Streets of Blood

by Marc Gascoigne

  By tea time, they’d whitded the list of potential targets down to a much more manageable four. Three looked possible: two women with convictions for prostitution, and a tea-leaf reader from Tir Nan Og whose files referred to the high proportion of male clients among her clients.

  "She’s way out in SX, though, pretty suburban. Really doesn’t seem the right district. You know, apart from Annie, these murders have all taken place in the right locations, more or less. Right districts, at the very least. None of these three would fit that pattern, but it’s the best we have. I’m going to run the semantics package on them to see what that does."

  "What?" Serrin hadn’t a clue to what command Geraint was planning to give the bewildering array of electronic hardware now.

  "Francesca and I went back over the four murders and used a template system to compare everything we could find on the original Ripper killings. Fran did most of the work, actually, bless her. " Serrin could sense her smile from where he was sitting, though she was facing the screens.

  "We banged in all the known past history of the victims, place names, locations, all the incidental details. Then we compared it to other people with the same names in London. The four names came out as the likeliest possible targets by virtue of the factors we included in the analysis. They were all prostitutes, the districts they lived in and where they were killed were similar, and there were some odd curves thrown out. Like, the original Annie Chapman’s body was found in Hanbury Street, while Fran’s friend of the same name was found slain in her flat in Hanbury Court, part of a building of another name. That was weird."

  "It’s almost as if someone else did a similar comparison to choose the right victims." Serrin was pondering what he’d just heard. "As if the women were selected by computer."

  "That occurred to me, too. If Transys is testing a personality chip with these killings, it wouldn’t be out of character for them at all. They’re famous for the meticulousness of their tests. But the one remaining problem is the Mary Kellys we’ll never be able to find."

  Francesca was bent over one of the multiple screen arrays, but she’d been listening. "The Squeeze download, such as it is, is a pure shambles. It’s almost impossible to keep tabs on people. There are five Mary Kellys there, but the data is all marked incomplete, too dated, too many unknowns. If they’re going to hit one of them, we’ll never be able to stop them."

  Serrin sat bolt upright. "But then, someone living in the Squeeze wouldn’t be the target! Think about it. Even if you had spies checking around in that place, it would be desperately hard to make sure your victim was in the right place at the right time, right?"

  "He’s got something there," Geraint conceded. "No one finds it easy to monitor what goes on in the Squeeze. After the genetic manipulation disaster that the corps tried when the Squeeze was first formed, the people there hate corporations of any stripe. A corporate spy would have a very short life span among them."

  "Don’t I know it," Francesca sighed. "That’s why the data I’m getting from my British Industrial source is such drek. Even they can’t get more than fragmentary data, and they’re right on the spot."

  "So let’s take a chance," Geraint suggested. "Let’s say that the difficulties inherent in the Squeeze mean they wouldn’t select a target there. That leaves us our two hookers and the tea-leaf reader. They’re the only realistic targets we have left since Rani called. The last two East Enders don’t fit at all. We take the top probability target, stake it out, and leave my security people with the other two."

  "The police?" Serrin offered the suggestion, but only as a matter of formality.

  "Waste of time. They’ll consider it a wild goose chase. Frankly, London Security will handle it better."

  "We could kidnap the three of them, as it were. Place them under our protection somewhere. Bring them here." Again, Serrin was fishing for solutions.

  "No way. We want to get the killers, and that means we need to use the targets as bait. It sounds bloody cold and callous, but I’m also thinking about the four women they’ve already killed. They deserve their murderers being brought to justice. With the security we can provide, the trap will be a deadly one unless they bring a coachload of troll samurai and enough mages to light up the whole of St. Paul’s for a week."

  By ten-thirty they’d been able to select the most likely target after all the additional data had been downloaded and analyzed by Francesca’s program. Geraint closed down the screens one by one.

  "Well, Abbey Wood it is. Mary Nicola Kelly. The telecom trick was a nice touch, Fran. Well done."

  "I’m surprised it was so easy to sell her the idea that she’d won a random lottery prize."

  "Oh, but the way you told her to gather family or friends around was brilliant. She was obviously delighted, but they’ll get a very different visit from the one they’re expecting. I think we should bring them some champagne."

  The telecom beeped, bringing the call that would change everything.

  * * *

  Paying off the last of her Fenchurch Street contacts, Rani had gotten luckier than she could ever have believed possible. With all the excitement of the last few days, and especially the visit to Wales, she’d almost forgotten about him, but there he was, ducking away into New London Street.

  Of all people, Pershinkin.

  She trailed him cautiously to the derelict house. A pair of orks emerged soon afterward, smiling and stuffing wads of money into their pockets. Another pair of dupes, huh? This time, my friend, she promised herself, it’s going to be very different.

  He was alone, she was determined, and he didn’t hear her until she had her knife around his throat from behind. He was kneeling, just about to finish packing his case, and he made the cardinal mistake of having his back to the doorway.

  By God, man, over-confidence is a real failing, Rani thought grimly. And one you’re going to pay for dearly.

  "Hello, scumbag," she said. "You spammed my family. My rakking family, you wanker."

  Pershinkin froze as he felt the cold metal cutting into his skin, hardly daring to breathe while his eyes flashed from side to side trying to get a glimpse of the woman hissing death into his right ear.

  "The run out to Cambridge, remember? Poor Imran?

  ‘Just get some suckers,’ wasn’t it? Well, looks to me like you’re the sucker now. Prepare to die, sleazeball." Revenge was sweet but Rani had already waited so long for this moment that she wanted him to beg for his life first.

  He obliged her. "Look, I didn’t know! I didn’t know! It wasn’t me! It was the people who hired me. I’m only the man in the middle," he whined. "You gotta believe me." He was scared now, very scared indeed.

  "Won’t do you any good, ratface. You’re going to die anyway. Better say your prayers."

  "No! Wait!" he whimpered. "Look, the men who gave me the job, I’ve got a meeting with them tomorrow night. I swear it. It’s true, it’s true! If I tell you where we’re to meet, you can show up instead. Was them who hired your family to get killed. What have I got against you? Why would I harm you?"

  She hadn’t expected that. "Tell me where and when, you stinking slime. Now!"

  He was too afraid to negotiate, his wits too scrambled to realize he couldn’t just give it all away. He stammered out the place and the time of the meeting in a voice wracked with sobs.

  Then Rani tightened her grip on the knot of straggly hair at the back of his head and drew the blade in an arc across his throat from ear to ear. She didn’t give herself time to regret what she was doing. When she finally released her hold, the body slumped forward onto the grimy floor like a heavy sack of laundry.

  She wouldn’t tell the others about this one. Not yet. It was family honor. She’d tell them after she’d dealt with Smith and Jones.

  * * *

  It was well past ten o’clock when Rani got back to the men. She’d found her Mary Kellys at last, and a complete waste of time they’d been, too.

  Once in the musty-smelling ups
tairs room she dumped herself into the vacant chair next to Mohinder. The men were becoming restless now. Yes, they’d been paid well, whether or not they had to work this weekend or not, but the adrenaline was pumping. And a few other good chemicals, Rani judged, from the stimulant patches and broken vials she saw lying among the pizza boxes and burger bags littering the room.

  "You look tired, little sister." Mohinder grinned at her, knocking back another of an endless series of coffees. "Have a burger," he said, handing her one. "Regal Burgers’ very best, with the chili and black bean sauce. Lovely grub."

  She declined the offer with a shudder. "Thanks anyway. "

  "What you been up to?"

  Rani sighed in apparent fatigue. "Hunting for someone called Mary Kelly. She’s the person we think is going to be killed, a prostitute. I been running around trying to find anyone who fits the picture." She made herself sound laconic and weary, not wanting to mention anything about Pershinkin. Mohinder might not be at all pleased about that.

  "You don’t say?" Mohinder’s expression changed totally. "And you couldn’t find her?"

  "Between me and my friends we’ve found scores of Mary Kellys, but they’re all dead ends. No one fits the bill."

  The samurai twisted in his chair and called to the men. "Hey, Scirea! You know Typhoid?"

  Scirea grinned. "Sure do. Crazy blooming decker. Bit of a trancer, head full of drek with too many rags she shot up and some of that tanking stuff. She used to work for me. Wasn’t bad when she was younger. Used to take payment in kind sometimes."

  The men around him sniggered unpleasantly. Rani realized they were talking about one of the women Scirea’s family pimped for. She was disgusted by them as they laughed again.

  Meanwhile, though, Mohinder was tapping a number into his telecom. A vacant-faced girl appeared on the screen. She had hair dyed black, mascara that looked like she’d put it on with a spoon, black lipgloss, and an expression somewhere between hopelessness and complete despair.

  Rani’s mind triggered a memory: the Toadslab restaurant. After she’d sold Mohinder the Predator. Her.

  "Yeah." The woman’s voice was virtually robotic. "Typhoid? What you doing right now?" Mohinder was grinning like a crocodile.

  "Mohinder? Hey, guy, thanks for the little loan, y’know. Pay you back soon as I can." Her expression, and all of her vacant hand-waving, did nothing to suggest that it would be too soon.

  "Typhoid, baby, tell me something simple. What’s your real name? I mean, we all call you Typhoid Mary, but what’s the real thing?"

  She was suspicious. Panda eyes narrowed sharply through her chemically assisted fog. "What you want to know for? You freelancing for the poll-tax hunters?"

  "Come on, honey, you know me better than that. Tell you what, we’ll forget those few nuyen. Just speak your name to Mohinder."

  That persuaded her like nothing else ever could. She spoke the words slowly, in a childlike voice, as if remembering what she’d been called in a dim and distant past when someone actually cared about her.

  "Kelly," said Typhoid Mary. "Mary Jane Kelly."

  * * *

  Geraint whooped in delight. "My God, even the second name is right. Mary Jane Kelly, a young hooker in Whitechapel. This is it! This is bloody it!"

  Serrin and Francesca grinned back at him. All the tension of the day evaporated from the room like a puddle on a sunny day.

  "She isn’t in any register because of the tax evasion, and if she’s a decker she can make enough to stay out of sight and pay people to lie about her. This has to be the one. No time to run the analysis programs and we don’t have the additional data, but we’re ready now. They’re on their way to protect her, Rani says, Greatorex Street, Whitechapel. If they plan to kill her tomorrow, we’ll be there almost an hour in advance. Come on, people, this is it. At last."

  32

  The Saab screeched into Greatorex Street at eleven minutes past the hour. They’d been delayed by a random police patrol, in which a pair of blasé officers had tested the alcohol levels of Geraint’s breath. To everyone’s fury, they’d had to sit for more than ten minutes behind a line of five other cars stopped for the same reason. The only good thing about the delay was that it gave them time to pay the samurai in the car.

  Heading down the right road at last, they could see two figures standing under the streetlight outside the address Rani had given them. Geraint picked out the Indian girl easily; the other he didn’t know. Serrin was leaping out of the passenger door almost before Geraint had parked the car.

  "She took off!" Rani was calling out. "We told her someone was out to hurt her and she should stay put until we got here. Said we would only be a few minutes, but she got crazy and she’s bloody gone and left," Rani yelled breathlessly.

  Serrin turned and slammed his fist into the roof of the car.

  "It was my fault," Mohinder said calmly. "I shouldn’t have warned her. Should have come over without saying why. But she’s so unpredictable she might have gone out anyway." He grinned at the elf. "Hello, pixie. I won’t shake hands." The retractables flashed from his fingers.

  "I sent my people out to look and talk to folks, and made a couple of calls," Mohinder continued as Geraint and Francesca joined the listening throng. "There’re a couple of places she might go, and a bar or two where we might find her. She doesn’t have many places to go to ground. We’ll get her. You can bet on it."

  "But how long will that take?" the nobleman demanded.

  Serrin stifled Geraint’s impatience. "Look, Geraint, if we can’t find her, then neither can they. And we’ve got local people to give us an edge in the search."

  "Unless the killers already had the place staked out with spies of their own," Francesca muttered. She looked up at the elf in a moment of understanding, and he switched his perceptions immediately, probing for a mage in the area. He had to be there. Serrin found him for an instant, before the masking shut him out. He got a strong impression of movement, receding into the distance, and that gave him a fix.

  "Just to the southwest. He must be in a car. They’re heading just south of west. It’s got to be them."

  "Bury Street." Mohinde'r was emphatic. "She knows old Jen, the owner of a flophouse there. Takes her food and stuff sometimes. She used to work near there when she was still on the streets, I remember. If she’s gone that way, that’s where she’ll be. For sure."

  They were already piling into the car as Scirea and the dwarf joined them from the shadows. Mohinder was phoning his other samurai, telling them where to meet up. There was no time to drive around to pick them up now.

  "Didn’t know you could get seven people into one of these things," Francesca grumbled.

  "Honey, you can’t. Come sit on my lap," Mohinder suggested, licking his lips.

  She scowled and opted for Rani’s instead.

  * * *

  The group of samurai whipped out of the darkness of an alleyway as the Saab hurtled down the road. The fire from their automatic weapons ripped into the car, but Geraint had installed a strobe blast that augmented the headlights. He flicked the anti-strobing window modulators as everyone inside the Saab ducked their heads and the back windows wound down. The windscreen could take one good burst for sure; after that it was down to luck and a prayer.

  Then Geraint stopped the car on a dime. Because of the stroboscopic lighting one of the samurai couldn’t get out of the way in time, his cybereye mods become useless. From the impact Geraint guessed that he’d knocked the guy down, but he probably wasn’t out. The second samurai had taken an expertly directed burst from Rani’s Uzi as the car hurtled toward him, and the gaping holes in his body armor showed that ballistic had been no protection against the volley of bullets.

  Though Serrin had a protective barrier spell running, the column of fire he saw shimmering down the street told him he wasn’t going to be able to keep sustaining the spell because he’d need his concentration somewhere else.

  The third samurai was changing a clip, r
eady to pump lead into the back-seat passengers as they got out of the car, but he never got the chance. Scirea had his sleeves rolled up as the car entered the street, and the tube strapped to his forearm delivered a small metal globe straight into the samurai’s torso. It must be some kind of grenade, Rani thought, but she couldn’t guess what sort or how it was fired. The demitech worked, though. The samurai reeled back, sticky flame burning and licking across his clothes and body. His screams were like needles in her ears.

  They poured out of the car, reflexes boosted to maximum one way or another. Others were working on pure unaugmented adrenaline, but they were all afire.

  Serrin moved to the side of the road, into shadow, concentrating on combating the raging elemental bearing down upon them. Here we go again, he thought gloomily. Why do I seem to spend so much of my life trying to deal with these fraggers? Francesca moved to his side, covering him with her pistol.

  On the side nearest the house they sought, Scirea backed up to the wall, pistol readied, a grenade in his left hand. He lobbed it down the street ahead of them, and a wall of smoke began to rise where it landed, some twenty yards away.

  Good thinking, Geraint thought grimly. If that’s where their mage is, they may have other back-up there. They’ve probably got the equipment to see through the smoke, but maybe not all of them can. There were so many possibilities.

  Mohinder had dispatched the injured samurai with one sweep of his hand razors across the man’s throat, but now his cybereyes were scanning the doorway, a machine pistol in one hand and the Predator in the other. Geraint was just behind him as Mohinder sprayed an armor-piercing clip through the closed door. Perhaps it was a scream they heard from inside, but it was impossible to tell beneath the rattle of the guns. A spurt of automatic fire burst into the road from a middle window of the three-story house, then all hell let loose at the far end of the street. Wild fire was streaming through the smoke, and everyone was grateful for the ballistic body armor they wore for protection. Ricochets pinged off the surface of the street.