“Code Seven Red?” Kit gasped.
That particular code hadn’t been invoked in the entire history of Shangri-La Station. And Zone Three was right outside the infirmary, in Little Agora. Kit bolted, heading for the trouble zone, intent on finding out what had just broken loose inside the station. He met the answer at the door to the infirmary. Ann Vinh Mulhaney, bleeding badly, was being rushed toward surgery by station security. A gash ran down her shoulder, shallow enough, thank God, not to prove instantly fatal, but her collar bone had been laid bare by the slashing attack. She held one of her Irish Royal Constabulary Webley pistols in a white-knuckled death grip. From the look in her eyes, it would take an act of God to pry it loose again.
Rachel appeared at a dead run. “Get her onto a gurney!” she ordered, ripping open the remains of Ann’s blouse to apply direct pressure with both hands. “Compresses, stat!”
A nurse ran for the supply cabinet.
Ann Vinh Mulhaney’s lips were moving as the gurney rushed past Kit, on a direct course for surgery. “Bastard was on me before I knew he was there. Almost got my stomach. Dropped to the floor to get out from under his knife. Pulled my Webley, shot at him. Missed, God damn the son of a bitch . . .”
The Code Seven Red made abrupt, horrifying sense. Kit knew, without anyone having to confirm it, who their gate crasher had been and why Shahdi Feroz had bolted into the station on his heels. Kit shut his eyes for a long, horrified moment.
Jack the Ripper.