Richard Phillips's Blog, page 14

Nine-Tenths of the Law: Ch1-3

Nine-Tenths of the Law

A Jack ‘The Ripper’ Gregory Novel

By Richard Phillips – Copyright 2013

Chapter One

Tupac Inti leaned against the bars, his dark eyes drawn to the gathering storm in the jailhouse courtyard a dozen feet below his cell.  In the eighteen months he’d been imprisoned awaiting trial, he’d seen much violence, most of it initiated by neo-Nazi gang members of the Unión Juvenil Cruceñista or UJC.   Such was life and death in the Bolivian prison system, especially here in Santa Cruz.

Tupac had been lucky.  Lucky to be as big as he was.  Lucky to be one of the many indigenous people with muscles hardened by years swinging a pick in a Bolivian mine.  As he watched the eight swastika tattooed pricks converge on the newcomer, Tupac knew that this man had no such luck. The guards were either too disinterested to intervene or they were looking forward to the show.  Tupac suspected the latter.

The object of Nazi attention stood bare-chested in the center of the exercise area, having just completed a vigorous workout that had left his upper body glistening with sweat.  What he’d done to get on the UJC’s bad side Tupac didn’t know. It didn’t take much.  The man had no tattoos that would have placed him in some competing gang and he was Caucasian, a definite plus with the neo-Nazis.  But, from the scars that crisscrossed the man’s chest and back, he was no stranger to getting on someone’s bad side.  Whatever the newcomer had done, here in Santa Cruz, being on the UJC’s bad side was the equivalent of a death sentence.

To look at the man, you’d never know he was about to die.  He wasn’t big like Tupac, just over six feet, with lean muscle that rippled beneath his skin at every movement.  But it was the man’s eyes that fascinated Tupac.  As those eyes surveyed the men closing in on him, they held no trace of fear.  The sight triggered the memory of a black leopard he’d once spotted in the high Amazon.  Hungry, hunting eyes, glistening with animal eye-shine.  It sent a sudden chill up Tupac’s spine.

When the UJC’s champion stepped forward, it was no surprise.  Clean shaven with short blond hair, at six foot six he was almost as big as Tupac.  Although most Bolivians of German descent were good, honest people, that didn’t apply to Klaus Liebkin.  Until his arrest during an elite police unit raid on the UJC’s headquarters, he had been a rising star in the neo-Nazi subculture, claiming more than two dozen personal kills.  Being in jail hadn’t hurt his body count.  Klaus liked to keep his victims alive, handing their broken and bloody bodies over to his comrades for final disposition.  Their screams often continued for more than an hour.

It was why nobody screwed with these guys.  But from that look in the newcomer’s eyes, he was about to.

When Klaus made his move, it was as if the newcomer had seen it coming before it began.  With an easy grace that wasted no energy, the newcomer shifted his weight, letting the shiv slash by the side of his neck with less than an inch to spare, using the motion to coil for the counterstrike that put all of his two hundred pounds into the open hand impact directly into Klaus’s windpipe.  The blow dropped the bigger man to his knees, sending a bloody froth bubbling over his lips.

The newcomer’s spinning side kick impacted the side of Klaus’s head, directly over his right ear, the force of impact snapping his head to the side and dropping him on his face with blood from the shattered eardrum leaking down the side of his head.  From the jail cells that overlooked the conflict, shouts and cheers rose up, growing in volume as the newcomer picked up the shiv and cut Klaus’s throat from ear to ear, sending a fountain of red neo-Nazi blood spurting toward his stunned companions.

Then, like the black leopard, the newcomer was among them, whirling and slashing, killing the first two before they realized their danger.  The first of the survivors to regain his senses bull-rushed the red-eyed demon, but his attempted tackle was met with a Judo flip that converted his momentum into a flailing arc toward an impact that would break his ribs.  But in the midst of the flipping motion, the newcomer slid his left hand up the Nazi’s face from chin to eyes, his fingers thrusting, ripping, and tearing the blue and white orbs from their sockets, leaving them dangling down their owner’s cheeks as he writhed on the ground.

Then the shirtless man stood clear, Klaus’s shiv in his right hand and, though his breath panted out, it was clearly from battle lust, not exertion.  Four down, four to go. And when those four backed away, the newcomer dropped the shiv and turned his back on them, stepping across Klaus’s body on his way back to his cell, as wild cheers shook the concrete cellblock.

And as the newcomer made that walk, Tupac got a good look into the man’s strange eyes.  It was a look that left him cold.

Chapter Two

Tossing away the damp sheet, Jack sat bolt upright on the cot, his naked body bathed in sweat.  He rose to his feet, struggling to remember where he was and why he was here.

Ignoring the startled cellmates that moved aside to give him a wide berth, Jack walked to the sink, turned on the faucet, and scrubbed his face with the cold water, letting it wash away the dreams that were more than dreams.

Shit.  How long had it been since he’d awakened from a peaceful sleep?  Jack couldn’t remember.  Always different, the dreams were so vivid they seemed more than memories, a past re-experienced, just not his past.  In his sleep, the dreams leaked from the alien mind parasite that had accompanied him back across the life-death threshold on that awful night in Calcutta. Whatever dying had done to him, Jack couldn’t recommend it.  One thing for sure; if he didn’t come up with a way to control his post deathbed adrenaline addiction, he wouldn’t remain alive long enough for it to matter.

As he dressed, he regained some semblance of clarity and, along with it, the memory of yesterday’s exercise-yard blood bath.  He’d known it wouldn’t take long for the UJC goons to make a move on him.  After all, he’d set it up.  It was all part of the purpose that had brought him here.  And the neo-Nazis had played their part, their deaths serving to introduce Jack ‘The Ripper’ Gregory to the rest of the jailhouse population.  Most importantly, it had introduced him to the one prisoner he’d come all this way to find.

Now Jack just had to meet the man.  After that he could work out exactly how he was going to get them both the hell out of here.  In this part of the world, bribery was usually the best option.  The trick was to find the right person to bribe, someone who feared Jack more than he feared the UJC.  After yesterday, that shouldn’t be a problem.  And if he could avoid being poisoned in the meantime, so much the better.

Chapter Three

Levi Elias walked into the NSA director’s office knowing that Admiral Jonathan Riles wouldn’t be happy with the information Levi was about to deliver.

The Admiral looked up, his ice gray eyes locking with Levi’s.  “Yes?”

“Sir, Dr. Jennings has informed me that Big John has a hit on a high priority target in Bolivia.”

“Tupac Inti?”

“Yes Sir.”

“I thought he was in jail in Santa Cruz.”

“He still is.”

“So what’s the problem?”

“A new inmate.”

The lift of Admiral Riles’ left eyebrow indicated his loss of patience.  “Your point?”

“The inmate, Jack Frazier, just killed a handful of Neo Nazis in a prison gang fight.  Big John has placed a .983725 correlation of this incident to Jack Gregory.”

“The Ripper’s in Bolivia?”

“Denise Jennings believes it.”

“Do you?”

“I do.”

The admiral paused, lost in thought.  When he broke his half-minute silence, his ice-gray eyes stabbed Levi.  “Get Janet Price.”

Levi hesitated.  “She’s in Mozambique.”

“I don’t care.  For some reason, the Ripper’s going for Inti.  Christ, I don’t know why we pay billions for a system like Big John when we could just plant a GPS tracker on Jack Gregory.  That man has a missile lock on trouble.”

“Anything else?”

“I want Janet on a flight out tonight.”

“It’s two a.m. in Mozambique.”

Once again Levi felt the weight of his boss’s gaze.  “If she’s asleep, wake her up and get her ass in the air.  How long will it take to get a jet there from Pretoria?”

“I can have one at Maputo International Airport within three hours.

“I want Janet airborne thirty minutes after it lands.”  The admiral paused.  “And Levi …”

“Yes Sir?”

“I know she had a thing with Gregory.  Make sure she understands exactly what’s at stake here.”

“Don’t worry.  She’s a professional.  I’ll brief her in flight.”

But as Levi walked out of the NSA director’s office, he knew Admiral Riles had a very good reason to worry: the ex-CIA assassin known as Jack ‘The Ripper’ Gregory.

Nine-Tenths of the Law – CH 1-2

Nine-Tenths of the Law

A Jack ‘The Ripper’ Gregory Novel

By Richard Phillips – Copyright 2013

Chapter One

Tupac Inti leaned against the bars, his dark eyes drawn to the gathering storm in the jailhouse courtyard a dozen feet below his cell.  In the eighteen months he’d been imprisoned awaiting trial, he’d seen much violence, most of it initiated by neo-Nazi gang members of the Unión Juvenil Cruceñista or UJC.   Such was life and death in the Bolivian prison system, especially here in Santa Cruz.

Tupac had been lucky.  Lucky to be as big as he was.  Lucky to be one of the many indigenous people with muscles hardened by years swinging a pick in a Bolivian mine.  As he watched the eight swastika tattooed pricks converge on the newcomer, Tupac knew that this man had no such luck. The guards were either too disinterested to intervene or they were looking forward to the show.  Tupac suspected the latter.

The object of Nazi attention stood bare-chested in the center of the exercise area, having just completed a vigorous workout that had left his upper body glistening with sweat.  What he’d done to get on the UJC’s bad side Tupac didn’t know. It didn’t take much.  The man had no tattoos that would have placed him in some competing gang and he was Caucasian, a definite plus with the neo-Nazis.  But, from the scars that crisscrossed the man’s chest and back, he was no stranger to getting on someone’s bad side.  Whatever the newcomer had done, here in Santa Cruz, being on the UJC’s bad side was the equivalent of a death sentence.

To look at the man, you’d never know he was about to die.  He wasn’t big like Tupac, just over six feet, with lean muscle that rippled beneath his skin at every movement.  But it was the man’s eyes that fascinated Tupac.  As those eyes surveyed the men closing in on him, they held no trace of fear.  The sight triggered the memory of a black leopard he’d once spotted in the high Amazon.  Hungry, hunting eyes, glistening with animal eye-shine.  It sent a sudden chill up Tupac’s spine.

When the UJC’s champion stepped forward, it was no surprise.  Clean shaven with short blond hair, at six foot six he was almost as big as Tupac.  Although most Bolivians of German descent were good, honest people, that didn’t apply to Klaus Liebkin.  Until his arrest during an elite police unit raid on the UJC’s headquarters, he had been a rising star in the neo-Nazi subculture, claiming more than two dozen personal kills.  Being in jail hadn’t hurt his body count.  Klaus liked to keep his victims alive, handing their broken and bloody bodies over to his comrades for final disposition.  Their screams often continued for more than an hour.

It was why nobody screwed with these guys.  But from that look in the newcomer’s eyes, he was about to.

When Klaus made his move, it was as if the newcomer had seen it coming before it began.  With an easy grace that wasted no energy, the newcomer shifted his weight, letting the shiv slash by the side of his neck with less than an inch to spare, using the motion to coil for the counterstrike that put all of his two hundred pounds into the open hand impact directly into Klaus’s windpipe.  The blow dropped the bigger man to his knees, sending a bloody froth bubbling over his lips.

The newcomer’s spinning side kick impacted the side of Klaus’s head, directly over his right ear, the force of impact snapping his head to the side and dropping him on his face with blood from the shattered eardrum leaking down the side of his head.  From the jail cells that overlooked the conflict, shouts and cheers rose up, growing in volume as the newcomer picked up the shiv and cut Klaus’s throat from ear to ear, sending a fountain of red neo-Nazi blood spurting toward his stunned companions.

Then, like the black leopard, the newcomer was among them, whirling and slashing, killing the first two before they realized their danger.  The first of the survivors to regain his senses bull-rushed the red-eyed demon, but his attempted tackle was met with a Judo flip that converted his momentum into a flailing arc toward an impact that would break his ribs.  But in the midst of the flipping motion, the newcomer slid his left hand up the Nazi’s face from chin to eyes, his fingers thrusting, ripping, and tearing the blue and white orbs from their sockets, leaving them dangling down their owner’s cheeks as he writhed on the ground.

Then the shirtless man stood clear, Klaus’s shiv in his right hand and, though his breath panted out, it was clearly from battle lust, not exertion.  Four down, four to go. And when those four backed away, the newcomer dropped the shiv and turned his back on them, stepping across Klaus’s body on his way back to his cell, as wild cheers shook the concrete cellblock.

And as the newcomer made that walk, Tupac got a good look into the man’s strange eyes.  It was a look that left him cold.

Chapter Two

Tossing away the damp sheet, Jack sat bolt upright on the cot, his naked body bathed in sweat.  He rose to his feet, struggling to remember where he was and why he was here.

Ignoring the startled cellmates that moved aside to give him a wide berth, Jack walked to the sink, turned on the faucet, and scrubbed his face with the cold water, letting it wash away the dreams that were more than dreams.

Shit.  How long had it been since he’d awakened from a peaceful sleep?  Jack couldn’t remember.  Always different, the dreams were so vivid they seemed more than memories, a past re-experienced, just not his past.  In his sleep, the dreams leaked from the alien mind parasite that had accompanied him back across the life-death threshold on that awful night in Calcutta. Whatever dying had done to him, Jack couldn’t recommend it.  One thing for sure; if he didn’t come up with a way to control his post deathbed adrenaline addiction, he wouldn’t remain alive long enough for it to matter.

As he dressed, he regained some semblance of clarity and, along with it, the memory of yesterday’s exercise-yard blood bath.  He’d known it wouldn’t take long for the UJC goons to make a move on him.  After all, he’d set it up.  It was all part of the purpose that had brought him here.  And the neo-Nazis had played their part, their deaths serving to introduce Jack ‘The Ripper’ Gregory to the rest of the jailhouse population.  Most importantly, it had introduced him to the one prisoner he’d come all this way to find.

Now Jack just had to meet the man.  After that he could work out exactly how he was going to get them both the hell out of here.  In this part of the world, bribery was usually the best option.  The trick was to find the right person to bribe, someone who feared Jack more than he feared the UJC.  After yesterday, that shouldn’t be a problem.  And if he could avoid being poisoned in the meantime, so much the better.

Nine Tenths of the Law — Chapter One

Nine-Tenths of the Law

A Jack ‘The Ripper’ Gregory Novel

By

Richard Phillips

Copyright 2013

Chapter One

Tupac Inti leaned against the bars, his dark eyes drawn to the gathering storm in the jailhouse courtyard a dozen feet below his cell.  In the eighteen months he’d been imprisoned awaiting trial, he’d seen much violence, most of it initiated by neo-Nazi gang members of the Unión Juvenil Cruceñista or UJC.   Such was life and death in the Bolivian prison system, especially here in Santa Cruz.

Tupac had been lucky.  Lucky to be as big as he was.  Lucky to be one of the many indigenous people with muscles hardened by years swinging a pick in a Bolivian mine.  As he watched the eight swastika tattooed pricks converge on the newcomer, Tupac knew that this man had no such luck.

The object of Nazi attention stood bare-chested in the center of the exercise area, having just completed a vigorous workout that had left his upper body glistening with sweat.  What he’d done to get on the UJC’s bad side Tupac didn’t know. It didn’t take much.  The man had no tattoos that would have placed him in some competing gang and he was Caucasian, a definite plus with the neo-Nazis.  But, from the scars that crisscrossed the man’s chest and back, he was no stranger to getting on someone’s bad side.  Whatever the newcomer had done, here in Santa Cruz, being on the UJC’s bad side was the equivalent of a death sentence.

To look at the man, you’d never know he was about to die.  He wasn’t big like Tupac, just over six feet, with lean muscle that rippled beneath his skin at every movement.  But it was the man’s eyes that fascinated Tupac.  As those eyes surveyed the men closing in on him, they held no trace of fear.  The sight triggered the memory of a black leopard he’d once spotted in the high Amazon.  Hungry, hunting eyes, glistening with animal eye-shine.  It sent a sudden chill up Tupac’s spine.

When the UJC’s champion stepped forward, it was no surprise.  Clean shaven with short blond hair, at six foot six he was almost as big as Tupac.  Although most Bolivians of German descent were good, honest people, that didn’t apply to Klaus Liebkin.  Until his arrest during an elite police unit raid on the UJC’s headquarters, he had been a rising star in the neo-Nazi subculture, claiming more than two dozen personal kills.  Being in jail hadn’t hurt his body count.  Klaus liked to keep his victims alive, handing their broken and bloody bodies over to his comrades for final disposition.  Their screams often continued for more than an hour.

It was why nobody screwed with these guys.  But from that look in the newcomer’s eyes, he was about to.

When Klaus made his move, it was as if the newcomer had seen it coming before it began.  With an easy grace that wasted no energy, the newcomer shifted his weight, letting the shiv slash by the side of his neck with less than an inch to spare, using the motion to coil for the counterstrike that put all of his two hundred pounds into the open hand impact directly into Klaus’s windpipe.  The blow dropped the bigger man to his knees, a bloody froth bubbling over his lips.

The newcomer’s spinning side kick impacted the side of Klaus’s head, directly over his ear, the force of impact snapping his head to the side and dropping him on his face, blood from the shattered eardrum leaking down the side of his head.  From the cells that overlooked the conflict, a low cheer rose up, growing in volume as the newcomer picked up the shiv and cut Klaus’s throat from ear to ear, sending a fountain of red neo-Nazi blood spurting toward his stunned companions.

Then, like the black leopard, the newcomer was among them, whirling and slashing, killing the first two before they realized their danger.  The first of the survivors to regain his senses bull-rushed the red-eyed demon, but his attempted tackle was met by a Judo flip that converted his momentum into a flailing arc toward an impact that would break his ribs.  But in the midst of the flipping motion, the newcomer slid his left hand up the Nazi’s face from chin to eyes, his fingers thrusting, ripping, and tearing the round, blue and white orbs from their sockets, leaving them dangling down their owner’s cheeks as he writhed on the ground.

Then the shirtless man stood clear, Klaus’s shiv in his right hand, and though his breath panted out, it was clearly from battle lust, not exertion.  Four down, four to go. And when those four backed away, the newcomer dropped the shiv and turned his back on them, stepping across Klaus’s body on his way back to his cell, as wild cheers shook the concrete cellblock.

And as the newcomer made that walk, Tupac got a good look into the man’s red eyes.  It was a look that left him cold.

Amazon’s Exciting New Opportunity for Indie Authors

I originally posted the following in reply to a fan’s questions (thanks Brian), but since it is of general interest, I repost the contents here:

I’m hoping to get a publication date soon for Once Dead and will post it here as soon as I know it. In the meantime, I highly encourage you to keep writing and self-publishing for the Kindle. It’s the only thing that worked for me until I had sold more than 100,000 copies. After that getting an agent and publisher came easy, although I recommend that you not be in a hurry to leave self-publishing on the Kindle. Royalties of 70 percent are nothing to shrug off too quickly. Keep writing and publishing and the sales will eventually follow … plus you will continuously get better.

I think Amazon is getting very creative in supporting Indie writers with the launch of their new Fan Fiction publication platform http://www.publishersweekly.com/pw/by-topic/industry-news/licensing/article/57350-amazon-debuts-licensed-publishing-program-for-fan-fiction.html . It’s a great place to build upon licensed works and extend those worlds in exotic new ways.

As for my experience with an agent and publisher, I’m now represented by Paul Lucas of Janklow & Nesbit who continues to do a fabulous job. I’ve also been very happy with 47North, although, as one of the new Amazon Publishing Houses, the war with Barnes and Noble and some other big box retailers has limited physical shelf space. Still, it is great being promoted by the world’s largest online retailer.

Keep writing and publishing. Everything else will follow. Hope this helps.

Nine-Tenths of the Law

I’m happy to pass along that I’ve started working on the next Jack Gregory novel set before The Rho Agenda, titled “Nine-Tenths of the Law”. I’m signed on to do three of these novels, counting Once Dead, and will be working to have the draft of this one finished by the end of January.

As for the publication of Once Dead, I’m hoping my publisher will have it ready for a fall release. I’ll post an update as soon as I know the official schedule.

Richard

End of Early Reader Feedback Program for Once Dead

As I send Once Dead to my editor today, I must bring the Early Reader Feedback program to an end. Thank you to all of you fans who were willing to read the rough draft. Your feedback will lead to a much improved finished product.

Thanks again.

Richard

Once Dead Initial Draft Complete

I’m happy to announce that I have now completed the initial draft of my Jack Gregory novel, Once Dead. I’ll make a quick proofreading pass and then ship it off to my publisher so that we can get it through the various editing passes, select the audiobook actor, get the cover design, and get it formatted for print and eBooks. As soon as I find out the release schedule I will pass it along.

Once Dead: Chapter 6

Vladimir ‘Vlad’ Roskov had little tolerance for failure. Little as in none. As he stared at the big man strapped to the chair in the center of the warehouse, anger pulsed through the veins that lined the sides of his forehead, making them writhe like tiny purple snakes. Normally he left failure’s punishment to his lieutenants, but not today. Today he would make a very public example of what lay in store for one of his people should they choose to violate his specific orders and go off mission.

To his right, Gregor Lins angled his video camera to frame the scene to max effect, so that the glare from the high windows lining the west wall provided optimal lighting. Most of the time, cellphone video was good enough, but not today. Today Vlad wanted the video quality only an expensive camera could provide.

When Vlad shoved the Sig Sauer’s muzzle into Klaus Diebert’s mouth, the man’s pleading came to a gagging end, his eyes rolling in wild terror. Grabbing a handful of Klaus’s blond hair, Vlad turned his head to the right, facing directly toward the camera, twisted the Sig, and pulled the trigger. The bullet carried several teeth and part of Klaus’s jawbone out through the ragged hole in his left cheek, spraying blood in an arc that would look spectacular on the internet. Klaus’s screams mingled with the gunshot’s dying echo to add just the right acoustic touch.

Releasing his hold on Klaus’s hair, Vlad stepped back to admire his handiwork. To his credit, unlike many others who had been the subject of Vladimir Roskov’s art, Klaus didn’t pass out. That was good. Maybe they could get through this in one clean take, instead of having to pause every few minutes to revive his star performer.

Due to the bullet taking a large part of Klaus’s tongue out through his cheek, the man’s noises had devolved into a gargling, bestial keening. Setting the Sig on the metal table to his rear, Klaus picked up the five pound, ball peen hammer and turned back toward the man whose face had become a horrible parody of an evil clown’s.

Placing a hand on Klaus’s head, Vlad stared into the gargling man’s eyes, before dropping to a knee to remove Klaus’s shoes and socks. Then, with the grace of a London Symphony Orchestra conductor alerting his musicians, he raised the hammer above his head. Whereas the opening act had been strictly for show, the main act was all about the sound.

By the time the video recording stopped, the sun had sunk below the horizon, sunset’s red glow bathing the scene in a fitting, bloody light. Vladimir laid the slippery hammer back on the table, stripped off his clothes and walked across the concrete floor to the industrial shower on the north wall, feeling the satisfaction that only a good day’s work could bring. Without waiting for the water to warm up, Vlad stepped beneath the sprinkler showerhead, grabbed the half-used yellow soap bar and lathered up, letting the red swirls carry the blood and flesh globules away from his body and down the drain.

When he stepped out to take the towel Gregor held for him, he took his time, making sure his body and hair were completely dry before putting on the new Armani suit that hung from a rack along the near wall. By the time he stepped out of the warehouse and into the black Mercedes, he looked like he’d just walked out of the Berlin Opera.

He had no worries. With Gregor directing the cleanup team, the warehouse would soon be returned to its normal state. Vlad took the camera from Gregor’s outstretched hand and, with the push of a button, raised the rear window. Then with a one handed signal to his driver, he launched the powerful automobile into the night.

Once Dead: Prologue thru Chapter 5

Since it was getting confusing for some people to have to dig back through previous posts to get the sequence of the first few chapters of Once Dead,  I am reposting the combined chapters, plus a couple of extra chapters here.  Enjoy.  Richard

Once Dead

A Jack ‘The Ripper’ Gregory Novel
By Richard Phillips

Copyright © 2013
Prologue

Jack Gregory felt strong hands shove him into the moonlit alley, only dimly aware of the half-dozen men that encircled him as his focus shifted to the man that waited in the center of that ring.  These self-appointed referees had brought them together here for two reasons: to watch a death match between Americans and to make sure Jack wasn’t the one who walked away.  And if that was how things went down, that was fine with him.  Priest Williams wouldn’t be walking away either.

The Calcutta slums bred hard men and women.  By the time children reached the age of thirteen, they’d already experienced more work and hardship than most Americans would endure in their lifetimes.  The residents of this particular neighborhood bore no love for Americans in general or CIA operatives in particular.  Carlton “Priest” Williams, an ex-Delta Force mercenary, fell into the first category.  Jack fit the second.

As he looked at the mercenary’s muscular torso, shimmering with sweat in the moon’s pale glow, Jack’s hatred for the man filled his veins with ice.  Airborne Ranger, Green Beret, Delta Force.  Priest’s mere existence screamed betrayal of all that America’s Special Forces stood for.   Because of Priest, Jack’s brother’s body lay in an unmarked grave somewhere in Waziristan.  Not his head, just his body.  A burlap bag containing Robert’s decaying head had been left on Jack’s hotel room pillow.  That delivery had propelled him into this alley, into this night.

Priest launched himself at Jack, moving with surprising speed and agility for a man his size, but his right cross failed to land.  Shifting his weight left, Jack’s side kick buckled Priest’s right leg, bringing him to his knees.  Immediately Jack was behind him, his right arm encircling Priest’s throat.  Struggling to prevent Jack’s left arm from completing the choke hold, Priest rolled forward, throwing Jack over his head onto the sewage strewn ground, coming to rest straddling Jack’s body.

As heavy blows rained down onto his face and neck, Jack grabbed Priest’s left hand, whipping his right leg up to lock beneath Priest’s chin.  Levering Priest’s arm outward against the pressure of his leg, Jack felt the arm break, sending Priest’s gargling scream echoing through the alley.  Shifting his weight, Jack continued to twist the broken arm, rolling the bigger man onto his side as Jack’s feet sought their fatal lock around Priest’s neck.

The slash of twin blades across his back took Jack by surprise, sending him rolling to his feet to face his new attackers.  All six men who formed the circle around the two combatants held the foot and a half long, boomerang-shaped knives called Khukuri.  It was the signature weapon of the local Nepalese gang who called themselves the Ghurkaris.  Blood dripped from the blades of the two men to his left.

With a rage-filled scream, one arm dangling uselessly at his side, Priest bull-rushed him and although Jack sidestepped this new attack, the movement brought him too close to those that encircled them and he suffered a new cut higher up on his back.  As he spun away, two more slashed across his chest.  The wounds weren’t deep enough to be dangerous, the bloodletting intended to weaken, not to kill.  The vision of a Madrid bullfight swam through his head.  Picadores.

Priest’s left hook caught him high on the head, sending Jack staggering backward, taking another cut on his right side before he recovered.  Priest followed up with a spinning side-kick aimed at his head, a mistake that allowed Jack to hook Priest’s foot beneath his right arm.  The leg sweep that followed dropped Priest onto his broken arm.

Lifting the leg, Jack put all his power into a kick that caught Priest in the groin.  As a knife again sliced at his back, Jack released Priest and lunged sideways, catching the knife wielder by the wrist and thumb, his motion twisting  the arm over and back, opening the man’s throat to the blow that crushed his windpipe.  Before the knife could slip from the dying man’s fingers, Jack redirected it into a second gang member’s stomach.

There are moments when surprise and shock are your only allies and Jack embraced this one, falling upon the other four, wielding a Khukuri in each hand.  Taking another cut across his chest, he slashed the throat of the nearest gangster and spun under another thrust, his long knife removing the attacking hand at the wrist.  His subsequent thrust spilled the man’s guts onto his dying friend.

Sensing movement to his left Jack twisted sideways, but not quite fast enough.  A razor sharp blade pierced his left side just below his ribcage, just before Jack’s counter-thrust dropped the man on his face.

The last of the Ghurkaris stepped backward, but when Jack staggered, the Ghurkari lunged to fill the opening, a look of shock widening his eyes as Jack’s right heel caught him in the throat, crushing his trachea and dropping him to the ground.  The blow left the man gagging, vainly struggling to draw breath through his broken air passage.  Jack watched as his battle came to a rattling, wheezing end, then returned his attention to Priest.

But Priest was gone.

Taking a half-dozen steps forward, Jack swept the alley with his gaze, but there was no sign of the man.  A wave of frustration engulfed him, sapping the last of his strength and dropping him to his knees.  Then, as the Nepali knives slipped from his bloody fingers, the ground rose up to kiss him good night.

~ ~ ~

Sister Mary Judith limped slowly through the darkened slum that had been her home the last forty-eight years of her fading life.    Her right shoe hurt her foot more than usual tonight.  But her bunions weren’t likely to get better.  And compared to the poor people whose souls she sought to save and whose bodies her clinic treated, she had no complaints.

Tonight that clinic had failed a three-year old child and the woman whose tears still dampened Sister Mary Judith’s shoulder.  Malaria had taken the little girl from her mother’s arms and into God’s.  Salara.  Such a beautiful name.  A name that had been repeatedly sobbed into her left ear as the mother wept in her old arms.

She was so lost in the memory that she failed to notice the running man until he staggered into her, knocking Sister Mary Judith to the ground.   Although pain lanced through her left hand, she did not cry out.  But the cry of pain from the running man followed him into the darkness.

Rubbing her wrist, the sister flexed her fingers.  It wasn’t broken.  She’d always been blessed with strong bones and, thankfully, her advancing years had failed to rob her of that blessing.  Apparently, the Lord needed her bones strong so she could continue to aid these people.

Struggling back to her feet, Sister Mary Judith glanced in the direction the man had disappeared.  What had he been running from?  Not really running.  More of a barely controlled stagger, with one arm hanging limply at his side.  Something had so terrified him that he had forced himself to flee despite injuries that would have curled a strong man into a fetal ball.

Turning to look in the direction from which the man had come, a new thought occurred to her.  He couldn’t have come that far from whoever had injured him.  If it had been a gang fight, perhaps others lay injured or dying.

Sister Mary Judith turned her steps in that direction.  Despite their appallingly violent deeds, she had no fear of the gangs.  She moved among them every day, an old nun who posed no threat to anyone, so unattractive that rape never crossed their minds, her clinic so undersupplied and futile that it offered nothing worth stealing.  A doctor to set bones and sew up open cuts, boiled rags for bandages, boiled water for washing wounds, a few old surgical instruments, a surgical table, some basic antiseptics, some cots, and an old woman’s faith and hardworking hands.  Nothing more.

At the entrance into the alley, she smelled death before she saw it, a smell that overwhelmed this place’s underlying stench.  The smell propelled the old nun forward, adding an increased urgency to her shuffling steps.  Over the years her eyes had become accustomed to the darkness night brought to these backstreets and alleys, but tonight’s moonlight eliminated the need for that talent, bathing the alley in its ghostly glow.  And in the midst of that pale light, seven bodies drained their life’s blood into the mud.

Sister Mary Judith moved among them, kneeling briefly beside each victim to place a finger on the carotid artery.  One man had fallen face down several steps from the cluster of bodies, as if he had tried to pursue the one who had fled the alley.  And like the fleeing man, this one was shirtless, although, in the moonlight, it seemed he wore a shirt of blood.  There was so much of it that the nun gasped when she felt a faint pulse in his throat.

Despite her advancing years, Sister Mary Judith was strong.   Nevertheless, the thin layer of skin that covered the hard muscles beneath was so slick with warm blood she had difficulty turning the man onto his back.  When she achieved it, her hope that she could save him withered within her soul.  Like his back, his chest and arms were covered in shallow cuts.  Worse, a deep wound penetrated his left side.  Removing her scarf, the sister wadded it into a tight ball, pressing it as deeply into the wound as she could manage, before rising to her feet and rushing back the way she had come.

Doctor Jafar Misra’s house was less than a block away, but Sister Mary Judith felt the weight of all her years as she hurried along, holding tight to the hope that God would allow her to accomplish one good thing on this sorrow filled evening.  When she reached the narrow door, it took more than a minute for Jafar to open it to her insistent knock.  It took another half hour to help Jafar load the man onto a rickshaw and deliver him to the darkened clinic.

By the time they had laid him on her surgery table, she could barely feel any pulse at all.  She took the fact that he still lived as an indication that the Lord was not yet done with this man.  If the man’s will was as strong as his jawline and lean musculature seemed to indicate, perhaps there was yet hope.

Doctor Misra, working by lamplight, with Sister Mary Judith assisting, bathed the wounds in Betadyne and sewed them closed.  Then, as she tied off the last knot, as if mocking their feeble attempts to save him, their patient shuddered and passed from this world into the next.

~ ~ ~

There was no tunnel with a beautiful light to beckon him forward.  Jack Gregory hadn’t expected one.  But he hadn’t expected this either.

A pea soup fog cloaked the street, trying its best to hide the worn paving stones beneath his feet.  It was London, but this London had a distinct, nineteenth century feel.  Not in a good way either.  For some reason it didn’t really surprise him.  If there was a doorway to hell, Jack supposed a gloomy old London backstreet was as appropriate a setting as any.

He stepped forward, his laced desert combat boots sending wisps of fog swirling around them.  Long, cool, steady strides.  A narrow alley to his left beckoned him and he didn’t fight the feeling.  He hadn’t started this journey by running away and he’d be damned if he was going to end it running away from whatever awaited him.

The fog wasn’t any thicker in the alley.  The narrowness just made it feel that way.  Jack didn’t look back, but he could feel the entrance dwindle behind him as he walked.  To either side, an occasional door marred the walls that connected one building to the next, rusty hinges showing just how long it had been since anyone had opened them.  It didn’t matter.  Jack’s interest lay in the dark figure that suddenly blocked his path.

The man’s face lay hidden in shadow, although it wasn’t clear what dim light source was casting the shadows.  Still, Jack could see his lips move, could hear the gravel in his voice.

“Are you certain you wish to walk this path?”

Jack paused.  “Didn’t think I had much choice.”

“Not many do.”

“I’m listening.”

“You’ve thought about death?”

“Figured it was just a big sleep.”

The shadowy figure hesitated.

“Nothing so easy.”

“Heaven and Hell then?  Enlighten me.”

“Keep walking this path and you’ll find out.  I offer you something different.”

“Ahhh.  My soul for my life is it?”

The laugh rumbled deep inside the other’s chest.  “I’ve been around a very, very long time, but I’m not your devil.”

“Then what are you?”

For several seconds, silence hung in the fog between them.

“Think of me as a coma patient, living an eternity of sensing the things going on around me, unable to experience any of them.  I know what’s happening, what’s about to happen, but I feel nothing.  Such immortality is its own special kind of Hell.  Humanity offers me release from that prison.”

“I’m not interested in being your vessel.”

“I have limitations.  I can only send back one who lingers on death’s doorway, not someone who is beyond natural recovery.   There are rules.  My host must willingly accept my presence and the host remains in control of his or her own being.  His nature is unchanged.  I, on the other hand, get to experience the host’s emotions for the duration of the ride.  I can exist in only one host at a time and, once accepted, I remain with that host until he dies.”

“No thanks.”

“I don’t deny that there’s a down side.  As I said, I don’t change a host’s nature in any way.  But what he feels excites me and some of that excitement feeds back to my host.  The overall effect is that he still loves what he loves and hates what he hates, but much hotter.  He’s the same person he always was, just a little bit more so.  And because my intuitions also bleed over, my hosts find themselves drawn to situations that spike their adrenaline.  Because of that, few of them live to a ripe old age.”

“So you ride these people until they die, then move on to the next person.”

“I never said anything about this being a random selection.  I have certain needs, and those can’t be fulfilled by inhabiting some Siberian dirt farmer or his wife.   With all my limitations, I have a very clear sense of those who stride the life and death boundary, fully immersed in humanity’s greatest and most terrible events.  I always choose a host from this group.”

“Such as?”

“Alexander, Nero, Caligula, Attila,  Joan of Arc, Napoleon, and hundreds of others, including another Jack who once roamed these London alleys.”

“Not a great references list.”

“It’s not about your notions of good or evil.  Whether you want it or not, you are a part of it.”

“So my choice is to die now or to open myself to evil?”

“As I said, I can’t make you anything you aren’t.  Hosting me merely amps up your inner nature.”

“And you expect me to believe that?”

Again the demon paused.  “You pride yourself on your highly developed intuition, your ability to know if someone is lying to you.  What is that inner sense telling you now?”

Jack stared at the shadowy figure before him, inhaled deeply, failed to feel a real breath fill his lungs, and decided.

“I guess I can live with that.”

~ ~ ~

Doctor Misra had filled out and signed the death certificate for one Jack Gregory, the name on the identification card in the man’s wallet.  Sister Mary Judith watched as he took one last look at the chiseled face of the dead man on the table, shook his weary head, and departed.

Having swabbed up most of the blood that dripped from her surgery table, Sister Mary Judith straightened, placed her right hand in the small of her back and pressed, as if that simple act could drive away the pain that hard work and old age had placed there.  Glancing up at the table and the stitched up corpse that lay atop it, she grabbed a white sheet from the freshly laundered stack, flapped it out, and let it fall through the air to slowly drape the body.  As the sheet settled over the dead man’s face, she saw something that sent a shiver up her spine, a shallow billowing in the sheet where it covered his mouth.

Leaning close, she peeled back the cotton cloth, once again placing her finger on the carotid artery.  One strong pulse brought her erect.  Then the man’s eyes fluttered open.   And as Sister Mary Judith stared into those deep brown orbs, a fleeting red glint within those pupils froze her soul.  Unable to deal with the vision that engulfed her, her mind skittered to a safer place, leaving her lips repeating a single phrase, a mantra that would follow her through the remainder of her days.

“Dear Lord, The Ripper walks the earth.”

Chapter 1

Jack had always craved danger’s adrenaline rush.  But in the twenty-two months since his Calcutta deathbed experience and his subsequent rebirth atop the old nun’s surgery table, that craving wrapped him like an anaconda, hard enough to make him question the nature of his near death encounter.  Whether the demon was a deathbed hallucination or had just left out a few key details, it had changed the way he experienced this world.  And if he didn’t get control of it, that craving was going to render him every bit as dead as most of the world thought he already was.

As he sat at one of the outdoor tables, sipping cappuccino and gazing out across the Heidelberg marktplatz, he forced himself to relax into the moment.  He wasn’t the only American in the plaza, but this morning most of the tables beneath the red, blue, green, and white umbrellas were filled with Germans out enjoying a sunny Saturday morning.  From where he sat, he could see the Heidelberg Castle ruins over the tile rooftops of the buildings that lined the square’s southeastern edge.

It was ten o’clock in the morning and, outside the Max Bar, a slender fraulein was busy setting frothy glasses of Romer Pils in front of the four men at the table closest to Jack’s.  From the volume of their conversation and laughter, it was clear this wasn’t their first round and wasn’t likely to be the last.

Wiping his cappuccino mustache onto a paper napkin, Jack pushed back his chair and began a leisurely stroll across the cobblestones, his path carrying him toward his ten thirty appointment on the Alte Brucke, Heidelberg’s picturesque old bridge across the Neckar River.  Officially it was the Karl-Theodor-Brucke, but nobody called it anything but the Old Bridge.  The beauty of the nine red-brick arches that supported the walking bridge made it a favorite for both tourists and locals alike.  It made it a perfect spot for the type of conversation Jack would soon be having.

Jack stopped five meters south of Carl Theodor’s statue, leaned up against the stone railing, and looked out over the Neckar to the east.  The stunning blond woman who stepped up beside him was tall and slender.  Her hair, tied back in a French braid, reached halfway down her back.

“Herr Frazier, is it?”  Her soft German accent enhanced the tonal quality of her voice.

Jack nodded.  “Frau Gunderson.  You can call me Jack.”

She leaned over the stone wall to look down at the water flowing beneath the bridge, then snuggled up close to him, as if they were two lovers standing side by side, taking in the sights.

“You received my package?”

“Yes.”

“Did you find it acceptable?”

The stress in her whispered query carried a desperation she failed to hide.  Jack had felt that sort of desperation in the voices of all of his recent employers, although the reasons behind that desperation were as varied as the people involved.  Alleviating that pain was as important in his choice of employers as the money that came with it.

He smiled.  “Your offer was fine.”

Her breath released with an audible sigh and, when she leaned her face against his, Jack felt her tears dampen his cheek.

“Thank you, Jack.  For the first time in weeks, I feel some hope.”

Jack, enfolded her in his powerful arms, feeling her fall into the protective embrace.  “Hang on to that feeling.”

Taking a big breath, Rachel leaned back to stare directly into his eyes.  “How should I arrange payment?”

“I only take payment when the job is done.”

Recovering her equilibrium, Rachel Gunderson wiped her eyes and gazed up into his face.

“Unusual business practice.”

“It works for me.”

“From what I’ve heard, that’s not surprising.  It’s why I sought you out.  We – I needed the best.”

Taking her two delicate hands in his, Jack gave them a firm squeeze and smiled.

“So, now you can relax.”

Then, with one last look into her blue eyes, he turned and strolled back along the bridge in the direction from which he’d come.

~ ~ ~

From the corner of his eye, Klaus Diebert watched the couple leaning against each other, as he pretended to take in the sights from the opposite side of the bridge.  For the last ten days, he’d shadowed Rachel Gunderson’s every move outside her estate, but this was the first time she’d met someone he didn’t know.  The way she leaned her head into his as they talked, then dabbed away tears as they parted, they could have been secret lovers.  But Klaus knew everything there was to know about the former supermodel and wife of Rolf Gunderson, founder and CEO of Hamburg Technautics.  Klaus knew she had no current lovers, male or female, not even her husband.

Watching the lean man with the short, spiked-up blond hair slide through the crowd as he walked back toward the southern bridge towers, a sense of familiarity seized Klaus.  He didn’t know the man, yet he did.  One predator’s recognition of another.  And this one made his skin crawl.

No doubt about it.  Rachel Gunderson had called in a heavy hitter.

As Rachel turned in the opposite direction, Klaus fought the choice that suddenly confronted him.  His job was to stay on Rachel.  But this might be his best chance to find out just who had decided to involve himself in Rachel’s business.  Right now, Klaus badly wanted to know the answer to that question.

Making up his mind, Klaus began casually strolling along the bridge after the stranger, letting Rachel disappear among the pedestrians behind him.

Chapter 2

Jack had spotted Rachel’s unwanted tail as she approached him.  Now, as he walked away from her along the Alte Brucke, he felt the man’s indecision.  Predictably, the tail disengaged from Rachel and attached itself to his backside.  Feeling anticipation rise up inside, Jack damped it back down.  Self-discipline had become his obsession, the only way to master his newfound addiction.

Passing through the tower-gate on the Alte Brucke’s south side, Jack crossed the street and entered the Wirtshaus Zum Nepomuk, taking a seat by the window.  It was one of Jack’s favorite spots in Heidelberg, good food, good drink, and good atmosphere, all in a small package.  Right now it was giving his tail a problem.  Following Jack inside would be a dead giveaway, and standing out on the street wouldn’t do either.  Also, since the gasthaus was situated on the corner across from the Alte Brucke, there were no convenient shops or bars from which a watcher could casually maintain surveillance while Jack ate lunch.  And he planned a leisurely repast.  Might as well start this new relationship on his terms, especially since it wasn’t likely to last.

Holding up a finger, Jack signaled the waitress.  “Der speisekarte, bitte?”

In moments, she returned with the leather bound menu, took his drink order, and departed.  Although Jack knew the menu by heart, he took his time, using the menu and the fact that the restaurant interior was darker than the street outside to mask his study of his opponent.  The man was a couple of inches taller than Jack, about six foot three, flaxen hair tied back in a short pony tail, with weight lifter musculature.   He wore a tan blazer over khaki pants.  Although no bulge gave it away, the way his left arm moved told Jack he wore a holstered gun beneath that shoulder.

The man stopped on the opposite side of the street and looked around, letting his gaze casually sweep the gasthaus before moving off to the west.  Taking a seat beneath a tree alongside Neckerstaden, he leaned back, just a man enjoying a leisurely summer day.  There were two problems with that approach.  It placed him in the open where Jack could watch him and ensured he could only see the gasthaus entrance, not the man within.

Jack ordered his meal, then sipped his beer until his plate arrived.  As usual, the Jaeger Schnitzel was to die for.  But he wouldn’t be the one dying today.

Across the street, the man beneath the tree stood up, looked toward the gasthaus, and raised his cellphone to his ear.  In so doing, he was weighed, measured, and found wanting.  An impatient man.

Jack signaled the waitress.

“Ich möchte zahlen.”

She handed him the check and he handed her fifteen Euros.  Waving away the change, he stepped through the door and out into the bright sunlight.

Jack turned left, letting his feet carry him back onto the Alte Brucke and across the Neckar, before cutting diagonally across Neuenheimer Landstrasse.  As he turned up the narrow Schlengenweg trail, he felt his stalker pick up the pace, trying to keep Jack in sight.  With the houses dropping away behind him, the walking trail wound its way up the densely wooded hill.  Rounding a bend, Jack stepped behind a tree, stopped, and waited.   He didn’t have to wait long.

As the bigger man rounded the bend in the trail, Jack’s flying elbow caught him flush on the nose, dropping him to the ground as if he’d been pole axed.   Before the fellow could roll to his knees, Jack kicked him in the side of the head and dragged him into the dense underbrush.

Laying the man on his back, Jack took a cellphone photo of his face and then fished his wallet, passport, and cellphone from his pockets.  Plugging a small attachment into his phone, Jack swiped each of the man’s credit cards through the slot in the device, also swiping the magnetic strip on the man’s ID card.   Klaus Diebert.

Jack opened the passport, taking more photos as he flipped through its pages.  Then, attaching a cable between his cellphone and Klaus’s, he copied the contents of Klaus’s phone to his.

Without bothering to wipe away his own prints, Jack returned everything to Klaus’s pockets.  The sooner the bad guys found out exactly who they were dealing with the better.  Leaving the Glock 17 in its shoulder holster and the ankle knife in its sheath, Jack turned Klaus on his side so he wouldn’t drown in the blood draining from his broken nose.

Then, with a quick check to verify that no passers-by were visible on the Schlengenweg trail, he began the leisurely stroll back to his motorcycle.

Chapter 3

Thirty kilometers southeast of Heidelberg, Rachel drove the winding road to Castle Gunderson, the thirty meter high granite walls giving way to the towering edifice that rose above the vineyard draped hillsides, the castle’s spires rising like the pikes of ancient knights, doing their best to thrust back the modern world.  As she passed through the arched gateway into the inner grounds, she let the Mercedes idle down, paused to admire the engine’s low thrum, then switched it off,  stepped out, and tossed the keys to the groom.  Not really a groom.  It just felt like she should be tossing her horse’s reins to a groom.  The baroness returning to her lord baron’s keep.

Bypassing the butler holding open the massive door into the great hall, she felt the familiar feeling.  Despite the best efforts of the priceless carpets and tapestries, the cold leached in through the granite floors and walls to freeze her soul.  No matter how many servants her husband placed at her disposal, she still felt trapped.  A prized bird in a gilded cage.  Nothing more.

Stepping into the small elevator that would carry her to the living quarters on the fourth floor, Rachel pressed the button.  When she stepped out into the south hallway, she paused before the huge painting of the first Baron Gunderson, ridiculously garbed in tights and a ruffled  red jacket, seated in a chair that looked like a throne.  In the soft lighting, his eyes seemed to follow her disapprovingly, as if to imply that she should have used the stairs.

A vision of the man she had just hired leapt into her mind.  Jack Gregory.  AKA Jack Frazier.  AKA The Ripper.  The reputedly dead ex-CIA agent turned enforcer for hire seemed to be everything she had hoped.  Just over six feet tall, he moved like an Olympic athlete. His short-spiked blond hair framed an angular face with brown eyes that drilled into her soul.  Snake charmer’s eyes. When she’d leaned against him, she’d felt lean, hard muscle ripple beneath his skin.  But she’d detected something else in the man, an otherworldly energy, as if his body could barely contain the force within.  Like one of those plasma globes with electrical arcs crawling around its interior, perpetually seeking release, Jack exuded an aura of caged, deadly electricity.

What had he said to her?

“So, now you can relax.”

Something in his voice, something in the way he’d looked deep into her eyes made her believe.  And dear God, she wanted to believe.

She hadn’t always been so vulnerable.  The daughter of Hans and Crista Veigert, she’d been the favorite child.  The popular girl.  It had not surprised her when Sports Illustrated had asked her to do its swimsuit shoot.  She’d expected to win the competition and she had.  After that, the magazine covers, the money, and the fame had come so easy.  Nothing surprised her.  Not even when the famed industrialist playboy, Rolf Gunderson, had fallen under her spell.  After all, she was the chosen one.  It was her destiny.

What a massive double handful of crap.

She’d been a spring lamb, primed for slaughter.  But Rolf hadn’t slaughtered her.  He’d placed her on a very public pedestal.  And in so doing, he’d imprisoned her more thoroughly than if he’d chained her in Castle Gunderson’s deepest dungeon, a prime tribute to the Gunderson Barony’s medieval roots.

Walking down the south hallway, Rachel entered her private chambers.  Private chambers.  A vivid description of her marital status.  Rolf’s true love had always been technology.  Technology brought money and money bought power.  Once legally married, he’d lost all interest in his trophy wife.  She was just one more checkmark on Rolf’s to-do list.   Power was what he wanted.  It was what Vladimir Roskov wanted.  And unlike Rachel, the Russian mobster had Rolf by the balls.  Unfortunately, that meant he owned her too.

Stripping out of her clothes, Rachel let them fall to the floor, turning to stare at her reflection in the full-length, mirrored closet doors.  It had been five years since the Sports Illustrated cover and, as far as Rachel could tell, she still looked just as good.  Turning to look over her shoulder at the reflection of her Pilates tightened ass, Rachel pursed her lips, slipped between her sheets, squeezed her eyes closed, and hugged a fluffy pillow to her chest.   Whether Rolf appreciated it or not, she still had a very nice ass.

Hopefully The Ripper could save it.

Chapter 4

Rolf Gunderson stepped off the corporate jet’s bottom step onto the dark surface of the Yubileiny Airfield and stretched his tall, slender body, feeling the anticipation of the upcoming launch leach from the taxiway through the soles of his Italian shoes, directly into his soul.  He shook hands with Igor Laskov, the Russian charged with ensuring that the mating of his special payload with the Proton launch vehicle went smoothly.  And although the launch date was still a few weeks away, the importance of this mission meant that Gunderson had the scientist’s full attention.

This wasn’t Rolf’s first trip to the Baikonur Cosmodrome, but it was the first time he’d arrived at sunset.  Behind Igor, the great orange ball of the sun settled to the surface of the vast, flat expanse, seeming to grow larger as it silhouetted the distant towers and buildings of Proton Launch Pad 39 against a blood red sky.  Of all the lonely spots on earth, this one had an otherworldly feel all its own.

“Stunning, yes?” Igor’s voice broke through Rolf’s reverie.

“We could be standing on another planet.”

“If governments learn to listen to men like us, we will.”

“Even governments can be brought to heel by those of sufficient vision.”

Rolf stepped toward the black limousine, its right rear door held open by a Russian soldier. As Igor climbed in the other side, the sedan’s engine rumbled to life.

Igor looked inquiringly at Rolf.  “Would you like to go to the hotel and get a night’s sleep after your long trip.”

“No. Take me to see it.”

Building 92A-50 occupied a spot on the cosmodrome’s northwest corner, the Proton rocket preparation and payload mating facility positioned adjacent to Launch Pads 24 and 39.  Bigger than two football fields, the building currently housed two pieces of equipment that Rolf really cared about.  By the time the sedan pulled up near the door that would grant him access to that staging area, only the twin floodlights above the door pushed back the darkness.

Although he knew exactly where the XKM-1 payload rested while his engineers performed final checks, Rolf let Igor lead the way.  The Russian hardly looked the part of Russia’s most brilliant rocket scientist.  He could have played the stereotypical Soviet era general in a remake of an old Cold War movie.  But beneath that gruff exterior beat the heart of a man in love with his work.  Igor had known that Rolf had no interest in freshening up at the hotel because he would have had no such interest.

Any spacecraft launch was exciting stuff, but this one would be special.  A previous launch had carried aloft the other half of this mission, the lander that would gently set this payload on the surface of the moon.  Once released, Rolf’s module would dock with that lander and the mated pair would begin their history making journey.  After landing, the Experimental Robotic Mining Vehicle dubbed XRMV-1, would embark on its five year mission to prove the viability of remotely mining rare earth metals and staging them for transport back to earth.  The duration and required power for this mission mandated the most sophisticated nuclear power generator ever created for a space vehicle.

Getting prepped for the clean room took time, but Rolf had done it so often over the years it had become routine.  Once suited up and inside, he walked directly to the nuclear generator that sat on its own cradle, not scheduled for mounting on the Proton launch vehicle until the plutonium power cell was inserted, and that wouldn’t happen until shortly before launch.  The man that strode to meet him was Heinrich Glatch, his lead engineer in charge of the night shift.

“Herr Gunderson.  It’s good to see you got in okay.  How was your flight?”

“Long.”

No need for small talk or briefings.  His team had learned long ago that Rolf despised these corporate wastes of time.  He already knew that things were progressing precisely on schedule.

Moving up beside the generator, Rolf placed a gloved hand atop it.  It was Rolf’s design from top to bottom, a design that would provide all the power the XRMV-1 would require.  He walked around the gleaming engineering marvel, his familiar presence ignored by his team.  Comparing what he was seeing to his clear mental image of the design specifications, Rolf felt a slow smile lift the corners of his mouth.

There was no doubt in his mind that this power package would enable the most advanced mining robot ever constructed to prove that companies could make money mining the moon – vast hordes of it.  He would be the modern Queen Isabella, launching Columbus on the first of many missions to funnel riches back from a new world.

Unfortunately, neither this power package nor this mining robot was going to get the opportunity to accomplish that mission.

Despite how exquisitely the power package had been designed and constructed, it had been primarily designed for rapid replacement by its doppelganger.  That replacement package was currently undergoing final assembly and testing inside a warehouse in Kyzylorda, two hundred and fifty kilometers to the southeast, a warehouse owned and operated by Vladimir Roskov.  And that package was going to pave the way for all the extraterrestrial claims Rolf and others would stake.

The raft of international treaties that currently restricted extra-terrestrial body claimant rights prevented profitable exploitation.  So, before he proved just how incredibly profitable it could be for corporations to stake claim to huge sections of the moon, asteroids, and planets, those rules had to be rewritten.  And that meant casting aside their shortsighted author, the United States of America.  In the end, all advances sprouted from the seeds of exploitation these shortsighted, politically-correct rules were designed to poison.

As Rolf stepped back to gaze proudly at his creation, he knew that it and each of the engineering marvels that would follow owed their future existence to the evil twin that was about to be born in Kyzylorda. Without a doubt, that beautiful-ugly baby would change the world.   And just like in Isabella’s day, the spread of mankind across vast, dark seas was about to commence, to the greater glory of all.

Chapter 5

“Tell me what you’ve got.”

That voice, even if only through the phone, always gave Rita Chavez a cold thrill, like the man had just slipped a sweating ice cube along the small of her bare back, arching her body at precisely the right moment.  It was a bright Riviera memory, courtesy of a hot summer evening, the Intercontinental Carlton Cannes, and the fascinating CIA killer known as Jack Gregory.

But even though he clearly wasn’t as DECEASED as his official file labeled him, Jack wasn’t CIA anymore.  And Rita shouldn’t be giving him shit.  Then again, a girl had to make a living.  And through a series of offshore bank accounts, Jack was paying her very, very well.  That was okay.  She was worth every Euro.

“Klaus Diebert, AKA Karl Weiden, AKA James Reirdon.  A record as long as your arm, but never more than two consecutive years in the slammer.   Interesting thing, that.   All those prosecuting attorneys suddenly losing their courtroom mojo when they went after Klaus.”

“Why is that?”

“Nothing to do with him.  He works for an organization that reports to Vladimir Roskov.”

“Ahh.”

“You know him?”

“I know his dossier.”

“His CIA dossier?”

“Yes.”

“Interested in his complete Interpol file?”

“That’s what I’m paying you for.”

“And if I could provide his FSB file?”

“That’d be worth a little extra.”

“Define a little.”

“Worth your while.”

A smile spread across Rita’s face.  She just wished he was in Paris right now so she could deliver the package in person.

“Jack.  You know you’ll always be my only love.”

“That won’t get you more.”

Rita laughed her deep, throaty laugh and then clicked the button on her MacBook Pro.

“Okay Jack.  Here it comes.”

Once Dead – Chapters 1 and 2

Chapter 1

Jack had always craved danger’s adrenaline rush.  But in the twenty-two months since his Calcutta deathbed experience and his subsequent rebirth atop the old nun’s surgery table, that craving wrapped him like an anaconda, hard enough to make him question the nature of his near death encounter.  Whether the demon was a deathbed hallucination or had just left out a few key details, it had changed the way he experienced this world.  And if he didn’t get control of it, that craving was going to render him every bit as dead as most of the world thought he already was.

As he sat at one of the outdoor tables, sipping cappuccino and gazing out across the Heidelberg marktplatz, he forced himself to relax into the moment.  He wasn’t the only American in the plaza, but this morning most of the tables beneath the red, blue, green, and white umbrellas were filled with Germans out enjoying a sunny Saturday morning.  From where he sat, he could see the Heidelberg Castle ruins over the tile rooftops of the buildings that lined the square’s southeastern edge.

It was ten o’clock in the morning and, outside the Max Bar, a slender fraulein was busy setting frothy glasses of Romer Pils in front of the four men at the table closest to Jack’s.  From the volume of their conversation and laughter, it was clear this wasn’t their first round and wasn’t likely to be the last.

Wiping his cappuccino mustache onto a paper napkin, Jack pushed back his chair and began a leisurely stroll across the cobblestones, his path carrying him toward his ten thirty appointment on the Alte Brucke, Heidelberg’s picturesque old bridge across the Neckar River.  Officially it was the Karl-Theodor-Brucke, but nobody called it anything but the Old Bridge.  The beauty of the nine red-brick arches that supported the walking bridge made it a favorite for both tourists and locals alike.  It made it a perfect spot for the type of conversation Jack would soon be having.

Jack stopped five meters south of Carl Theodor’s statue, leaned up against the stone railing, and looked out over the Neckar to the east.  The stunning blond woman who stepped up beside him was tall and slender.  Her hair, tied back in a French braid, reached halfway down her back.

“Herr Frazier, is it?”  Her soft German accent enhanced the tonal quality of her voice.

Jack nodded.  “Frau Gunderson.  You can call me Jack.”

She leaned over the stone wall to look down at the water flowing beneath the bridge, then snuggled up close to him, as if they were two lovers standing side by side, taking in the sights.

“You received my package?”

“Yes.”

“Did you find it acceptable?”

The stress in her whispered query carried a desperation she failed to hide.  Jack had felt that sort of desperation in the voices of all of his recent employers, although the reasons behind that desperation were as varied as the people involved.  Alleviating that pain was as important in his choice of employers as the money that came with it.

He smiled.  “Your offer was fine.”

Her breath released with an audible sigh and, when she leaned her face against his, Jack felt her tears dampen his cheek.

“Thank you, Jack.  For the first time in weeks, I feel some hope.”

Jack, enfolded her in his powerful arms, feeling her fall into the protective embrace.  “Hang on to that feeling.”

Taking a big breath, Rachel leaned back to stare directly into his eyes.  “How should I arrange payment?”

“I only take payment when the job is done.”

Recovering her equilibrium, Rachel Gunderson wiped her eyes and gazed up into his face.

“Unusual business practice.”

“It works for me.”

“From what I’ve heard, that’s not surprising.  It’s why I sought you out.  We – I needed the best.”

Taking her two delicate hands in his, Jack gave them a firm squeeze and smiled.

“So, now you can relax.”

Then, with one last look into her blue eyes, he turned and strolled back along the bridge in the direction from which he’d come.

~ ~ ~

From the corner of his eye, Klaus Diebert watched the couple leaning against each other, as he pretended to take in the sights from the opposite side of the bridge.  For the last ten days, he’d shadowed Rachel Gunderson’s every move outside her estate, but this was the first time she’d met someone he didn’t know.  The way she leaned her head into his as they talked, then dabbed away tears as they parted, they could have been secret lovers.  But Klaus knew everything there was to know about the former supermodel and wife of Rolf Gunderson, founder and CEO of Hamburg Technautics.  Klaus knew she had no current lovers, male or female, not even her husband.

Watching the lean man with the short, spiked-up blond hair slide through the crowd as he walked back toward the southern bridge towers, a sense of familiarity seized Klaus.  He didn’t know the man, yet he did.  One predator’s recognition of another.  And this one made his skin crawl.

No doubt about it.  Rachel Gunderson had called in a heavy hitter.

As Rachel turned in the opposite direction, Klaus fought the choice that suddenly confronted him.  His job was to stay on Rachel.  But this might be his best chance to find out just who had decided to involve himself in Rachel’s business.  Right now, Klaus badly wanted to know the answer to that question.

Making up his mind, Klaus began casually strolling along the bridge after the stranger, letting Rachel disappear among the pedestrians behind him.

Chapter 2

Jack had spotted Rachel’s unwanted tail as she approached him.  Now, as he walked away from her along the Alte Brucke, he felt the man’s indecision.  Predictably, the tail disengaged from Rachel and attached itself to his backside.  Feeling anticipation rise up inside, Jack damped it back down.  Self-discipline had become his obsession, the only way to master his newfound addiction.

Passing through the tower-gate on the Alte Brucke’s south side, Jack crossed the street and entered the Wirtshaus Zum Nepomuk, taking a seat by the window.  It was one of Jack’s favorite spots in Heidelberg, good food, good drink, and good atmosphere, all in a small package.  Right now it was giving his tail a problem.  Following Jack inside would be a dead giveaway, and standing out on the street wouldn’t do either.  Also, since the gasthaus was situated on the corner across from the Alte Brucke, there were no convenient shops or bars from which a watcher could casually maintain surveillance while Jack ate lunch.  And he planned a leisurely repast.  Might as well start this new relationship on his terms, especially since it wasn’t likely to last.

Holding up a finger, Jack signaled the waitress.  “Der speisekarte, bitte?”

In moments, she returned with the leather bound menu, took his drink order, and departed.  Although Jack knew the menu by heart, he took his time, using the menu and the fact that the restaurant interior was darker than the street outside to mask his study of his opponent.  The man was a couple of inches taller than Jack, about six foot three, flaxen hair tied back in a short pony tail, with weight lifter musculature.   He wore a tan blazer over khaki pants.  Although no bulge gave it away, the way his left arm moved told Jack he wore a holstered gun beneath that shoulder.

The man stopped on the opposite side of the street and looked around, letting his gaze casually sweep the gasthaus before moving off to the west.  Taking a seat beneath a tree alongside Neckerstaden, he leaned back, just a man enjoying a leisurely summer day.  There were two problems with that approach.  It placed him in the open where Jack could watch him and ensured he could only see the gasthaus entrance, not the man within.

Jack ordered his meal, then sipped his beer until his plate arrived.  As usual, the Jaeger Schnitzel was to die for.  But he wouldn’t be the one dying today.

Across the street, the man beneath the tree stood up, looked toward the gasthaus, and raised his cellphone to his ear.  In so doing, he was weighed, measured, and found wanting.  An impatient man.

Jack signaled the waitress.

“Ich möchte zahlen.”

She handed him the check and he handed her fifteen Euros.  Waving away the change, he stepped through the door and out into the bright sunlight.

Jack turned left, letting his feet carry him back onto the Alte Brucke and across the Neckar, before cutting diagonally across Neuenheimer Landstrasse.  As he turned up the narrow Schlengenweg trail, he felt his stalker pick up the pace, trying to keep Jack in sight.  With the houses dropping away behind him, the walking trail wound its way up the densely wooded hill.  Rounding a bend, Jack stepped behind a tree, stopped, and waited.   He didn’t have to wait long.

As the bigger man rounded the bend in the trail, Jack’s flying elbow caught him flush on the nose, dropping him to the ground as if he’d been pole axed.   Before the fellow could roll to his knees, Jack kicked him in the side of the head and dragged him into the dense underbrush.

Laying the man on his back, Jack took a cellphone photo of his face and then fished his wallet, passport, and cellphone from his pockets.  Plugging a small attachment into his phone, Jack swiped each of the man’s credit cards through the slot in the device, also swiping the magnetic strip on the man’s ID card.   Klaus Diebert.

Jack opened the passport, taking more photos as he flipped through its pages.  Then, attaching a cable between his cellphone and Klaus’s, he copied the contents of Klaus’s phone to his.

Without bothering to wipe away his own prints, Jack returned everything to Klaus’s pockets.  The sooner the bad guys found out exactly who they were dealing with the better.  Leaving the Glock 17 in its shoulder holster and the ankle knife in its sheath, Jack turned Klaus on his side so he wouldn’t drown in the blood draining from his broken nose.

Then, with a quick check to verify that no passers-by were visible on the Schlengenweg trail, he began the leisurely stroll back to his motorcycle.