Jack the Shredder

The darkness was almost tangible. Bennington's flesh quivered beneath the surface. The presentiment was intense. The sensation of malevolence was overwhelming. This was Whitechapel where a Jack the Ripper clone was running rampant, butchering gay men like the original executioner had done the female doxies that had once walked those streets. 

A car slowed. "How much?" 
The radio in the auto played a heavy metal tune of hatred and bloodshed, a fitting song for that area. 
"Not for sale, love," the CI5 agent said as pleasantly as he could. He studied the man carefully, made mental note of the license. His job hadn't come to him doing that yet, and to be honest, he wasn't sure he'd be able to even if Stevens ordered him to actually go with a possible client. 
Mist tinted the night with a mild chill, a light grayness. It obscured the lights from the shops and pubs, producing an eerie cast around them. Even sounds were muted. 

"One hundred pounds," the man in the red mini said stubbornly. 
"No." 4.5 buttoned up his checked jacket. His tone was abrupt, rigid. 
"You aren't worth more," the man hissed. 
"Be a nice bloke and hunt elsewhere. I'm not for sale." Bennington's eyes searched for Calvin and Jason. Where the hell were they? 
The man in the red mini shouted an obscenity and drove off. 

"Same to you," Bennington murmered beneath his breath. The crimson auto pulled up next to a lounging, blond man who waited further on. The talked and the hustler climbed into the tiny vehicle. The car became a red blur and then vanished in a thicker patch of fog. 
The green eyed man removed a small pad and a biro and jotted down the man's description and the license number. The only clue the police had been able to gather was that the car involved had been black, Italian make, but it wouldn't hurt to keep track of all the vehicles he saw in the area...just in case.

At CI5 headquarters, Stevens stared morosely at William Gurst. There was a brief moment of silence, then the agent known as 3.7 admitted, "I know he's working in Whitechapel." 
"Aye," the older man agreed dourly. 
"He shouldn't be alone." 
"Bennington can take care of himself." 
"Is he after the Shredder?" 
"And what if he were?" 
"Bob Shyre had a black belt. That didn't stop the Shredder from cutting off his bollocks." 
Stevens winced. "Phil volunteered for this job on the condition that he work alone."
"He shouldn't be working out there alone; it isn't safe." 
"It was his idea, and if I so much as hear a rumor that you're planting your feet into this, I'll suspend you without pay for a month. Understood?" 
"Yes." Gurst studied the stern, cold eyes of George Stevens. "Why is CI5 involved?" 
"Lord McGillis' grandson was one of those killed. They hushed up the connection, but we were brought in, just in case." 
"Lord McGillis' grandson was a street walker?" 
"That's neither here nor there, Gurst." 
"It is possible that the other killings were cover ups." 

"Indeed." His blue eyes spoke volumes which 3.7 understood immediately. The agent shrugged and shifted slightly in his chair. 
Stevens viewed the other man in suspicion. Whenever 3.7's eyes were thin slits like they were now, he was up to something. He pulled a folder from his left hand drawer, plopped it on his desk but changed is mind when he glanced back up at Gurst. Knowing Gurst like he did, he had no doubt that his agent would go to Bennington. Why waste his breath in giving him a different assignment? "You're dismissed, 3.7." 
The ebony haired agent nodded, stood up in slow, laziness. He left.

*** 

"Cor, if it don't stink in here," Jason said and wrinkled his nose. 
"Stop letting your air out of your tires then," Calvin remarked dryly. He took one last drag of his cigarette and ten tamped it out in the dirty ashtray. 
"I ain't fartin'," the auburn haired man snapped. "God if this seat don't feel like it's got rocks in it." He wiggled on the stool. 
"The only rocks you feel are your own," the dark haired man, a wicked gleam in his eyes. "How about letting me cop a pat?" 
"You keep your hands to yourself," Jason ordered. "I'm a good boy, I am, and I don't fool around with strangers." 
Calvin choked on his ale as laughter tried to occcupy the same space as the liquid. "Like hell. If you expect me to believe that, you're a bloody fat arse." 
"Ah, Binky, I thought you loved my arse." Jason's hand came to rest on Calvin's jean clad thigh. "At least that's what you told me last night!" And then he mumbled, "And it ain't fat." 
"Fool." He turned to Bennington. "Take him off my hand, Phil." 
"I'm too much for him." Giggling, Jason grabbed his glass. For a moment, as he hoisted it, the light gave a golden stain to the alcoholic beverage. 
4.5 laughed beneath his breath. 
"Hello, Love," a very familiar voice said from behind Bennington. 4.5 rotated his stool and viewed Gurstd in mild vexation. "How about a kiss? And 3.7 pursed his lips, have closed his eyes. 
Bennington shot up, drug an unresisting partner to an empty part of the pub. "What the hell are you doing here?" 
"Taking in the sights." 3.7's eyes swept over the trim form of his partner. 

"Damn Stevens." 
"He didn't think of this." 
"Trust you to stick your nose into it then." 
"Who said I am?" 
"I swear, if you bungle this up on me..." 
"I'm not going to muddle anything!" The ex-mercenary's tone was sharp, miffed.
"We been partners for over a year. You know I wouldn't botch our assignment." 
"Our?!" 
"I thought you could use someone to watch your back." 
"I'm working alone on this," the green eyed man told his partner coldly. "I'm sure Stevens told you that too, so you can hoist your backside out of here!" His lovely green eyes shot fire and venom at the other man. 
"I can come in here for a drink, same as the next fellow."