by Ben Hopkin
From the #1 bestselling author in Hard Boiled Mysteries and Police Procedurals, Ben Hopkin, comes a new Harbinger crossover thriller, Soho Slasher.
**Warning, this collection contains graphic crime scenes and frightening situations. Please do not purchase this collection if you have a weak stomach or frighten easily!
Praise for Soho Slasher…
“Soho Slasher is a thrill ride that will keep you up in the wee hours of morning turning pages. A brilliantly written serial killer novel that delves into the history of the unsolved Ripper case in Britain. Kent a knowledgeable profiler with a smartass sense of humor and Kyra the loner, team up to search for the copycat Jack the Ripper. But, will they find this copycat in time to save a life. From beginning to end the novel will have you on the edge of your seat. This is a must read for all crime/serial killer fans”!
Amazon reader
Metal Princess
“Ben... know(s) how to take the reader right into the plot and keep you involved from page one to the last and you will be panting for the next book they write. This is not the first book that I have experienced from them and it surely will not be my last, they are permanently on my favorite authors list. Action and emotions run high in their new crossover thriller series so don't miss out.”
DD Gott
Amazon Reviewer
“I've always been a big fan of anything related to Jack the Ripper; whether fiction or non-fiction and I've got a pretty good handle on the events that occurred in 1888 in Whitechapel so when I saw that this book was about the Ripper I couldn't wait to get started. So far, every book I've read by Mr. Hopkin has been a great story that moved fast and kept me interested to the point where I didn't want to put it down at all. This book didn't digress from that reaction. This book deals with a copy-cat killer of the original Ripper who's killing women in London who are prostitutes and have the same names as the Ripper's victims. Throw in a honeymooning detective couple from the States & an independent profiler who was taught by the American detective as well as adding the husband- Kent, likes to rub people the wrong way when he's investigating and you have yourself a very entertaining mystery on your hands. This story has interesting characters and I got a few chuckles out of some of the things the American detective thought and said to people and on top of that you get a great mystery that links back to someone whom history considers it's first serial killer in the modern sense of the word; you can't beat it.”
Amazon Reader
Mike S.
“...it's one twist after another as it builds to a stunning conclusion. All I could think was ... And this only the beginning! This new Harbinger crossover is Brilliant!”
Anna Salamantin
Amazon Reviewer
Anyone who enjoys mystery/thrillers such as James Patterson, Lee Child, and Patricia Cornwell, Soho Slasher will definitely satisfy your need for suspense!
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Copyright
PROLOGUE
Kyra Karela landed hard on the ground, the breath forced from her body by the impact. In spite of having the breath knocked out of her, she managed to inhale enough to cry out to her team in warning.
“Get down!” she cried out. “Get down, all of you!”
Her team scattered, most of them dropping right where they were. Darchak, the team’s resident hacker, stood for a moment like a startled rabbit, then darted to an outcropping of rock that grew out of the side of the mountainous hill they were climbing.
Once he was behind the cover, Kyra was confident her team was as safe as they could be while still under fire. Darchak’s presence was necessary, but his experience was more about tech, less about out-and-out combat. Everyone else would be able to make do on their own.
Jacques, Kyra’s public relations guru, sprinted over to her side, in spite of the fact that there was a nice bit of cover right where he had been. He fell in beside her, his breath heavy in her ear.
“Are you all right?” he panted, his brows furrowed in worry.
Kyra just looked at him, her eyebrows raised. In every way possible, Jacques was a true professional, with the heart and tongue of a diplomat and the training of the military elite. Well, in every sense except for his heart. The man let his affections get the better of him.
And his affections seemed determined to point right at Kyra.
Her instinct was to use that emotional attachment she knew Jacques had for her. To take it and manipulate it to serve her own ends. Troubling. Or, a more accurate way of putting it… she was troubled by the fact that it didn’t trouble her.
“Good thing I thought of adding on the rider for pay escalation if we came under fire,” he smirked, his tone sarcastic. “And they thought I was being ridiculous.”
Actually, ridiculous was just the word Kyra might use to describe what was happening around them right now. When she had founded International Hunters, Inc., the idea was to be a resource to countries that had no other viable options. They were there to do the job that Interpol was supposed to do, but with a lot more competence and a lot less attitude. So far that combination seemed to be working pretty well.
But the reality in this moment was that they were taking heavy fire. One thing drug smugglers didn’t seem to ever have a shortage of was big guns.
“We need to get behind them,” she stated.
“Fantastic. Any ideas on how you’d like us to accomplish that?” Jacques responded.
His Belgian/French accent blended the sounds into a kind of a word soup that so many women seemed to find attractive. To Kyra it just sounded like he was trying to hock up a gob of phlegm through his nose.
It was a graphic enough image that it almost rendered his angular good looks ineffective. Almost. He was a dark blonde with a large frame and an angular jaw that looked like it could cut paper.
There was no denying they might make a striking couple. His physicality juxtaposed nicely with her own swarthy skin and petite figure. Her Romani background was clear despite the intermingling of genes that had more than likely occurred in her native land of England. They might make an attractive couple, if that was something Kyra was up for.
She wasn’t.
“Merde,” Jacques swore, as a bullet ricocheted right beside his head.
That was a little closer than was comfortable. They were hunkered down behind a boulder that would protect them from all but the best of shots. And whoever had that rifle was a pretty damn good shot. Far better than the usual pot-shot drug dealers.
It wasn’t like this attack was a complete surprise. After a week of tracking down an international drug ring, they had gotten a tip that there was a deal going down in the small tourist town of Manarola in the northern part of the Italian Riviera, so they’d made arrangements to meet with local law enforcement here a few hours before the deal was supposed to take place.
Local law enforcement had never shown.
Whether that had been deliberate, a payoff from the dealers, or just the Italian lack of time-sense, there was no way of knowing right now. Kyra felt a white hot rage rise inside her. But like all else that occurred within her, it was precise.
Anger? Anger was muddy and messy. What sparked within her was a surgical fire that would cauterize only the rot, only the decay.
It was a gift from her fat
her. The only one of his many legacies that Kyra actually appreciated.
This was the perfect place for drug smugglers. A small, charming little seaport town with brightly colored homes in all colors of the rainbow, the village oozed charm and authenticity. Manarola was placed right on the coast of the Mediterranean, with easy access by boat to hundreds of places, if things got too hot where they were. Nor was it hard at all to abscond up into the surrounding mountainous terrain that made the community so cut off from the rest of the world.
And yet, in a town as small as this, there was the problem of being recognized as not being from the area. The tourism to the area took care of that. With so many foreigners huffing about, hiking from one of the Cinque Terre towns to another, it was doubtful that anyone would notice the smugglers.
This had been one of the moments that Kyra’s team had been able to show its true worth. After using Darchak’s skills to track where the money was changing hands, a local man had been identified as being the smuggler’s contact in the village. Giovanni Comasco.
A glutton in every sense of the word, Giovanni spent most of his free time hiding from his quarrelsome wife and three raucous children at a nearby bar, where he would eat, drink and do his best to pick up foreign women who would wander in off the street. He was not unattractive, in a sleazy Mediterranean drug dealer sort of way, in spite of the fact that he was going bald and growing corpulent. His percentage of success was somewhere north of average.
In short, Giovanni was not exactly a family man, and Kyra had used that to her advantage. She’d gone into the bar, posing as one of those clueless tourists, and the fat little fly had been drawn to her honey.
Her Italian was admittedly bad, but that had been perfect. As far as Giovanni knew, Kyra had no clue what he was talking about. She’d kept him far too occupied to worry about trivialities like dialogue. And every time he’d tried to escape back to his family, Kyra had found an excuse to take off more clothing.
Jacques had of course argued against a honey trap. He needed to learn that Kyra had no shame. Clothed, naked, what did it matter? She was playing a role, and doing it to the hilt, no matter Jacque’s discomfort. They had a job to do and bills to pay. Why not use her lack of shame to their advantage?
She’d made Giovanni so comfortable that he held several casual meetings with Kyra on his arm. Even if Kyra couldn’t understand what was being spoken, the bug that she had planted under the table had recorded every word and sent them to her team’s room for translation.
All she’d had to do was to keep Giovanni occupied and hang out on his flabby arm long enough for their linguist, Darrel Fulsome… the only American in the group… to pick out the information they needed from the Italian’s indiscreet meetings.
It hadn’t been more than twenty-four hours before they’d gotten the intel they’d come for. Of course, they had sent a video from Kyra and Giovanni’s many recreational tumbles to his wife. She had to have known what was going on with her husband, but now she had evidence.
Kyra had gotten her information, and a bastard had gotten his due. Win-win.
The disapproving looks she’d gotten from Jacques might have affected someone else, but she was Kyra. No shame… remember, Jacques?
And now her team was pinned down on the side of a mountain, after having chased the smugglers up from the coast where the deal was meant to have gone down. Someone from the Polizia di Stato would get fired over this. Kyra would make sure of it.
Chasing the smugglers had gone well enough. The drugs had not changed hands, and the principal player was in their custody, handcuffed to a post back down in the town, watched over by Diego, their Spanish weapons master.
He hadn’t been too excited about that job. Kyra would have left Darchak behind instead, but the drug smuggler had proven cagey enough that she wanted someone more battle-hardened to watch over their catch until the Italian authorities deigned to show.
This drug dealer had a reputation for disappearing before being booked. And if her fledgling company was ever going to get out of debt, they needed the reward for the drug dealer. He was the lynchpin of the mission.
These other thugs would fetch a much lower reward, but Hunters International needed every dime to stay afloat. So here they were, hiding behind a boulder. So missions sometimes went. This particular group of drug runners didn’t seem sufficiently sophisticated to have set up an ambush like this. Maybe someone of higher value was amongst the group. They should only be so lucky.
But as much as she had needed Diego back there, Kyra was wishing she had him with her right now. Urban warfare was right up his alley, but he really shone when they were up against the ropes.
Jacques still breathed hard next to her, flinching every time a bullet ricocheted off the rock. Yes, next time she was bringing Diego. A plan was forming in her mind when the loud sound of rotors distracted her.
Within moments a sleek, black, low profile helicopter rose from behind the mountain, barreling down on them.
No way, no how that was the Italians. Half their uniformed officers rode bicycles, and the anti-radar coating on the chopper out-priced the smugglers.
A third party apparently thought they would crash this party. But was it friend or foe? They would find out soon enough, as the chopper bore down on them.
Once the barrage of bullets flew down the mountain, not even Kyra could override her body’s reaction to duck down, covering her head.
Jacques did the same, forcing their bodies in close enough proximity that there was no air between them. He encircled his arms around her. Despite the danger, Kyra remained cool inside, assessing if there was any physical attraction between her and the PR man.
Sorry, Jacques. Not even adrenaline-fueled contact was stirring her. As a matter of fact, Giovanni had coaxed more passion from her than Jacques.
Long ago Kyra had realized she had no filter, so she had to build one of her own. So instead of blurting out that information, which really should have just been information instead of a blow to Jacques’ ego, Kyra kept that little tidbit to herself.
Finally the gunfire lessened. Enough so that she could extract herself from Jacques’ arms and peek her head over the boulder.
Apparently this third party was on Kyra’s side. The chopper had killed or chased off all of the ambushers.
Kyra’s first thought was, bastards. If they thought they could swoop in on her and steal her bounty, they had another think coming.
The chopper landed on an outcropping.
Kyra strode over to meet them even though Jacques kept trying to pull her back. “Maybe we should hear them out.”
Or maybe not.
A pasty-faced man in a suit stepped out and did the hunched-over scurrying shuffle that everyone seemed to do when they got out of a helicopter.
The man moved directly toward Kyra. Good.
She strode right up to the man who had a thick salt and pepper mustache tainted yellow by pipe smoke, she would guess. Working in a profession dominated by men, Kyra had learned a thing or two about gaining the upper hand.
Kyra cocked her arm back and punched the man right on the nose.
“Kyra!” Jacques shouted, trying to pull her away.
The look of surprise gratified her much more than most things. The punch hadn’t been out of anger or retaliation, it had simply been an opening ploy in their upcoming negotiations. The man probably got the sense she wasn’t going to just roll over and give him her bounty.
The man doubled over for a few moments. Kyra counted them off in her head, watching his shoulders very carefully in case he meant to strike back.
But within four seconds, a good number, not too macho, not too wimpy. The man stood up with a smile. Now that was surprising. Kyra cocked her head. What was this man about? He certainly didn’t seem like a mercenary. Not with his fine wool double-breasted suit and stealth helicopter. He came from slightly richer stock than that, yet he could take a right cross.
Intrigued, Kyra stepped for
ward. The man didn’t back away as she offered her hand to shake.
After wiping the blood from his nose, he reached out and shook her hand.
“I can only assume I have found the indomitable Ms. Kyra Karela?”
There was only a slight hint of the British superiority toward less desirable races in his tone. He may not know with certainty that she was a Gypsy, but he knew that she wasn’t the same color as he.
Kyra spoke as she took the proffered handshake. The man’s hands were rough, calloused, at odds with his British precision.
“That would be me,” Kyra stated, still trying to reconcile the man’s outer British crust with his more roustabout characteristics. She continued trying to probe his dichotomy. “I’m not sure if should thank you or strangle you.”
Again that smile. Each time she expected a frown, the Brit came up all smiles. What was up with that?
“I assure you I would never have interrupted your hunt if it wasn’t extremely urgent.”
“Well, you dispersed my bounties, so whatever it is, we can discuss it in a week or two.”
Kyra even now was calculating the likely backup safe house the smugglers would use, now that their stronghold had been broken.
“I’m afraid you don’t have a week or two,” the Brit stated.
She considered another punch, but Jacques had a pretty good hold of her elbow.
“Excuse me?” Kyra responded not hiding her contempt
“I… We need your help,” the man said with obvious reluctance. “I am Chief Superintendent Giles Locroft. Of…of Scotland Yard.”
The Brits, always thinking whatever they were doing was more important than anyone else’s business.
“Well, like I said, I‘ve got at least another week’s mop-up here--”
Locroft cut her off. “I’m afraid you don’t understand.” He harrumphed and brushed the sides of his yellowing mustache in what appeared to be an unconscious nervous twitch. “We have a copycat serialist operating in London at the moment. It is really quite vital that we attain your immediate assistance.”
Kyra studied his face. Again there was a disconnect from his words and his expression. There was no urgency in his features.
