the one currently terrorizing Sacramento targeted red-headed prostitutes, strangling them with a wire coat-hanger and dumping their bodies in the American River.
Nikki wasn’t a redhead, but she had a large collection of wigs—right now she was wearing a pink one. Nikki could see other working girls up and down the block, but not a single one with red hair. She knew for a fact there was one two blocks over, and was just as sure she was a police decoy.
The obvious wig was the important part. Jack figured the killer was smart enough to have his own wig—a red one, of course—and he’d simply make the next one wear it. Nikki’s makeup made her look paler than usual, and she was wearing green contact lenses.
She and Jack were using their standard methodology, pared down for the situation: find out where their target hunted, figure out his preferences, profile him as best they could from whatever information they could gather. They had no access to police records, but media reports often led them to friends or relatives of the victims.
And when they had an idea of what the target liked and where he went to get it, they dressed Nikki up and put her out there as bait. It wasn’t that different from what the police did, but Jack and Nikki had two major advantages: Nikki could—and would—do things no undercover police officer was capable of; and where police departments had to worry about politics, media perception and budgets, Jack and Nikki did not. Once they started, they didn’t give up.
Ever.
The first car to pull over was a late-model red Honda. Nikki evaluated it coolly as she walked over: close to new, flashy color, clean. Driver was fastidious, a little vain. Liked quality but couldn’t afford top-of-the-line. Music from inside getting louder as the passenger-side window slid down, hip-hop from fifteen years ago. He’d be in his late-thirties, white, reasonably good shape, probably have a soul patch under his lip, and have a shaved head.
She leaned down, checked out the driver and gave herself a solid B plus on her evaluation. She’d gotten age, race and weight right. Head was shaved, but no soul patch, though he did sport a pair of trendy heavy-framed glasses. He wore a dark suit and a bright red tie.
“Hey, honey,” she said. “Looking for a date?”
“I sure am,” he said. “You okay talking about price?”
She gave him a quote on the respective costs of what she was willing to do, undercutting local prices by ten percent—she knew he’d like that. He said a half-and-half sounded good to him, and didn’t bother trying to haggle. She got in the car.
When they pulled away from the curb, a brown Econoline van followed them.
***
Jack: I was wondering something.
Remote: What would you like to know?
Jack: You use technology to monitor and direct your drones. You haven’t told me how you capture them in the first place.
Remote: Well, timing is crucial, of course. Much like you, I spend a great deal of time preparing—selecting possible targets, narrowing down the choices, gathering intelligence. Everything has to be perfect before I proceed.
Jack: And then what? You use a gun to control your target? Do you put the harness on yourself, or get them to do it?
Remote: Using a gun is problematic when dealing with high explosives—even when the amount used is miniscule. I prefer to use chemical means to subjugate my target; it makes the entire process run much smoother.
Jack: I do much the same. I prefer a general anesthetic like isoflurane—nonflammable, and easily obtainable as a veterinary supply.
Remote: I tend to favor the intravenous approach—benzodiazepines are also not difficult to obtain, and produce a reliable level of sedation.
Jack: True. But there’s always the problem of possible drug interactions when you go the injection route. I uncovered the fact that my current project has an
Nikki wasn’t a redhead, but she had a large collection of wigs—right now she was wearing a pink one. Nikki could see other working girls up and down the block, but not a single one with red hair. She knew for a fact there was one two blocks over, and was just as sure she was a police decoy.
The obvious wig was the important part. Jack figured the killer was smart enough to have his own wig—a red one, of course—and he’d simply make the next one wear it. Nikki’s makeup made her look paler than usual, and she was wearing green contact lenses.
She and Jack were using their standard methodology, pared down for the situation: find out where their target hunted, figure out his preferences, profile him as best they could from whatever information they could gather. They had no access to police records, but media reports often led them to friends or relatives of the victims.
And when they had an idea of what the target liked and where he went to get it, they dressed Nikki up and put her out there as bait. It wasn’t that different from what the police did, but Jack and Nikki had two major advantages: Nikki could—and would—do things no undercover police officer was capable of; and where police departments had to worry about politics, media perception and budgets, Jack and Nikki did not. Once they started, they didn’t give up.
Ever.
The first car to pull over was a late-model red Honda. Nikki evaluated it coolly as she walked over: close to new, flashy color, clean. Driver was fastidious, a little vain. Liked quality but couldn’t afford top-of-the-line. Music from inside getting louder as the passenger-side window slid down, hip-hop from fifteen years ago. He’d be in his late-thirties, white, reasonably good shape, probably have a soul patch under his lip, and have a shaved head.
She leaned down, checked out the driver and gave herself a solid B plus on her evaluation. She’d gotten age, race and weight right. Head was shaved, but no soul patch, though he did sport a pair of trendy heavy-framed glasses. He wore a dark suit and a bright red tie.
“Hey, honey,” she said. “Looking for a date?”
“I sure am,” he said. “You okay talking about price?”
She gave him a quote on the respective costs of what she was willing to do, undercutting local prices by ten percent—she knew he’d like that. He said a half-and-half sounded good to him, and didn’t bother trying to haggle. She got in the car.
When they pulled away from the curb, a brown Econoline van followed them.
***
Jack: I was wondering something.
Remote: What would you like to know?
Jack: You use technology to monitor and direct your drones. You haven’t told me how you capture them in the first place.
Remote: Well, timing is crucial, of course. Much like you, I spend a great deal of time preparing—selecting possible targets, narrowing down the choices, gathering intelligence. Everything has to be perfect before I proceed.
Jack: And then what? You use a gun to control your target? Do you put the harness on yourself, or get them to do it?
Remote: Using a gun is problematic when dealing with high explosives—even when the amount used is miniscule. I prefer to use chemical means to subjugate my target; it makes the entire process run much smoother.
Jack: I do much the same. I prefer a general anesthetic like isoflurane—nonflammable, and easily obtainable as a veterinary supply.
Remote: I tend to favor the intravenous approach—benzodiazepines are also not difficult to obtain, and produce a reliable level of sedation.
Jack: True. But there’s always the problem of possible drug interactions when you go the injection route. I uncovered the fact that my current project has an
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