Morvicti Blood (A Morvicti Novel Book 1) (12 page)

She ran her finger over her cell’s surface. An image of Michael appeared. She didn’t bring it to her ear, as the man on the street had done, but held it out in front of her.

A live image of Michael, a little older than the man he’d taken the bullet for in Iraq but still recognizable, filled the screen. It was obvious that technology had advanced a great deal since he’d been gone. The driver of the van had been right; his flip phone was old.

Michael’s voice came through Angelique’s cell. “Hey, honey. Sorry, I ended up staying longer but—”

She shook her head. “Michael, wait. Don’t come home. Someone is watching our flat. Where can we meet?”

“Don’t go anywhere. Make sure the doors are locked. Get my spare gun out of my desk drawer. It’s loaded. I’ll—”

Austin grabbed the device out of Angelique’s hand. “Can you see me, Remington?”

“What the hell! Austin?” Michael frowned.

“No time to talk. There’s an unfriendly outside this place. I need to get Angelique out of here and back to you.”

Michael’s eyes narrowed in apparent disbelief. Not surprising that he didn’t believe it was him. “Understood. I’ll text you coordinates to a safe place we can meet.”

“Michael, you be careful, too,” Angelique’s voice trembled.

“I’ll send some officers to our place to deal with the unfriendly.”

Officers? Doesn’t sound like a state department guy to me.

When Austin saw the man across the street head their direction, he grabbed his sister. She clutched her purse.

They went back into the other room. Keeping hold of the gun he’d retrieved from the headless victim, he picked up the bag with the dead man’s clothes. They ran out of her flat and rushed down the service stairs. Having been in dangerous situations before, he automatically focused his senses on his surroundings.

He could hear the hurried footsteps on the main stairs of the man he’d spotted on the street below Angelique’s window.

“Where do these stairs lead to?” he asked in a low tone.

“A small, private courtyard.”

When they came to a door with a keypad, the heavy pounding at Angelique’s home above them resonated in their ears. She quickly punched in numbers and the door’s locks gave way.

They bolted out into the open space, and he shut the door behind them.

Angelique let out a sigh. “The keypad should keep that guy, whoever he is, from following us. The door won’t open without the code.”

“Maybe, but we need to keep moving.” He hated seeing the panic on her face. Had he brought trouble to her, or was she already in trouble? He thought about the framed photo he’d seen by his bedside. The answer might have been a little of both.

He spotted a narrow walkway squeezed between two of the buildings. “Let’s go.”

As they ran through the passage, they heard several shots behind them.

“Oh God.” His sister’s eyes were wide with fear. “He’s shooting the keypad.”

When they came out the other side of the passage, they stepped onto a curve of a narrow street.

Grabbing her hand, they went right, passing the Lamb and Flag Pub. A man with a white apron stood outside the place smoking.

As they ran past the smoker, Austin turned to his sister. “We have to go where there’s a lot of people.”

“Piccadilly Circus is a ten minute walk. Half that if we run.”

“Lead the way.” Just before they took another right, he glanced back at the opening of the narrow passage they’d come from. So far, there was no sign of their assailant, thank God.

He tucked the gun into the pocket of the jacket but kept his hand firmly wrapped around its grip.

Continuing to race at a heartbreaking pace, Angelique led them down several London streets. Staying alert, he constantly checked behind them.

They passed just a few people along the way, who gave them the typical English subtle glance.

“Crowds, Angelique. That’s what we need.”

She nodded, never slowing.

Out of breath, she said, “The block up ahead is always busy, especially since The Hippodrome was turned into a casino. Piccadilly is even busier.”

“Let’s slow down so as not to attract any more attention.”

“Okay. Just a few more blocks.”

He put his arm around her shoulder. “Good.”

“Do you think we lost him?” she asked.

Looking back once again, he spotted the man, who at the exact same moment had clearly spotted him. Their assailant rushed toward them. “Run, Sis. Into the casino. We’ll lose him in there.” As they bolted to The Hippodrome, he thought about letting her go on ahead so he could neutralize the guy, but this location didn’t serve that plan. There were too many on the street.

They walked under the sign that read “Welcome to the Hippodrome. Free Entry—No Membership.”

They headed up four steps through an archway. The noisy casino served them well. When they came out into the open area, he pulled Angelique left and moved into a dark alcove.

Thirty seconds later, he saw the man who’d been chasing them appear at the top of the entry archway.

Austin tightened his hold on the pistol in the pocket of the jacket.

A heavyset gambler, who was noticeably intoxicated, bumped into their assailant, knocking them both to the floor. “Sorry, sir. I’m a bit pissed.”

The man stood, dusting himself off before offering a hand to the drunk. “You need to be more careful, sir, especially when you are drinking.”

Austin detected a slight Slavic tone in the man’s British accent.

A security guard noticed the altercation and walked over. “Problem?”

Dark Suit frowned. “No. Everything is fine.”

“My fault,” the fat drunk said, struggling to his feet.

“You two need to come with me,” the guard said firmly.

Seeing Dark Suit reach into his overcoat, Austin prepared to bring out his weapon.

When he saw him pass some identification over to the guard, he loosened his hold on his pistol, but didn’t let go of it completely.

The guard looked shocked by what he saw. “Is this for real?”

“Yes.” Dark Suit smiled, taking back his credentials.

“I’m so sorry for the trouble, Commissioner Poole.” The guard stepped back. “What brings the head of the City of London’s Police Service to The Hippodrome today?”

“Commissioner Poole?” Angelique whispered, her shock mirroring his own. “What kind of trouble are you in, Austin?”

He shrugged, thinking he could ask her the same question.

“Just thought I might try my hand at one of your tables.” The lie came off the commissioner’s lips like silk. “It’s my day off.”

“I thought so. This is outside your jurisdiction, isn’t it?”

“Sure is. I’m happy to let the Met handle the rest of London.”

The fat man smiled; his eyes heavy with drink. “Guard, this gentleman has done nothing wrong,” he said, slurring his words. “I swear.”

“I know he hasn’t, sir.” The guard was visibly irritated with the drunk. “You have.”

“Do you need anything else from me?” The commissioner scanned the casino.

“No, sir. I need to escort this gentleman out.”

“But I would like another drink.”

“Not happening, sir,” the guard said.

Without another word, the man who had followed them from Angelique’s home turned opposite their direction, heading deeper into The Hippodrome.

When the coast was clear, he and Angelique ran back to the arch, past the guard and fat man, and back out onto the street.

A couple was getting out of a black cab. He and Angelique jumped in.

“Where to?” the driver asked.

Angelique brought out her cell. “Coach and Horses Yard. Fast.”

As the driver pulled away, Austin saw the Commissioner step out of the casino talking on his cell. He seemed unaware that they were in the taxi.

CHAPTER 20

10:58 AM

Dr. Thomas Wilson relit his pipe, enjoying the aroma of his favorite tobacco. Being in his home surrounded by his possessions gave him little comfort. Trying to quiet his fears of the current situation, he ran his hand over the arm of his chair, which he’d acquired long ago during a trip to Scotland. The large wingback had spoken to him with its new, dark leather. Now, its fabric had years of wear, like him.

He looked down at the notes he’d been preparing for his interview with the BBC.

“Special delivery for you, Dr. Wilson.” Gita came in carrying a small box.

“It’s likely something for the lab.”

She shook her head. “It’s addressed directly to you, but there’s no return address.”

A shiver ran up and down his spine as he thought about the horrific letter he had received from the killer Monday. It, too, had no return address. “Hand it here.”

Trembling slightly, partially from his disease and partially from his anxiety, he placed the little box on top of his stack of newspapers.

Gita peered over his shoulder. “Do you think it could be from The Ripper?”

“I hope not.” Thankfully, his medications were keeping his Parkinson’s under control. He could not imagine having to ask Gita to open the package. Even with his disease, he had always managed to be independent.

Using his letter opener, he sliced the tape that sealed the box. Inside, sat an envelope and a smaller carton. On the envelope were the words: “A gift for you, Dear Boss.”

He recognized the handwriting. It matched The Ripper’s initial letter to him.

Wilson took a deep drag on his pipe, as the final words of the killer’s first note vibrated silently on his lips.

I admire your work, Wilson. More to come, dear Boss. More to Come.

He had an odd feeling in the pit of his stomach on just what kind of present the bastard might have sent him. “Let’s go to the lab.”

“You’re not going to open it?”

“Not until I have gloves on. And all of them are in the laboratory, my dear.”

“Very smart, sir. We don’t want to disturb any fingerprints.”

“Care to join me in this endeavor, Gita?”

“Absolutely.” As frightened as she appeared, her curiosity seemed to propel her forward. Like him, she wanted to know if this package had really come from The Ripper, or was just something innocuous from one of Wilson’s distant relatives or admiring students.

He held the box and took Gita’s hand. They stepped into the lift and went down to the floor below. Walking through the double doors, he entered the most sacred space in the world to him—his beloved laboratory. Quite the opposite of his quarters above, which were reminiscent of an earlier age, this massive room was modern in every way with its bright lights, computers, and stainless steel surfaces.

“Dr. Wilson, how are you doing?” The man who spoke was perched on a stool in front of some slides, pulling on a pair of neoprene gloves. He was the only person Wilson didn’t recognize.

“Mr. Reeves, I assume.”

“Yes, sir. John.”

“May I have everyone’s attention?” He appreciated their hard work, but he didn’t want to expose them to whatever gift the monster had sent. There would be too many questions and not enough answers. “Today is a holiday. Everyone go home.”

“Sir, are you sure?” Reeves seemed to have a fire and eagerness for his research.

He admired that greatly in anyone.
There are so few.
“I’m certain. Bring me a pair of gloves and then go. All of you.”

One bolted out the door. The other three, including Reeves, seemed confused.

Sharpening his tone, he said, “I do not want to repeat myself.”

The rest left, save Reeves. The lad brought him the gloves as requested.

Reeves’s eyes fell to the package. “Anything I can help you with, sir? I’d be happy to assist.”

“Thank you, but I will be fine.”
Will I? Really?
“Just want to inspect the lab and make sure everyone is following my protocols.”

“I think you’ll be happy with what you find, sir. I know I was when your team gave me the tour this morning. Thank you again for this amazing opportunity.”

“Go enjoy the day, young man.”

Reeves walked out, leaving him and Gita alone in the space.

Wilson placed the box on the nearest table, donning the gloves. He carefully brought out the note, unfolding the paper. The script he saw matched that of the previous letter, though the message was more succinct and had no grammatical errors. Perhaps the killer wasn’t as illiterate as previously believed. Was the man trying to present a more educated version of himself in this note?

A gift for you, Boss. I know you will like it. Want to help you with your work.

Jack

Wilson tried to digest the full meaning of the letter. If his first inclination was right, he needed to act cautiously.