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  “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?”

  The truth was that, at the moment, it wasn’t telling him shit. Or maybe it was, and Jack was just too damn tired to listen. 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 year 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 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 Römer 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 Brücke, Heidelberg’s picturesque old bridge across the Neckar River. Officially it was the Karl-Theodor-Brücke, 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 was a perfect spot for the type of conversation Jack would soon be having.

  Jack stopped five meters south of Karl 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, held 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 Koenig. 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 Koenig 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 Koenig’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 Koenig, 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 Koenig 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 Brücke, 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 Brücke’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 Brücke, 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. “Die 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 weightlifter 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 the tail 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 cell phone 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 Brücke and across the Neckar, before cutting diagonally across Neuenheimer Landstrasse. As he turned up the narrow Schlangenweg 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 cell-phone photo of his face and then fished his wallet, passport, and phone 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 passersby were visible on the Schlangenweg trail, he began the leisurely stroll back to his motorcycle.

  CHAPTER 3

  Thirty kilometers southeast of Heidelberg, Rachel drove the winding road to the castle known as Königsberg, 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 Koenig, 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. A.k.a. Jack Frazier. A.k.a. 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. It was the level of competition she’d been born for. After that, the magazine covers, the money, and the fame had come so easily. Nothing surprised her. Not even when the famed industrialist playboy, Rolf Koenig, 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 Königsberg’s deepest dungeon, a prime tribute to the Koenig 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 shoulde
r 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 Koenig stepped off the corporate jet’s bottom stair onto the dark surface of the Yubileiny Airfield and stretched his tall, slender body, feeling the anticipation of the upcoming event 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 Koenig 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 security guard. As Igor climbed in the other side, the sedan’s engine rumbled to life.