the guy and try and make a break for it. Sighing, she tucked into the food and took a drink of water and resigned herself to either being rescued or released. Most of all she hoped James wouldn’t go rogue and try any heroics. The last thing she wanted was to get shot in a cross fire of a botched rescue. Was this her fault? Had coming alone been a big mistake? She always felt she was tough enough to deal with anything. She’d been around criminals long enough to know what made them tick. But she’d never got to the bottom of what made people like her captor tick. Bain was dead, and his reign as a crime kingpin was over. Her mind flitted to the stories of Japanese soldiers who’d been found on remote Pacific islands still holding and convinced the war was still on, years after the Japanese Imperial forces had surrendered. Was it some form of perverted loyalty like that to Bain that was driving these men?

  For Irish, real name Jeff McGuire, who sat impassively on the other side of the steel door, it was simply a piece of business that would allow him to buy a farm in Ireland and disappear into obscurity.

  James was lying rumpled and unshaven on his hotel bed, dozing, when the mobile phone on the bedside table beeped. The phone had been delivered with the proof of life video. The details were clear. He was to take himself to the bottom of Petrin Hill and buy himself a ticket for the funicular railway that boosted Praguers and tourists to the top of the hill, which was capped by the sixty-metre mini rendition of the Eiffel Tower, and wait. While he’d go as instructed unarmed and unaccompanied, he would have a little help from his friends. Jiri and Jezek would be well away from the scene itself and would be doing their best to gather intelligence on the kidnapper.

  This was an old school handover, and somebody would be turning up to pick up the bag containing the ransom. The three men had debated setting undercover cops in the vicinity but knew full well that if they were compromised, the result could be a death sentence for Sandersen. Their original idea of placing a tracking device in the bag used to deliver the ransom had also been scuppered after the kidnappers demanded the ransom be delivered in two yellow plastic bags from Bila, the Czech supermarket. This would mean that James would not only be hampered by carrying a bag in each hand, he’d also be highly visible at all times. Irish was a wily operator, a skill that had kept him out of jail despite being flagged as one of Bain’s key henchmen.

  James rolled over, switched on the bedside lamp and picked up the phone.

  Showtime. Be at the funicular station in half an hour. Stay there and await further instructions. No tricks or the bitch dies.

  He pulled on his coat, picked up the two yellow carrier bags laden with bundles of US dollars and took the lift to the car park where an unmarked car driven by a detective awaited him.

  Petrin Tower, Prague

  Irish was a businessman first and foremost. And while he’d have loved to put a bullet in James’s head, he knew that would ultimately only hasten his own death. So, he’d take the money and make himself scarce. The plan was simplicity itself. He would make James send up the money, and he’d send down the woman. He had her stashed in a workman’s hut used by the gardeners who maintained the formal gardens. Apart from the initial abduction, for which he’d hired some local goons, it was a one-man operation. Once the money came, he’d get on his mountain bike and hit one of the many trails that lead up the hill.

  James arrived at the funicular station and had just bought a ticket when the phone trilled.

  An empty carriage will be coming down with a “closed for maintenance” on it. When it stops, put the money in it and wait.

  Forcing his way through a throng of loved up couples and tourists, James maneuvered to the front of the platform. Sure, enough a train rattled to a halt. The third carriage boasted a “closed for maintenance” sign. James put down one of the bags and tried its door which opened. He quickly placed the bags on the seat and slammed the door. A few seconds later, the train - now laden with people - clanged its way out of the station and groaned its way up the steep hill. All James could do was wait.

  From the top of the Petrin Tower, Jezek scanned the lush gardens that surrounded its base, plying his binoculars on the crowds buzzing around the funicular station. Meanwhile, Jiri was standing surrounded by a bank of screens. He had commandeered the CCTV control centre and was busy overseeing the operators who were sweeping the areas near Petrin with the cameras which were available. A SWAT team was parked in Mala Strana, a few streets from Petrin, in case there was any chance of picking up a sighting of the person collecting the ransom. There was also an ambulance parked nearby.

  Irish was
dressed in a uniform of the Prague Transport Company, having purchased it for a hundred dollars from a man he met in a bar. He stood on the platform as the train clattered to a halt. The train disgorged its cargo onto the platform providing a screen of people as Irish opened the carriage door and grabbed the bags. He made his way to the emergency stairs and trotted down them. He reached the bottom of the stairs and opened a fire exit door, heading to the maintenance area and checked the inside of one of the cars. Inside was the prone form of Sandersen, who’d been out cold since she’d drank the drugged coffee earlier.

  Irish talked into a radio. He received an affirmative and the funicular car was propelled forward from the maintenance bay onto the downwards track. Once he was sure that the sleeping woman was on her way down to James, he left the shed. Outside was a mountain bike. He thought about transferring the money to the rucksack, but decided that he would waste too much time. Once they’d established that Sandersen was safe, the place would be crawling with cops. Slinging a carrier bag over each handlebar, Irish pedalled off and was soon careering down Petrin Hill. Soon, he became aware just how valuable the time he had spent poring over the maps was. He was sailing down the hill almost alone. All the action was at the front. The cops would be impeded by crowds of tourists. Good luck to them. ‘Oh, you little beauty,’ shouted Quercus, as he looked at the screen. He had thought seeking his prey would be like looking for a needle in a hay stack. But the yellow bags that carried the ransom stuck out like a giraffe in a penguin pool. He was seated in the back office of Alchemy Investigations. On his computer screen, a live feed from a camera was being displayed. The footage was coming from an Unmanned Airborne Vehicle (UAV), more commonly called a drone. The UAV was flying several hundred feet above Petrin. Whilst Irish may have been spooked by a police helicopter, the drone was inconspicuous and emitted only a low hum, hardly audible from the ground. Quercus had hit on the idea the night previously. He had seen a guy on YouTube who made videos of Prague, which had been shot from the UAV. Immediately, Quercus had got in touch. A few emails and a Skype conversation later, they agreed a battle plan. A wire transfer of five-thousand Euros was made and the UAV was bought into action.