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  I said, “Talk to you soon, Jilly,” and I clicked off.

  I found myself smiling after I ended the call. I could tell by the resignation in Jilly’s voice that he knew damn well I wasn’t going to back away from Giovanni’s deadly contest. He knew that because, while we’re separated by several decades, we’re a lot alike. If he were in my situation, he’d be handling things the same way I am, and we both knew it.

  Chapter 26

  A few minutes before midnight I pulled into a parking space on the Nevada side of Hoover Dam, and killed the lights. I sat there for a few moments, waiting for my eyes to adjust to the darkness. There was no moon, and a stiff wind buffeted the Jag as we sat there. I could see no lights and no movement along the original roadway that crosses the top of the dam to the Arizona side. Behind the enormous cement structure I could see the outline of the towering new Hoover Dam bypass silhouetted against the night sky.

  This is where Tina Giovanni ended her life by jumping from the center span, Varchetta’s ledgers in her arms. Giovanni chose to blame me for his daughter’s death, and not himself. Tina’s suicide is the reason this life-and-death contest is unfolding right now.

  “It started here . . . it stops here,” I said softly.

  Ripper glanced at me, then resumed staring through the windshield. I could tell he was as edgy as I was.

  “Well, time to get this show on the road,” I muttered. I reluctantly removed the paddle belt holster from the waistband of my jeans and placed my Beretta on the floor of the Jag.

  Ripper made a sound deep in his throat. I touched his shoulder and said, “Stay, Ripper.” That pissed him off. If he wanted, he could have easily jumped out of the open cockpit, and I could see he was thinking about doing just that. Instead, he had a thing or two to say about my order to stay before he grudgingly gave in.

  I got out and quietly pushed the door shut. I had no illusions about not having been seen when I pulled up, of course. Giovanni’s guy was surely out there on the dam waiting for me.

  Why do I think it’s Red Sleeves?

  I entertained that thought for a moment, then dismissed it. The Indian was a man on the run, because Carlos Giovanni blamed him for Tina’s death, too. I doubted very much if Red Sleeves could have talked Giovanni into forgiving him if he, in turn, promised to eliminate me.

  I started across the bridge, all eyeballs. Out in the open the wind was stiffer, coming in heavy gusts, making loud flapping, cracking sounds. I was pretty much in the middle of the span when something caught my attention. I barely heard the voice over the sound of the wind.

  “It’s time, Frost.”

  I scanned the inky darkness for a moment before I caught a slight movement a few yards away. When I finally realized what I was looking at, I found it hard to believe—I was staring at what appeared to be a black-clad Ninja warrior.

  What the hell?

  “Well here I am,” I called out. “Come and get me.”

  “Oh, I intend to do just that.”

  I thought I recognized the voice, but I wondered if what I thought I’d heard could possibly be true. “My God . . . B. J.?”

  I heard the metallic sound of a long sword being pulled from its scabbard.

  “You are Giovanni’s enforcer?” I called out.

  “Oh now, Jack,” came B.J.’s voice from out of the darkness, sounding somewhat disappointed. “That sounds so sexist! Don’t you think a woman is capable of being an enforcer for the Syndicate? And not just any enforcer, but the enforcer, the one everyone whispers about—‘Raptor’ the legend?”

  B.J. took a step toward me. I could see her slightly better now, but her Ninja outfit was obviously made of some kind of anti-reflective material that made her damn near invisible on this dark night. She pulled her mask down, but I couldn’t really tell much difference between the black material and her beautiful black skin.

  “What do you think of my acting job, Frost? An Academy Award performance, wouldn’t you say?”

  “I’ll give you that. But wrecking your car in the desert? That was a pretty extreme part of your cover, wasn’t it?”

  “Ah, that . . . I just screwed up, to tell you the truth. I was following you, and it was a boring stretch of road and I wasn’t paying all that much attention. And while we’re on the subject, thanks for saving my life. I wish I could repay the favor, but you know, you are worth a lot of money to me. Nothing personal . . . business, you know.”

  “And your butchered cat? Who . . .”

  I heard B.J. laugh, as if she could see the lightbulb going on over my head.

  “Ah, I get it . . .” I said. “When we left your apartment you came down to the car with me, then excused yourself and went back for something you said you forgot. Am I correct in assuming that during the ten minutes you were gone you butchered your own cat, scrubbed his bloody carcass over the walls, then quickly washed up and came back down and went to dinner with me?”

  “That’s pretty much it. It wasn’t hard; I hate cats.”

  This is no one I know.

  “The sniper attempt in Harrah’s parking lot?”

  “I had nothing to do with that. I’m quite sure that was Tino, the stupid ass. Giovanni will make him pay for that.”

  “And that ‘poor girl’ act of yours . . . broke all the time, driving an old car, working valet parking for a living . . .”

  B.J. smiled. “Wonder what those high-rollers would have thought if they’d known who was parking their cars.”

  “You can tremble and cry on demand, too . . . very impressive, B.J.”

  She shrugged. “Tools of the trade.”

  “Who murdered Sheriff Bill? You were working your shift at Harrah’s the night he was killed.”

  “No Frost, I told you I was working a shift that night—I lied.”

  I stood there, feeling like a complete idiot. She had played me for a fool from the get-go.

  “What’s with the outfit?”

  “Just think of it as one of my quirks.”

  She paused for a moment. Then, with a coldness in her voice that I’d never heard before, she went on: “I seriously considered tackling you one-on-one, ‘cause I’m pretty damn hard to beat. But then I decided you were just too big and too good. Why risk missing out on a huge payday, right? So . . . sorry Frost, you have to face the sword.”

  “Yeah, about that sword . . . What happened to Giovanni’s ‘no weapons’ rule?”

  B.J. shrugged. “Giovanni’s rule, not mine.” She was silent for a moment. Then she said softly, “I’m sorry I have to do this, Frost. You were fun to have around—”

  “—Kinda old, but fun,” I said, which elicited a small laugh from the dark apparition that stood before me.

  “Yeah, kinda old,” she said. Then she pulled the black mask up over her nose again. “As I said, it’s time, Frost.”

  And with that, she took a step back and somehow literally disappeared into the darkness. It was downright eerie. I tried to look everywhere at once while my mind raced. Samurai sword versus flesh and bone—that doesn’t work out no matter how you look at it.

  I fleetingly thought about my Beretta on the floor of the Jag, some fifty yards away; and J.T. Ripper, staring out through the windshield wondering how his idiot master was going to pull this off.

  From out of the darkness I heard B.J.’s mocking voice: “And when I’m done with you, I’m going to kill your ugly dog, too.”

  “You can try,” I said.

  “Oh, I’ll do more than try. Goodbye, Frost.”

  With a primal scream, B.J. exploded from the darkness, holding the Samurai sword in both hands. With a throaty growl, she swung the long blade parallel to the ground, about waist high. I managed to step back just far enough to avoid being sliced in half, but the blade ripped across my chest as she completed her swing.

  I tried to move in on her but she was having none of that. Taking a quick step back, she raised the blade high over her head and lunged toward me again. I moved to my right as she
brought the blade down—but I didn’t move far enough. I felt the steel slice into my left shoulder, and I knew the wound was deep and serious.

  Use it! Use it, you stupid bastard! I knew I should but for some reason I couldn’t bring myself to do it—not yet, at least.

  Sensing the opportunity to finish me off, B.J. stepped back for a moment and indulged in a little Ninja show business. She twirled the Samurai sword like a baton, and I could hear her laugh behind her mask. In a little sing-song voice she crooned, “Time . . . time . . . you’re out of time . . .”

  Once again she swung the blade parallel to the ground, this time aiming for my knees. Fortunately, as I turned away to avoid the deadly blade, she tried to adjust to my movement, and that pulled her slightly off balance. The flat side of the blade slapped harmlessly against my left leg. If it had been on target, it would have taken my legs off.

  Use it! Use it!

  And out of desperation, I did. I reached up behind my head and pulled the throwing knife from its hidden sheath under my shirt collar. And as B.J. came in on me again, I threw the six-inch steel blade into her chest.

  She stopped in mid-stride and made a little sound as she looked down at the blade buried to the hilt between her breasts. Staggering back a few steps, she sagged against the railing. Then, with a cry that was more rage than pain, she pulled the blade from her chest. She bent over and sank slowly to one knee, and finally to both knees. The sword clattered to the cement roadway.

  I walked over to her and put my hand on her shoulder. She looked up at me. In a voice filled with pain she said, “What about that ‘no weapons’ rule, Frost?”

  “I trusted Giovanni, I just didn’t trust his guy. I’m sorry ‘his guy’ turned out to be you.”

  B.J. gave a little laugh, then pulled her mask down. She coughed, and blood spilled from her mouth. “Me, too.”

  She struggled to get to her feet, pushing away my helping hand. She finally made it, then staggered backward against the railing once again.

  “You’re a sneaky bastard, Frost,” she said in a soft voice.

  Through gritted teeth I said, “Yeah, I’ll have to work on that.” I looked down at my chest, which was covered in blood, and my left shoulder, which was laid wide open. I felt weak in the knees.

  I turned and looked to where the Jag was parked, but couldn’t spot it in the darkness. Right now, in the condition I was in, it seemed miles away. Somehow I was going to have to get both of us to a hospital, or whatever medical facility was nearby, if either one of us had a chance of making it.

  My noble “Do a good deed and save us both” thought was interrupted by the scraping sound of the sword being picked up off the cement roadway, and an animal-like snarl, literally in my ear. I whirled to face B. J. She was right on top of me, her face twisted, both hands grasping the Samurai sword high over her head—and the blade was on its way down. As the thought flashed through my mind that I was a dead man, something big and black slammed into me, knocking me off my feet. At the same time, I heard B.J. scream.

  As I scrambled to my feet I saw B.J. tumble backward over the railing, Ripper on top of her. Without a sound, she dropped away into the darkness, the sword still in her hand. Ripper teetered awkwardly, his belly on the railing, all four feet flailing as he tried to save himself from falling. As I ran toward him, he tumbled over the side.

  I lunged, and as I went over the railing I reached into the total darkness. My right hand found one of Ripper’s rear legs as he started to fall away, and with my left hand I managed to grab the railing. We hung there in full suspension, Ripper dangling below me—all 150 pounds of him. I felt his leg dislocate from its socket and heard him howl in pain.

  A gust of wind swung us away from the side of the dam for a moment, then slammed us back against the cement. There is no way in hell I am letting go of this dog!

  I made two or three gut-wrenching tries before I managed to get one leg hooked over the railing. After what seemed a lifetime filled with agony, I pulled myself back over the railing. With considerable effort, I lifted Ripper to safety and wrapped my arms around him.

  He was in a helluva lot of pain. I’m no veterinarian, and Ripper paid the price, but I managed to get his leg back where it belonged, and that effort pretty much finished both of us.

  I bent over, hands on my knees, and took deep breaths; my legs would barely support me. It was going to take a while for the two of us to make it back to the Jag, but at least we were alive—and that in itself was a miracle.

  We limped slowly toward the car, truly the walking wounded. I looked down at him, and if I’d had the strength, I would have stopped and hugged the hell out of him. “I’m glad you don’t always do what you’re told,” I said.

  Ripper grinned up at me.

  I love that dog.

  Epilogue

  A cold November wind blew in off the icy blue alpine lake. The surface of Lake Tahoe was filled with whitecaps, and the snow-covered mountains on the far shore glittered in the sunlight.

  As I trudged along the shoreline, wading through a blanket of freshly fallen snow, Ripper at my side, I savored the fresh mountain air.

  Far out on the lake, a sailboat worked its way into the wind.

  “Hardy souls,” I muttered. Then, “Lucky bastards, too . . . don’t take it for granted.”

  I gently rotated my left shoulder under my heavy sweater and sheepskin coat, and listened to the slight crunching sound. I wondered if it would ever be the same.

  You’ll compensate, Frost. You’ll learn to compensate.

  My chest was still extremely sore to the touch where B.J. had opened me like a can of soup. When I stand in front of a mirror, I marvel at how much I look like someone right off the ME’s table after the autopsy. “Stitch” would be a suitable nickname for me now.

  But what the hell, I’m alive.

  But not B.J.

  What I find so puzzling is that even now, a month after Ripper had taken her over the side of Hoover Dam, there has been no word about finding a dead Ninja floater in the Colorado River.

  I fleetingly wondered if Giovanni might have had spotters on the river that night, spotters whose job would have been to pull my dead body from the Colorado and make it disappear.

  I decided that was too preposterous to consider. But then, why hasn’t B.J.’s body been found?

  I dismissed the morbid thought and turned my collar up against the wind. I snuggled down inside the sheepskin and trudged on through the snow.

  But kinda old.

  I nodded, acknowledging B.J.’s voice in my head.

  “You’re right, B.J.,” I said to the wind. “Today I do feel kinda old—but I’m still alive.”

  – THE END –

  What’s next for

  Jack Frost?

  The Alaska Factor

  Jack Frost: A Thriller Series

  Book #4 by Ray Hoy

  Jack Frost listens to a rambling, nearly incoherent voicemail message from John “Point man” Parker, an old Special Forces buddy who had suffered severe damage in Somalia. There was desperation in his friend’s voice and yes . . . fear. It was a garbled, frantic plea for help. “There’s gold, Jack . . . a lot of gold . . . they’re here in Alaska after me . . . I need your help . . . I need—” Frost heard Point Man take a ragged breath before blurting out a phone number, and then he was gone.

  Ray Hoy has been a professional writer, editor, and publisher for over 50 years. Somewhere in his five-decade media career he also managed to spend 15 years as a casino marketing consultant for some of Nevada’s top gaming properties. Ray’s experiences in the “Casino Wars” provide him with a wealth of authentic material for his Jack Frost thriller series.

  “J.T. Ripper lives only in the pages of my Frost novels, so it’s fine that he helps himself to an occasional Scotch. However, I have a soft spot in my heart for dogs, and they should be kept away from alcohol of any kind. Since Ripper is not of this world, he can do whatever he damn well pleases, and believ
e me, he does.” —Ray Hoy

  AVAILABLE NOW IN THE

  JACK FROST THRILLER SERIES

  The Vegas Factor

  A Proper Time to Die

  Nightmare in Neon

  The Jack Frost Thrillers - Box Set

  (Includes The Vegas Factor, A Proper

  Time to Die and Nightmare in Neon)

  —

  COMING SOON

  (eBook and Paperback)

  The Alaska Factor

  Hard Edges

  The Reno Factor

  CREDITS

  The Jack Frost Box Set

  Cover image by Sophie

  The Vegas Factor

  Cover image by Kraevski

  A Proper Time to Die

  Cover image by Spvvk

  Nightmare in Neon

  Cover image by ViewApart

  The Alaska Factor

  Cover image by andreanita

  J.T. Ripper image

  by jurra8

  ALSO BY RAY HOY

  Letters from Under the Mushroom Cloud

  “Is there fishing in Heaven, Dad? There must be . . .”

  Genre: A True Story by Ray Hoy

  Two months after Ray Hoy entered the service in 1956, his father died. Letters from Under the Mushroom Cloud is a collection of letters Ray wrote to his deceased father while stationed at Camp Desert Rock, Nevada as a member of the 232nd Signal Corps. Ray’s unit, based out of Ft. Huachuca, Arizona (General Custer’s old 7th Cavalry post) was there to provide communications support for the above ground atomic bomb tests.

  While at Camp Desert Rock, Ray witnessed numerous above ground nuclear detonations and, unlike thousands of his fellow soldiers, has lived to tell about it. Now seventy-eight years old, Ray belongs to an exclusive club—he is one of the dwindling number of living “Atomic Soldiers.” Ray still writes letters to his father. He says he always will.