Текст книги "Snakes and ladders"

Автор книги: Sean Slater

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Текущая страница: 16 (всего у книги 29 страниц)

Fifty-Two

Striker and Felicia drove down Broadway. East Pender Street was less than five miles away, so Striker expected to be on scene in minutes. But he had barely gone five blocks when the emergency tone went off on the radio. The dispatcher, Sue Rhaemer, came across the air, and it was the first time in Striker’s memory that he had ever heard the woman rattled:

‘All units, all units, we have an officer down. Repeat: an officer down. Thirty-six hundred block of East Hastings Street.’

‘Jesus Christ,’ Felicia said.

Striker said nothing; he just hit the gas. Before he could respond verbally, the road sergeant, Mike Rothschild, came across the air.

‘Who’s calling this in?’ Rothschild demanded.

‘We’re getting it second-hand from Ambulance,’ the dispatcher replied.

‘Where is the nearest unit?’

Striker grabbed the radio and gave their location. ‘Detective Striker, Broadway and Nanaimo.’

The moment he let go of the plunger, another unit came on the air: ‘Charlie-21, we’re already at Hastings and Windermere. Ten blocks out.’

Felicia looked at Striker. ‘They’re way closer,’ she said, relieved.

Sgt Rothschild gave the order: ‘That unit is authorized. Code 3.’ Then he directed his question back to the dispatcher. ‘Which unit is supposed to be riding with the ambulance?’

The dispatcher paused for barely a second. ‘Alpha-13 . . . but they’re not answering their radio and their emergency button’s been pressed.’

Rothschild: ‘Do we know the nature of the injury?’

‘Unknown,’ the dispatcher replied. ‘We can’t raise the ambulance crew either.’

Striker pressed the radio plunger one more time. ‘Mike,’ he said. ‘They were transporting Billy Mercury, the war vet who just tried to burn us down in the complex.’

Rothschild heard that and wasted no time. ‘Does Burnaby have any units closer?’ he asked.

‘Burnaby is negative for units,’ the dispatcher replied.

‘We’re on scene,’ Charlie-21 broke in. ‘Mercury has escaped. Repeat: Billy Mercury has escaped.’

Rothschild made a frustrated sound. ‘Give them the air. Charlie-21, update their status when you can.’

The radio went quiet for almost a half-minute; the seconds were excruciating. And when Charlie-21 got back on the air, the man’s voice was jittery.

‘Jesus, we got two paramedics down on scene. And two officers, too. One of their guns is gone!’

‘I want more units there now,’ Rothschild ordered.

Bravo-15 broke in: ‘We’re already on scene, Mike. So is Bravo-73.’

Charlie-21 took control of the air one more time, and the voice was fast and frantic:

‘Oh Christ, both cops . . . both medics . . . they’re dead, they’re dead. They’re ALL DEAD.’

Fifty-Three

Striker hammered the gas and raced north on Boundary Road. By the time they’d passed 1st Avenue, the Taurus was nearing one hundred and forty kilometres per hour. By the time they reached Napier Street – and Striker heard there were now more than six patrol units on scene – he hit the brakes and slowed down. Far up the road, a mass of blue and red emergency lights flashed in the daylight.

‘Go,’ Felicia said. ‘What are you doing? Go. Let’s get there!’

But Striker did the exact opposite. He pressed his foot even harder down on the brake and swerved over towards the grassy meridian. Once there, he drove into the middle of it and stopped.

‘Jacob, what are you doing?’

He ignored her question and grabbed the radio mike. ‘Do we have a direction of travel?’ he broadcast.

When units on scene replied, ‘Negative’ and dispatch also replied, ‘Negative,’ Striker scanned the road ahead of them. The intersection where the ambulance had crashed was only a mile or two up the road. Striker’s heart told him to race to the scene with every kilometre of speed the cruiser was capable of.

But his instincts told him otherwise. Billy Mercury was fit. And their location was within running distance for the man.

‘Jacob?’ Felicia asked again.

‘They got tons of units on scene,’ he explained. ‘Mercury was being escorted by police and ambulance back to Riverglen. So when he escaped, there’s only two places he’s gonna run to.’ He pointed ahead, northwest. ‘Mapleview Clinic is right there on the left side. And six blocks behind it, in the north lane of Pender, is where Mercury lives.’

‘That close?’

‘That close. We need to cover both of them. If Mercury’s got any brains, he’ll run in the opposite direction, but I doubt that. Not in the state of mind he’s in. My bet is he ran right for his nearest place of comfort – and that would mean he’s barricaded himself in his apartment.’

Felicia already had her gun in her hand and was scanning the roads ahead, looking for any sign of movement. ‘He’s awfully close to the clinic, too,’ she worried. ‘The doctors need to be warned; the place needs to be shut down.’

Striker agreed. He hit the gas and peeled off the meridian, tearing up the earth and sending waves of dirt and grass into the air.

Destination: Mapleview.

Even though the address of the Mapleview Clinic was in the thirty-six hundred block of Adanac Street, the only entrance to the facility was off the main stretch of Boundary Road. The building sat way back from the roadside, nestled behind a large cement roundabout, which was filled with flowers and barren trees. Flanking the facility grounds was a wooded park to the south and an old folks’ home to the north.

Another place of possible escape.

Another place of vulnerable victims.

Striker spotted the facility and slowed his speed. He scanned the road ahead, then the entranceway, and finally the entire lot. Safety was his foremost concern right now. Their safety. Billy Mercury had just killed two cops and two ambulance attendants.

He would surely kill again if given the chance.

From the east side of Boundary, the lot appeared empty of people. Unfortunately there were tons of hiding spots: a passenger van sat by the roundabout, its side door open, its interior lights off. Just ahead of the van, an outdoor patio area was sunken and fenced off, providing additional cover. And opposite that, the trees of the park offered numerous spots of concealment. All in all, it was a bad place for police entry. Had time not been so pressing, he would have waited for some extra units and a dog.

But not today. There was no time.

Billy was gone. Billy had killed. And Billy would kill again.

Striker gave Felicia a quick glance. ‘Be ready for anything,’ he said. Then he drove into the entranceway of the compound.

Straight ahead sat the three-level facility that was Mapleview Clinic. It was a relatively new building, with lots of tinted glass and clean beige stone. With the fountain and garden centred out front, the place looked more like a spa retreat than a clinic.

Striker reached the roundabout, considered driving around it, then opted not to. Any further ahead and they’d be dead centre between the park, the old folks’ home, and the medical clinic.

A perfect target section for any sniper.

At least now they were behind the cement wall and the foliage of the roundabout.

Striker rammed the steering column into Park, opened the door and hopped out. Getting free of the car felt good. When Felicia did the same, Striker pointed to the old folks’ home. ‘Lock it down,’ he said.

She raced across the lot without so much as a word.

With her gone, Striker turned back towards the clinic. He kept his gun at the low-ready, passed the concrete roundabout, and ran up the stairs. He kicked open the front doors, and they banged against the wall, releasing a loud hollow thud in the high-ceilinged foyer of the entrance. The wired window glass rattled.

At her desk the receptionist let out a sharp gasp.

‘Vancouver Police!’ Striker announced. ‘Has Billy Mercury been in here?’

The woman placed a hand over her heart. ‘Well, yes, yes, yes . . . he has.’ She looked at him in bewilderment, realizing something bad was going on. ‘He left here not twenty minutes ago. With the other officers.’

‘In the ambulance?’

She nodded emphatically. ‘Yes, in the ambulance. He was sent to Riverglen. He’s been . . . he’s been sectioned.’

‘Well, he’s escaped,’ Striker said. ‘And he just killed two cops and a couple of paramedics.’

The receptionist’s pale face turned even whiter and her mouth tightened into a straight line. She looked stunned. And then Dr Ostermann suddenly appeared from the back room. He walked up to the front counter and met Striker with a look of concern.

‘What exactly is going on here?’ he demanded.

Striker stepped forward to meet the man. ‘Your patient has escaped.’

‘Who? Not Billy?’

‘Yes, Billy. He just killed two cops and the ambulance attendants.’

Dr Ostermann wavered where he stood. For a moment, Striker thought he might keel over in front of him. But then he placed his hands on the receptionist’s counter and blinked.

‘Oh God. Oh dear God,’ he got out.

‘Let’s go,’ Striker said. ‘You’re coming with me.’

This seemed to wake the doctor up. ‘Go? But . . . but where?’

‘Three blocks north. To Billy’s place.’

Dr Ostermann took a full step back. ‘Billy’s place? But-but-but . . . why me?’

‘Because you’re the only one I know who has any kind of a rapport with the man. He’s your patient, Doctor. Depending on how things go out there, we might have need of you.’

‘But, but I can’t—’

‘You’re coming, Doctor. End of discussion.’

Striker took Dr Ostermann by the arm and guided him out of the front doors of the facility. Before closing the door, Striker looked back at the receptionist and gave the order. ‘Lock this place down. Every door, every window. And don’t open up again until the police return.’

The receptionist nodded daftly, blinked, then got herself moving and hurried down the hall. With her gone, Striker turned to face the front and spotted Felicia racing back to their car. He pushed Dr Ostermann forward, down the building’s steps. When they reached the cruiser, he gave the man an intense stare.

‘Prepare yourself, Doctor,’ he said. ‘We’re about to find out just how good a psychiatrist you really are.’

Fifty-Four

Billy Mercury lived in a rundown dump in the thirty-six hundred block of East Hastings Street. Safe Haven Suites. Striker knew the building well.

Safe Haven.

Nothing here was safe, and it sure as hell wasn’t a haven. The place was a halfway house for people of all types who were trying to glue their life pieces back together again. Everyone from the mentally ill to the criminally minded lived here.

It had been that way for ten years.

The place was poorly designed. Having been constructed and reconstructed several times over the years in order to create more and more suites, the layout was now a maze. All the evennumbered suites faced on to the front side of the building, which was Hastings Street. All the odd-numbered suites – like Billy’s unit, number 103 – backed out on to the north lane of Pender. Knowing this, Striker dumped his vehicle at the east end of the laneway, then got out on foot.

A few blocks north and east was the primary crime scene, where Billy had killed two cops and two paramedics. There were more than six units up there now, and Striker considered calling a few of them away to block off the north side of the building. Even though Billy had no exit there, it was always good practice to have the place contained.

In situations like this, surprises were generally bad.

Striker got on the radio. ‘We need a few more units to this location,’ he said.

The dispatcher’s response was blunt. ‘There are none. I’ve got some coming from District 4, but they’re gonna be a while.’

Striker thought this over. ‘Send the first one here to cover the north side of the building. I don’t want this guy running on me.’

The dispatcher said she would, and Striker opened the trunk. Inside were a shotgun and two bulletproof vests. He took out Felicia’s vest and handed it to her. He then gave his own vest to Dr Ostermann.

‘Put it on,’ Striker ordered.

The doctor said nothing, and quickly draped it around himself. Once he had his arms through the openings, Striker readjusted the straps so that the trauma place was properly centre. He gave it a hard rap with his knuckles.

It was good.

Felicia took notice. ‘You need a vest, Jacob.’

‘Just keep your eyes up,’ he told her. ‘Billy could be anywhere right now.’

‘Which is all the more reason you need some Kevlar.’

He gave her a hard look. ‘We only got two.’

‘Then take Ostermann’s vest and keep him here out of trouble.’

‘The doctor comes.’

‘But—’

‘He’s the only one Billy trusts and connects with. We might need him, and if we do there won’t be time to come back to the car. The doctor comes.’

Dr Ostermann cleared his throat nervously. Back in the safe setting of the clinic environment, he had offered a powerful and impressive aura; now he looked as scared as a field mouse. ‘Billy has never been an especially close patient of mine,’ he said. ‘He’s generally resistant to my suggestions.’

Striker ignored the man. He took out the shotgun and slammed the trunk of the car. The heavy black steel and rubberized grip felt good in his hands. Like a little piece of heaven. He racked a round, then gave them both a nod.

‘Game on.’

The alleyway was narrow and long.

Striker led them down it, creeping westward slowly. He went first, with Felicia at the rear, bracketing the doctor between them.

Lining the right side of the lane were the back entrances to the numerous small shops that opened up on to East Hastings Street – Bridal Dreams wedding gown and dress shop; Dario’s Italian meats; and the Italian Bakery. Above these shops, along the top floor, were more rented suites. Their extended balconies were perfect spots for a sniper.

‘Watch the balconies,’ Striker told Felicia.

‘Copy,’ she said. ‘I got the balconies.’

They moved on.

To the left, the backsides of houses lined the lane – all the homes from East Pender Street. Each one was a carbon copy of the next. Standard lot. Square back yard. Small unattached garage.

Another perfect place for an ambush.

Striker relaxed his fingers on the shotgun. The black steel of the trigger guard was cold against his skin, but it felt good. Felt like reassurance. Like protection.

They reached the parking lot to Safe Haven Suites.

Striker stopped at the beginning of the fence and used it as concealment. He took the moment to slow down their pace – which was always a good thing in moments like this – and reassess how things might unfold if they got into a gunfight in this area. The key was to never lose control over yourself.

Calmness equalled precision; and smoothness equalled speed.

‘You see his suite?’ Felicia asked from behind.

‘Hold on,’ he said.

Striker leaned around the edge of the fence and studied the parking lot and rear of the building. The lot was small, barely able to hold five or six cars, and the pavement was sloped. Immediately behind the parking lot was a tall wooden fence, the paint chipped and muddied. Rising up out of the fence, dead centre, was an old wooden staircase that led to the upper floors.

Striker pointed to the top, west side.

‘That should be Billy’s unit.’

‘But he’s unit 103,’ Felicia said. ‘Shouldn’t that be the ground floor?’

Striker nodded. ‘Should be, but it isn’t here. This entire place is ass-backwards.’ He glanced at Dr Ostermann. The man’s face was white, tense. His breathing was too fast. ‘You ever been here for a home visit?’

Dr Ostermann shook his head. ‘No, never. I always saw Billy at the clinic. And, of course, at Riverglen.’

Striker frowned. He had been hoping for a layout of the suite. Not knowing was never good. For a moment he considered looking at one of the other suites – this was always good practice in apartment blocks where, floor after floor, the layout was the same – but he soon killed that idea. Safe Haven Suites was too much of a mishmash. It wouldn’t help.

Like it or not, they’d be going in blind.

Before moving in, Striker took one last look at the buildings flanking Safe Haven – at the empty balconies and then at the open garages. He saw no signs of threat, but that didn’t alleviate his concern. He didn’t like the idea of climbing the staircase before clearing the yards – it left them clustered together and in the open.

Completely unprotected.

‘I’ll do it myself,’ he finally said.

Felicia shook her head. ‘What? No way – you need cover.’

‘You can cover me from down here.’

‘And what if he comes barging out up there?’

‘Then he’ll have two targets to shoot at instead of one. If we’re all bunched up together he can mow us down with a single shot.’

Felicia still didn’t like the idea. ‘Let’s wait for a dog,’ she said.

But Striker shook his head. ‘They’re both out tracking him now.’

‘Then let’s get more units here.’

Striker felt his frustration growing. ‘There are no units, Feleesh. They’re already all taken up with containment and the crime scene and transport. The only other units are the ones coming from South Burnaby, and I’m not waiting for them to arrive. The longer this takes, the more chance we have of losing him. Billy’s too dangerous for that. We can’t let him escape again.’

‘Jacob—’

‘I’m going in, Feleesh. Cover me – from down here.’

He purposely avoided her stare and left his position of concealment.

The parking lot was empty for the most; just a single fourdoor Toyota Tercel in the first stall and a plain white van in the far one. Both were older models. Late eighties or early nineties. Junk.

Keeping the shotgun at the low-ready, Striker moved up to the Toyota. All the windows were clear, and there didn’t appear to be anyone inside. He tried to lift the trunk, failed, then moved on to the white van. When he got near it, he slowed his pace. There were no rear windows in the van. Just a pair of solid rear doors and one sliding side door, which faced the building. Striker tried them all, found them locked, and moved on.

When he reached the bottom of the stairway, he climbed up to the first turn and scanned the yards to the right and left. They were barren. Just empty slabs of patio concrete.

Seeing they were clear, he moved up to the next level. The stairs were old, made of wood, and they creaked loudly beneath his feet. Each groan of wood felt like someone screaming out a warning to those above, and it made Striker’s guts tighten.

Still he continued. He’d turned the next bend, made it to the second floor of the building, and started for the third. He’d barely put his foot on the next step when the shot rang out – a sharp, hard crrAACK! in the cold winter air. But it wasn’t coming from the apartment above, it was coming from street level.

The garages behind them.

‘Gun! Gun! GUN!’ Felicia screamed.

Striker spun around and raised the shotgun. In one fleeting moment, he saw it all:

From the garage directly across the lane, Billy Mercury came sprinting out of the darkness. His face was twisted. His mouth open and screaming. And he was firing as he came: Ka-POW! Ka-POW! Ka-POW!

But not at him.

At Felicia.

The first shot flew past her and slammed into the fence, sending splinters of one-by-six cedar flying in all directions. The second bullet hit the cement by her feet, sending chunks of concrete exploding into the parking lot.

Dr Ostermann screamed out in horror and dropped to the ground, covering his head with his hands; Felicia got moving. She got into a twenty-foot gun battle with the man—

And she lost.

The third bullet Billy Mercury shot took her square on. It knocked her back off her feet. Sent her reeling on to the pavement behind her. Left her helpless.

‘BILLY!’ Striker screamed.

Without aiming, Striker fired from the hip – a diversionary shot to distract Billy from Felicia. He then raced back down the steps, racking and firing as he went.

Billy Mercury didn’t so much as move. He stood there, out in the open, and returned fire. Bullets rained through the staircase above and below Striker, some of them shredding the wood, others plunking heavily into the stucco walls behind him.

Striker reached the first turn of the stairway. Stopped. Took quick aim.

And blasted off a shot.

A loud thunderous BOOM! filled the air, and double-odd buck exploded across the lane. Part of the spray took Billy Mercury in the legs. He spun around like a yanked puppet. The gun flew from his fingers, and he dropped forward on to the pavement.

Striker leaped off the staircase and landed on the concrete below. Gun still aimed, he raced across the parking lot to the far corner, where he used the white van for cover.

Already Billy had crawled to the gun. Reached it.

Striker took aim on the man. ‘DON’T DO IT, BILLY!’

But it was too late.

‘Fucking demons!’ the man screamed. He raised the gun—

And Striker pulled the trigger. He blasted off another round of buckshot, then racked and fired another. The first one took Billy in the shoulder; the second one tore through his chest and came out of his back.

The gun fell from his hands and landed with a soft click on the asphalt. His head dropped, then he fell. His body shuddered for a moment, then became still.

Striker raced forward and kicked the handgun far across the road, away from Billy. It was a black pistol. Not police issue. With the gun out of the way, Striker dropped one knee on top of Billy’s back, pinning him to the ground. He searched for more weapons.

All he found was a constant flow of blood.

‘. . . daemons . . .’ the man said one last time, but his voice was soft and faraway.

He was dying.

Striker jumped back to his feet and searched out Felicia. She was lying half on her stomach, half on her side, trying to get up. Her hair was draped across her face and her gun was two feet ahead of her.

She was crawling for it.

‘I got you!’ Striker yelled.

He raced over to her side. Grabbed her by the shoulders. Pulled her on to her back. And readied himself to stop the flow of blood.

But none came.

‘My ribs,’ she breathed. ‘My fucking ribs.’

He looked down at her chest, at the torn fabric of the Kevlar. He saw the twisted steel of the trauma plate, and let out a sigh of relief.

‘He tagged me,’ Felicia said in disbelief. ‘The fucker actually tagged me.’

Striker said nothing for a long moment, he just stared at her with a horrible sense of desperation flooding his chest. With Dr Ostermann proned out on the ground and sobbing, and Billy Mercury lying dead behind them, Striker pulled Felicia close and held her tight.

‘I thought I lost you,’ he said. ‘Jesus Christ, I thought I fucking lost you.’

It was all he could think of to say.